#why does everything have to feel like an insurmountable wall

[imblocking-you]

So lonely, so detached

[3d-wifey]

And They'd Find Us in A Week - Chapter 11

Pairing: Finnick Odair x Reader Word Count: 8.3k Synopsis: Here! Playlist: Listen up! Tag list: - @melancholicmelanin, @yvy1s, @glomp-me, @honethatty12, @swftlore, @hashcakes, @antoheartit, @finnickodaddy, @lilifl0wer, @antoheartit, @kermitcrimess, @persophonekarter, @aawdrea, @obaewankenobis, @xyxlyn A/N: LADIES N GENTLEMEN, THE MOMENT YOU'VE BEEN WAITING FOR! there are multiple POV changes in this, I'm training yall for the arena and Mockingjay. FYI: I was so disheartened bc this felt like the worst past I've written for this story :(((

Past (xii) - Finnick

[ 21 & 22] - DISTRICT FOUR

Finnick is sitting at his desk, probably looking as worn out and exhausted as he feels. It’s the early hours of the morning, and he hasn’t slept for the past two days. He’s been writing for hours, trying to find the right words to say. The sun had just set when he poured himself into the seat, and now, he glances to his left, the first tendrils of sunlight are peaking up.

The room is quiet, save for the sound of Finnick's labored breathing. His hands are shaking, a side effect of the stress that has been building inside him like a pressure cooker. Snow's visit has left him reeling, unable to process the implications of the deal he's been forced to make. He knows he has to write you a letter, but the thought fills him with a sense of despondency. Something that normally fills him with insurmountable excitement and anticipation fills him with devastation. It feels like, like…there’s nothing he can compare it to. Not everything feels like something else and Finnick knows this kind of grief is very rarely experienced. 

What is he supposed to do? He hasn’t opened the last letter you sent, knowing it will be the last one that won’t carry the weight of mourning. He knows that you'll write to him again, that you won’t take this lying down. You’ll write and write, and he will...he will do nothing.

It sits in front of him, innocuous and unassuming. Something devastating folded in a green envelope and wrapped in your scent like a well-dressed bomb. Does his fear outweigh his longing for you?

He picks it up, holding it gingerly in his hands.

No, he realizes, it doesn’t.

He’s careful to tear the seal on the flap and your perfume wafts up like a surprise. He takes a deep breath, savoring the scent, trying to steel himself for what comes next.

Dear Finn,

I feel like I’ve missed you longer than I’ve had the chance to know you. It's been three months now, but maybe by the time this letter gets to you, we'll both be on our way to the Capitol. I'm working on being more optimistic, but that uphill battle is becoming steeper the longer I'm away from you. 

I keep thinking about when I first met you. When I looked into your eyes, I didn't see fireworks exploding or any of that other shit they depict in those gaudy Capitol romance novels. I looked into your eyes and saw you, something far more breathtaking than fireworks. And what a sight you were.

Three years back, you said something I never agreed with, that it was hard to love you. At the moment, I didn’t get to say what I really wanted to because I was eighteen and the thought of being so emotionally vulnerable made my teeth itch. 

I wanted to say that you aren't hard to love. I wanted to say loving you has been the easiest thing I have ever done. And that's why it was so difficult. I could never let myself love you—let myself have you because how could I possibly deserve to? But that’s the kicker. It’s not hard to love you, Finn, it’s impossible not to.

Something happened recently that made me realize that I’m not the most forthcoming person when it comes to my feelings. But, Finn, know that my love for you is never in doubt. How I feel about you may be complex, but it’s not complicated. I love you desperately, humanly, simply. Without even trying, you peel me back to my core, but if you only dug a little deeper you’d find your picture framed and hanging along the walls of my soul. 

I miss you, more than I was prepared to—and I was prepared to miss you considerably.

We may not be next to each other, but we’re under the same sky, and each glowing point on that backdrop of black is a star—a sun at the center of someone’s solar system. 

In some other universe, on a different Earth, there’s a girl in love with a boy whose freckles run like constellations. On another, there’s a girl who’s in love with how her boy’s eyes squint when he smiles.

That's the one constant. There are billions of stars, billions of universes, and I love you in every one of them. 

Tears are blurring his vision before he can read how you close the letter and he has to sit back as the full weight of what he’s about to do hits him all at once. Your words are like a balm to his soul, but they burn him just as much as they soothe him. A reminder of what he’s losing just as much as a reminder of what he’s fighting for. There was never a need to put a label on what you two had, what you were to each other, because it would never be replicated. It had always just been ‘yours’ . Now, with a flick of his pen, it’ll be nothing.

Maybe , he thinks, maybe there’s a way I can explain why I’m doing this, some kind of code or something. Maybe I can still meet with her, just in secret. But Snow …It always comes back to Snow. 

Snow reads these letters, and surely he'll be more vigilant of Finnick to make sure he keeps his side of the deal. Besides, if you knew the real reason he’s doing this—that it’s against his will, that he wouldn’t even think to do this in his worst nightmare—you’ll latch on, consequences be damned. 

He’s doing this for you. He has to remind himself that it’s your life on the line here, not just his heart.

Still. 

He's careful when folding the letter back, only bending it along the preexisting lines. He sets it beside himself. 

He picks up a piece of paper from the stack in front of him tucked against the wall, twirling his pen along his fingers. His leg bounces, nails tapping on the desk. 

He writes something down and comes to a stuttering halt. It isn't good enough. He crumbles it up, throws it in the trash, and picks up a new one. 

Write, crumble, trash, repeat. 

He's stuck in a loop, unable to find the right words. The pressure is building, and he can feel himself starting to crack. He needs to get this done, needs to find a way to say goodbye.

Write, crumble, trash, repeat. 

He's lost track of time, doesn't know how long he's been sitting here. The words are eluding him, and he's starting to feel like he's lost his grip on reality.

Finally, he puts pen to paper and the words flow out of him like a dam breaking. He writes about his love for you, about how much he misses you, about how impossible it is to imagine a future without you. He writes about his fear and his grief, about the weight of the world on his shoulders. He writes you goodbye. 

When he's done, he holds your letter carefully, tucking it back into its envelope. He knows what he has to do, knows that there's no turning back now. 

With trembling hands, he picks up the tan envelope and slides his letter inside. He seals it with a kiss, feeling the weight of his decision like a physical burden. 

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and places the letter on the stack in front of him. It's done. The words are written, the decision made. 

He sits back in his chair, feeling numb and hollow. He doesn't know what comes next, but he knows that he'll face it head-on. For you.

Past (xii) - You 

[21 & 22] - DISTRICT ELEVEN

Finnick's reply came faster than you expected it to. 

You plop down in your office chair, giddy as you rub at your sore cheeks. You've been smiling like an idiot since you picked up the letter from the Mayor's office. You tear into the envelope and pause. 

The words are kind of smudged, dried drops of something smearing the ink. Luckily, you can still read it. 

My heart, 

My moon and stars. 

I must have rewritten these words at least a dozen times by now. You should see the pile of crumpled paper next to me. You'd call it wasteful, but I'm sure you'd be secretly charmed by how nervous you make me after all these years. 

There's no way to dance around it, and I know how much you hate when people mince their words.

It pains me to think it, let alone write it. This will be my last letter to you. 

I know you have a hundred and one questions bouncing around that beautiful brain of yours, you'll want to know why. And the answer is, there is no why. I've decided that it's best, for both of us, to stop. Stop the letters, stop the meetings. 

It ends here. 

I don't want you to hate me. But if that makes it easier for you to stay away from me, then despise me. More than the Peacekeepers, more than the Capitol, more than Snow. Take that loathing and hold onto it like you used to hold me. 

But, selfishly, I want you to know what I'll be holding onto. 

Those little moments outside of time where you and I were the center of each other's universe, two stars orbiting each other. The balcony of my room, the floor of yours. 

I want you to know this because I don't want you to doubt that I love you. 

Because I do. I love you. I could say it a thousand times, and it still wouldn't be enough. I could say it until my tongue falls off and I'd find a way to sign it to you. 

I could live a thousand lifetimes, be a thousand different people, and I will never love someone like I love you. 

I think of your smile and I fall in love again. I think of your touch and I fall in love again. I won't leave you without you knowing this. I'd sooner stop breathing. 

There are plenty of things I should be thanking you for, but if I tried to make a list, I'd run out of paper. 

I felt...free with you. As free as anyone can be in our situation. I've never felt so close to another person before—I never let myself. 

I thought it would pass eventually, like a sand castle when it's high tide. Noticeable, beautiful, but temporary.

But I can tell you now, that was such bullshit . Since that first dance, there was never a moment I wasn’t in love with you. I loved you before I knew I was capable of it, before I knew I had it in me, and you had my heart before I even knew it was there. I saw the thorns of your past and held my hands out, ready to bleed if it meant I could touch you.

And that scared me. The very thing that gave me strength was my biggest weakness. That’s a hard pill to swallow at sixteen and it’s just as daunting at twenty-two. 

Years ago, you asked me if I could wish for anything, what would it be. I still wish I was a different person, someone you could be proud of. And I wish that person got to grow old with you. 

God, you don't know how badly I want to grow old with you.  

I have no doubt that there's a planet out there under a different sun where we end up together. Hand and hand with the two kids we always talked about. A little girl that'll have me wrapped around her finger because she'll look just like you. And a little boy that'll drive you up the wall because he's a little too much like me. That universe is where my heart lives.  

We'll find it someday, just you and me. Until then, they'll find our love written in the stars. In every constellation.  

-Yours until words lose meaning,  

Finnick O.  

You reread the letter. Then reread it again. You keep rereading it until the words refuse to sit still, letters blurring together. 

It ends here? What’s he talking about? He can't possibly mean the two of you. He can't. 

But he’s ending it. He ended it . Why would he—? He said there’s no reason, but…but there has to be. 

You try to think of anything you did—anything you said that could have led to this but you're coming up blank. 

This doesn't make any sense. It doesn't line up with the Finnick you know. 

The letter says that he loves you, and you thought you knew he loved you, but it’s pretty hard to believe that when he’s leaving you.

He promised he'd stay with you, he promised , and Finnick doesn't break his promises. Not with you. No. Not after everything you've been through together. You only have each other. 

The paper falls from your trembling hands to the desk. 

No . You only have Finnick. But, Finnick—he doesn't want you anymore, right? So, where does that leave you? What else do you have? 

A grandfather clock ticks in the background, though it sounds muted to your ears. 

You look down at the paper and find wet spots, ink more smeared than it was before. Your cheeks are wet. Are you crying?

Stupid. You wipe at your cheeks roughly—angrier at yourself than you are at him. There are a million and one reasons this could have happened and they all begin and end with you. You have no one to blame but yourself.

You know what it feels like for your body to break. What it feels like to be drained down to your skin, nerves, muscles, and bones. You've come eerily close to knowing what it feels like to have your mind broken. 

But this is new. This is what it feels like to have your heart broken. It's sudden, and it rips you apart on its way in. Not an arrow, but a knife. Quicker than you thought it'd be, but it hurts just the same. 

You’re so cold. You don't think you've ever been this cold before. Not even when you were nine and you got such bad hyperthermia that you couldn’t work for the rest of the winter. He always ran hot, you think distantly. And all his warmth has left you. 

You hold on to yourself because no one else will. You would have preferred your body breaking. At least that heals. 

“I can’t,” you weep, stuttering over betrayal and loss, “I can’t do this on my own.”

You press your forehead into the desk, your body shaking with the sobs you’re holding back. It hurts so bad. Pain sitting rooted in your chest, sharp and rigid like a peach pit. Your heart doesn’t beat, it throbs . Throbs like a festering wound, irritated and infected. 

You pull at your shirt and dig your nails into your chest. Maybe if you press hard enough through the skin and fascia and muscles you could pull out the problem.

But that’s impossible. There’s nothing there. It’s the absence that hurts, that gaping Finnick-shaped hole. You wanted to give him your heart, but not like this.

Did you get ahead of yourself? Thinking anything could last with someone who shines as bright as him? Maybe…maybe if you were a little more like him, if you shined just as bright. 

You scoff. 

You’re not a star, you’re not even the moon. How can the sun love the same darkness it chases away?

He described the ocean to you once. Vast and endless, like it could go on forever. And he told you about all the people who get lost at sea. Now you’re one of them. 

You have capsized, water rushing up past your neck and into your mouth and nose, just as salty as your tears. Your lungs burn from the lack of air, you can’t breathe and no one will come for you because you're as good as dead.

Here you sit in your study in your home that isn’t really yours, far away from any ocean, but you're drowning anyway. 

You drown and you drown and you drown and you do it alone.

Present (X) - Finnick 

[23 & 24] - THE CAPITOL

It’s a last resort, a unanimous choice between them all. A wordless decision that the victors made to appeal to the Capitol citizens. Though they’re all using different means, it’s all for the same result. That’s what Finnick has to remind himself when he’s called on stage after Beetee. 

The crowd screams at his entrance and he locks his hands behind his back. He smiles while nodding to his adoring fans as he stands beside Caesar.

“Finnick, I understand that you have a message for somebody out there. A special somebody.” The crowd hoots and hollers at the dramatics of it all and the idea of one of them being the special someone close to his heart. He chuckles and looks down. The Capitols being painfully predictable is finally paying off. All according to plan. “Can we hear it?”

He could spew some generic flowery shit that could apply to literally anyone he’s come in contact with, but…

He looks at the camera. There will be fourteen victors coming up to perform before you, so you should still be in your dressing room. Are you watching? Watching him?

"My love, my star . My heart is yours. And…and if I had to pick a place to die, it would be in the warmth of your arms. Your smile, the last thing I see and your lips, the last thing I taste. Everything I have ever done, I have done for you.”

Caesar pouts at the audience as they coo at his love letter and he wishes they never heard it. He wishes he could have said it to you directly. Those words, they’re yours and they should have been for your ears only. And, yet, here he is, relaying his heart to you through a screen. Look how far we’ve fallen, Star. 

“Oh, my. That’s very touching, Finnick. Isn’t it? I’m sure whoever it is, is listening and feeling truly loved.” 

“I hope you’re right, Caesar.”

They allowed Mags to opt out of her interview on account of her not being able to speak. How kind , he scoffs. And as he settles on the raised platform beside her, he briefly squeezes her hand. 

You okay? He mouths and she nods with a smile. 

One by one, each victor comes with their own approach to sway the masses. Oh, he knows there's no way they'll be canceling the games. Finnick is more likely to drain the ocean with a teaspoon before Snow even considers stopping this cruelty. But it’s worth a shot, he supposes. It can’t possibly make going into the arena any worse.

Besides Johanna's impassioned speech, nothing the other victors do stands out to him. Then, you're called out.  

He sinks his teeth into his lip as the audience applauds at your entrance.

From what he can recall, your outfit is a remix of the dress you wore in your first interview as if it has aged and matured with you. It’s gained a long train and the hip-high thigh slits that your stylist is known for.

You blow kisses to the crowd and they, understandably, go wild. You turn to Caesar with a smile and the overhead lights shine on you, painting your skin in soft lighting like a blanket. He takes a breath. And another, until he notices he’s breathing in sync with you.

He blinks when the crowd breaks into raucous laughter and he realizes he’s missed something.

"Oh, we all know just how shy you are." Caesar smiles, holding his laugh behind clenched teeth in that way of his that reminds Finnick of an overachieving beaver. The crowd laughs with him and your cheeks must hurt from holding that coy smile. "Now, the last time we talked, you said you were composing a new piece." Caesar pulls a violin out from…somewhere behind him and presents it to you like a gift. Finnick doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he didn’t think you’d use the violin as your strategy. Mostly because of how much you hate it. Or maybe you don’t anymore. Maybe you’ve grown to love it and he’s none the wiser. “Can you play it for us now?" The crowd clamors in ooohs and ahhhs at the idea. It has always been a privilege to hear you play. Finnick watches your face closely.

It wasn't your favorite thing to do, by far, but you took to it like a fish to water. Usually, Snow would have you play at the more "personal" get-togethers. But every once in a while, you would compose a song for Finnick . And when it was just the two of you, you'd share it with him. He'd sit in front of you in awe as you played. He doesn't have a musical bone in his body, but he can hum every piece from memory. 

“You’re kind of putting me on the spot here, but, sure. I would love to play it for you all.” You laugh. You place the instrument under your chin and position your fingers and bow.

And you play .

It's not showy like the pieces you usually play for the public. Not grand or performative, but soft and soulful. Melancholy. It feels nostalgic almost, like something you would write for him. 

The haunting melody carries throughout the silent room as if everyone is breathing with the lilting notes. Everyone but Finnick—who holds his breath. 

He looks down, squeezing his eyes shut, nose scrunching as he fights back tears. Because as much as you may hate the instrument, you play it as if it's an extension of your body. And you've always been better at showing how you feel than saying it. 

It sounds like a goodbye. 

You come to a stop and Finnick's lungs stop constricting with your movements.

When you finish, it’s quiet before Caesar clears his throat and gives you a small smile that almost looks genuine.

“That was marvelous , my dear. Truly moving—wasn’t that moving?” He asks the audience, and Finnick will be surprised if there’s a dry eye in the crowd. Even their applause sounds sad. 

“Thank you, Caesar.” You nod at the praise. “You taught me so much—all of you. If I had known this would be the last time I got to play for you—” You trail off into a sob and the crowd coos. The words may be fake, but he isn’t too sure about the tears. He wonders if you think you won’t make it out of the arena alive—not that he would let that happen. If he could just talk to you, and have an actual conversation, he could know what you’re thinking.

Caesar pats your lower back and Finnick’s eyes narrow. “And you played beautifully.”

You hand the violin back with a watery smile and, fake or not, Finnick hates to see you cry. 

You’re met with a standing ovation as you climb to your place on the platform. With the way the victors are positioned, he stands directly behind you. Or, well, strictly speaking, he’s more diagonal than directly behind you. Still, how lucky is he? He could, theoretically, lean forward and catch a whiff of your perfume—

He gathers himself, straightening up and lacing his fingers behind his back. He squeezes the space between his thumb and forefinger.

Katniss spins and her wedding dress transforms in a flurry of fire before their eyes. 

“Again with the fire.” He mutters under his breath.

The crowd is in awe as she spreads her wings, but he isn’t so easily cowed. Though, he might not be the target audience. Finnick’s never been particularly fond of birds, even if they are mockingjays.

"You know Katniss and I, we've been luckier than most. And I wouldn't have any regrets at all if it weren't…if—" Peeta stops himself, glancing around nervously.

"If it weren't for what? What?"

“If it weren’t for the baby.”

Now, that catches his attention. Gasps echo throughout the room at Peeta’s revelation. Finnick’s eyebrows almost touch his hairline with how high they raise. Caesar tries to do damage control, but the situation is quickly escalating. 

“Call off the games!”

“This is cruel!”

He purses his lips around a growing smile, but he can’t hide it for long when the crowd starts shouting. That’s…that’s certainly one way to get the audience riled up. He catches the slight smirk on Peeta’s face as he watches the commotion he caused and Finnick’s a little jealous. 

Chaos unfurls in a way he never thought the Capitols were capable of. They’ve always been so docile; sheep shepherded into any direction Snow leads them. But it makes sense. The romance act was meant to fool the Capitol and fool them it has. He hides the vindictive glee he feels at the riot breaking out in the name of the victors, but only barely. He would kill to see Snow's face right now. 

How does it feel, he wonders, to see your people rebel in support of the savages you tried to paint us out to be?

He looks over, brows furrowed, as Mags takes his hand with a proud smile and he glances down in time to see you take Chaff’s hand. He pauses for a moment before taking the hand the woman from Five offers him. In sync, the victors all raise their hands in a show of solidarity. 

“Stop the games!”

“Call them off!”

Finnick grins big at the mayhem unfolding before him and they keep shouting long after the lights cut out.

Present (X) - You & Finnick

[23 & 24 ] - THE CAPITOL

“Star!”

It didn't take long for the tributes to be escorted off the platforms and as he chases after you, Finnick realizes that he vastly underestimated just how many people stood between you and him. He isn't sure if he's too far away for you to hear or if you’re actively ignoring him.

”Star!” Finnick pushes through the crowd of victors and stage crew to get closer. Chaff glances at him and now he knows for sure that you’re ignoring him.

“Stubborn.” He mutters as some of his fellow victors let him pass, glancing at him before continuing their conversations. But, as he’s said before, he’s just as stubborn as you. He racks his brain for something that’ll catch your attention before he loses what might be his last chance with you. “ The message was for you! ”

You pause at the entrance of the elevator at Finnick's shout. You're so close to getting away, so close. Your escape is a hair's breadth and a footstep away, but you remember how you felt sitting in your dressing room watching Finnick's interview. Was there a pang of jealousy over the possibility of the message being for someone else? God , it couldn't even be categorized as jealousy. 

You look over your shoulder and his lungs stop constricting. He’s got you. Now, for the hardest part: keeping you.

There are dozens of eyes on him, people milling around as if they aren’t honed in on whatever this is. He can’t blame them for being curious, he’s a little confused himself. He went into this with no plan, not that he would have been able to stick to one with how you’re looking at him.

“What?” The lingering crowd fully parts for him as he approaches, and you regard the gathering audience warily. 

“What I said, the message—it was for you.” He repeats. 

He can’t afford to be coy, that hasn't worked the last dozen times he's attempted a conversation with you and it definitely won't work now. He knows if he doesn’t catch you now, there won’t be any more chances.

Peeta dropped a baby bomb, and, somehow, this is the most dramatic thing to happen tonight. His eyes are locked intently on you, either unaware of all the attention he’s captured or just uncaring.

You look over to Chaff for some kind of help and he smirks at your growing embarrassment. You watch in disbelief as he walks away using the excuse of finding Seeder to escape. 

“Finnick, this isn’t the time.” You glance between him and the floor, tracing the threading in his boots instead of the desperation in his eyes. 

"Can you please just,” he shifts his weight on his feet, "can you look at me, Star? Please, just look at me." He lifts his hand like he aims to reach out to you, but hesitates. 

This situation is developing into something far more intimate than your current company should allow. More intimate than you should allow. You can always just walk away, turn your back to him and get on one of the idle elevators—let it end here once and for all. The only thing stopping you would be the completely unfounded guilt. 

You don't owe him anything, let alone your time. 

And, yet. 

Maybe you can get some kind of closure and set clear boundaries before you go into the arena—and that reasoning sounds weak even to you.

Both of you could die tomorrow and truthfully, you don't want to walk away from him; you've never wanted to.

Besides, it's not like he can hurt you any worse than he already has. 

Finnick jolts when he feels your hand wrap around his wrist, a sensation he should be accustomed to but has grown foreign. 

You pull him aside away from eavesdropping ears, but not from nosey eyes. You feel like a spectacle, with how front and center Finnick has made this, but when haven't you?

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” You question him in a harsh whisper. “I don’t know what this is or what you think this is, but it is not the place for it. What if this gets back to Snow—”

“I don’t care.”

“—There’s already so much…what?”

“I don’t care.” He shakes his head, and for once, he’s not lying. “I don’t care if they hear us, or—or if this gets back to Snow.”

Your jaw shifts as you narrow your eyes up at him and there’s that anger he’s been expecting.

“Please, Star. Just…just let me speak.” He begs. Your face goes blank, a mask slotting into place like a lock with a key that Finnick has long since lost the right to. He blocks out the chatter around him. 

“Not here.” For a moment, he thinks he’s being rejected until you grab his wrist and drag him behind you. The elevators are filling in droves and you just so happen to pick the one housing some of the last people he wants to witness this. 

Haymitch takes one look at your faces and the grip you have on his wrist and raises his hands in defense. 

Haymitch turns to Katniss and Peeta. “Nuh-uh, believe me. You do not wanna be locked in here with them.” He shakes his head and steps out without a backward glance and you contemplate going with him. “I’ll meet you guys up there.”

Johanna steps on in his place, elevator doors closing behind her. She looks between the four of you and whistles. Finnick sighs.

“There’s the happy couple.” You glance at Peeta and Katniss because she certainly isn’t talking about the two of you. “You caused quite the stir out there. Why didn’t you tell us you were expecting? We could have thrown you a baby shower.” You sigh through your nose. You don’t even have it in you to intervene in this conversation.

“What the hell is a baby shower—”

“We didn’t know how everyone would take it.” Peeta cuts Katniss off. “We’re already the newest victors. The baby might’ve painted an even bigger target on our backs.” He says without stuttering once.

“That’s a fantastic answer, Peeta.” Johanna crows sarcastically. “Did Haymitch prep you on that one or did you come up with it on your own?”

“No. No, it’s all me.” He assures with a downward smile. It certainly is all him. He’s the mastermind behind all of this, right? Ironically enough, Finnick doubts Katniss had any real part in making this ‘baby scandal’.

Finnick opens his mouth to make a quip but thinks better of it. You’re already aggravated at his presence and he honestly doesn’t want to remind you that he’s here. His only consolation is that you’re still holding his wrist, all five pads of your fingers are searing points on his skin.

Peeta gives you an imploring look, eyebrows raised as if to ask if you’re alright and you nod and—when did that happen?

It’s quiet, with no other sound than the nearly inaudible woosh of the elevator going between floors. No one makes an effort to break the steadily growing awkward silence. Finnick does, however, make the mistake of making eye contact with Johanna. She mouths you’re dead at him over your head and, yeah, that definitely fills him with much-needed confidence. 

Present (X) - Finnick

[21 & 22] -  THE CAPITOL; TRAINING CENTER; ELEVENTH FLOOR

“Alright. You wanted to speak.” Your dress flutters around your legs as you settle into a big green chair. That same giant green chair you sat in three years prior. You’ve both grown considerably since then. Just in two completely different directions. What a juxtaposition. “Speak.” 

He stays where he’s standing a couple of feet away. He probably should have figured out what to do on the elevator ride, but, again, he’s without a plan. “Did you hear my message? When I was up there with Caesar? I know you were still getting ready—did you hear it?”

“I might’ve.” You shrug and cross your arms, still so stubborn. “Great strategy by the way. I’m sure you’ll reel in plenty of sponsors.”

“God, Star, it wasn’t for them. It wasn’t even for the fucking movement.” You raise a brow at his words but give no further outward reaction. He moves to stand before you, each step more unsure than the last. Your glare is scorching, but there’s been enough space between the two of you to house the sun. “Do you remember when you said my poetry was a gift? And—and that I shouldn’t waste it on them? You said you would never be tired of anything I do. Do you remember that night? What I said?” He implores. It was a special night full of promises and you gave him more than he deserved.

You look him over with a critical eye long enough that he’s sure you’re just not going to answer. Especially when you turn to stare off to the side before sighing out of your nose.

“My heart, who am I to deprive you of what's yours by right? The air in my lungs, I breathe for you. The blood in my veins pumps for you. A leaf can’t stop itself from falling and neither could I. Everything I do, I do for you.” It only takes him half a second to recognize the lines and he’s stunned, transported back to that garden under the stars. “I remember all of them…I remember everything you’ve made for me.” You give him fleeting peripheral glances and avoid his gaze like you’re ashamed of that. 

He nods, frantic and eager. He’s making headway. He honestly didn’t think you’d let him get this far. Your eyes widen when he drops down into a kneel before you smooth your face into a blank mask. “They’re all yours. And they’ll keep being yours even if you still hate me when I leave this room. Everything I’ve written since I met you has been for you.’’ He confesses, hands moving to grip the arms of your chair, but is it really a confession? The Capitols love his poetry because they adore the idea of Finnick Odair being devoted to them, longing for them and, for that, you’ve always been his inspiration. 

You stare down at him, giving no indication that anything he’s said has swayed you. He grits his teeth through the sting of rejection and sighs, arms falling to his sides.

“I can’t tell you how sorry—”

“Why now?” You cut him off. “It’s been two years. You don’t owe me anything, Finnick, so if this a guilt thing—”

“I–It’s not. I mean, it is, but it’s not…it’s not why I’m here.” He sits back on his haunches, running a hand through his hair. “We could die tomorrow. And I don’t want you going into that arena thinking that I don’t love you or…or that I wanted to leave you.”

You squint at him, face twisting into a sour scowl.

“You said,” you drawl, slow and drawn out like you’re explaining something fundamental to a child, “you thought it was best if we ended it.”

He shakes his head. “I lied. I had to and I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I know I hurt you and I know saying sorry won’t be enough, but please know sending that letter was the last thing I wanted to do. Leaving you was the last thing I wanted to do.”

“What? What are you talking about? You said—”

He holds his hands up, stopping your completely warranted stream of questions.

“I know. I know what I said and I never would have said it if Snow hadn’t shown up at my house—”

“Snow showed up at your house?” Your arms unfold and you lean forward so suddenly that he almost flinches back. “When?” 

“Uh, a few weeks before I sent the letter. He’s the only reason I even sent it.” He scoffs, remembering the state he was left in after Snow offered the ultimatum. He doesn’t need to try to remember the words written in the letter he sent you because he’s never forgotten. They’re tattooed on the back of his eyelids, seared into his memory every time he blinks.

“What did he want? What did he say to make you…” He watches you try to articulate your confusion. What led to this ? What could have possibly been worth giving you up? 

“Snow he–he was convinced that our relationship would somehow lead to—civil unrest. His solution was to get rid of one of us, get rid of you . I couldn’t let that happen. He never explicitly said it, but you know how he is, how he speaks …I was scared. I was. I didn’t—” His voice cracks and you stare down at him with stunned, wide eyes. He wants to shuffle closer. He wants to sway into you and take some kind of comfort. But he doesn’t. “I didn’t know what to do and I couldn’t just tell you because you would have tried to find some kind of loophole and we couldn’t afford to make him more hostile than he already was.”

You look to your left out of the wall-length windows and smirk, completely throwing Finnick off. 

"Star?"

You stand. He watches as you pace the length of the room before turning on your heel and walking onto the balcony. He can do nothing more than follow you. 

“He came to my house too, you know. Around the same time, I think. He wanted to remind me about how privileged I am.” You snort and that sick feeling is developing in his stomach, organs twisting to make room for the settling dread. He isn’t sure what he thought you’d do in light of the revelation, what he expected you to say, but it’s not this. “Went on about how thankful I should be that he was allowing us to be in a relationship and…and that as long as I kept myself in line, I could keep you.” You sigh, propping your elbows on the railing and placing your face in your hands.

He doesn’t know what to do. Speechless doesn’t even cover it. His anger is there, and he doesn’t see that ever leaving him...but he’s been angry for so long and he’s been tired for even longer.

“We played right into his hand, Finnick. He gained something from this, bastard that he is.” You scoff. You turn and sit with your back against the glass railing. "That's all that matters to him."

Finnick stews on it and many things are starting to make sense. In the months leading up to the event, the two of you started seeing each other less and less. Long periods where all he had was your perfume and words to keep him company. And considering Snow was the only way either of you were allowed to come to the Capitol…Of course. It all seems so fucking obvious now .

"I should have known better. Snow was never gonna kill you, he's too fucking— God .” He stops and shakes his head. All of the lost time, the unnecessary pain. 

“Come sit down, Finn.”

Finn. 

He hasn't been called that in a long time. He takes a second to stare unseeingly at the stars before sliding down beside you.

It's quiet. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if there's anything he should say, and he's sure you feel the same. But he does know if it was up to you, you'd both sit in silence for the foreseeable future and he has two years' worth of confessions to make. 

“The mo—” he stops, overwhelmed by how much he wants to say, but nothing feels good enough, “I loved you the moment you laughed at my stupid joke the first time we danced together and I have loved you ever since. Even when I wasn’t there to show you, even when I—I left you. I’ve loved you the entire way, Star. There are billions of suns out there, billions of universes, and I love you in every one.”

Your head whips up.

“I remember everything you’ve made for me too.” Your mouth twists, brows furrowing as you stare at him and he can’t express in words how good it feels to be seen.

"I don’t hate you.” You shrug a shoulder, smiling small and quick. “You said ‘even if you still hate me’, I don’t hate you.”

“...You don’t?” 

“I tried to. For a while, I thought I did." He shouldn’t be surprised by that. He shouldn’t be hurt by something he explicitly told you to do in his letter. Finnick shouldn’t be a lot of things that he is. “But I just… couldn’t . I didn’t even want to, after a while. I was just tired.”

His head thumps against the railing. He closes his eyes. There's a question on his tongue, an answer he shouldn't need but wants regardless. 

“Is that why you stopped sending letters?” When he opens his eyes again, he’s relieved by the fact that you’re still facing him.

Your face twists like you’ve tasted something sour, something rotten. “I just…I was fine waiting for you, Finnick. It was hard, but it didn’t hurt. Not too bad, at least. I would’ve waited a thousand years because it would have been worth it to hold you for a second. And I could get through that because I knew you were waiting for me too. But, I realized you were never coming. And, eventually, I realized…you weren’t waiting either." You whisper, wrapping your arms around your legs as you pull your knees up. He stiffens, freezing in place as he tries to slow his heartbeat. 

He drops his head, brows furrowed as he tries, and fails, to stop tears from forming. It's just, it's cruel . The one thing he promised himself he'd never do—leave you, hurt you—he had to do for you. 

He wipes his face, pressing the base of his palms into his eyes. 

"Star, I…I would never…It killed me to write that letter, you have to know that, right? Right ?" He implores, voice rough while his breath hitches repeatedly. His throat feels tight and swollen as he stutters over the words in his chest. The words you have to hear, the words he needs you to hear. You stare forward, refusing to look at him anymore and he turns to face you full-on, refusing to look at anything but you. "How can I let you know that? What can I do—to prove—that I'm sorry ?"

He thought you both had changed, changed too much to be fluent in what you two used to have. He thought it was a different language, but here, up close, he can see that it’s not so much a new language as it is a cipher. You just had to let him get close enough to understand again. He had always thought you had such an open face, it was a wonder to him how you were able to lie so eloquently when you could never lie to him. But it wasn’t until he was shut out that he realized you were letting him read you, subconsciously or otherwise. He reads you now, eyes tracing your face eagerly—hungrily, and finds…remorse?

"I know you’re sorry. I know. And logically, knowing the truth should make it easier to get over it.” Your mouth opens and closes, hesitating. “But you left me." He nods hard enough to hurt his neck. "I did." And he's sorry, he's sorry, he's so sorry. He doesn't think there's enough air on the planet for him to tell you just how sorry he is. "You left me, Finnick. I know it isn’t rational to feel this way knowing you didn’t want to, but…” You lick your lips, resting your cheek on your knee. When you look up at him, actually look at him and not somewhere over his shoulder, the glossy state of your eyes has him digging his nails into his hands to ground himself. "It’s just—it’s more than a little hard to dissociate you from that hurt." I’d take that hurt from you if I could, he thinks. I’d grit my teeth through the pain and wear it proudly if it meant you’d have a moment of relief. He doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he says, "I'm sorry, Star." Because, really, what else is there to say? There’s no way to describe everything he’s sorry for.

"...I'm sorry too." You say and he wants to tell you there’s nothing to apologize to him about, but you lock your pinky with his and it’s entirely unexpected and truly enough to make his throat tighten, and all he can manage is a wistful sigh at the feeling of coming home.

Far below them, the sound of the city is dampened by the distance but no less heard. He goes to speak but spots a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye. It’s your ankle. Or specifically, what’s on your ankle.

“You wore it?” He asks, touching the fraternal twin of his own bracelet. He appraises what he thought was lost reverently. Tracing the grooves of the shells, the divets in the charms, the rough twine of the rope—it all feels like a live wire under his fingers.

“I never took it off.” You slip your heel off, loosening the straps of the bracelet and wiggling it down your foot. “I just thought it might be a little sad to parade it around when you didn’t want me.”

“There will never be a moment on this Earth of me not wanting you, not while I still have air in my lungs. Not even after.” 

“And how’ll you manage that?” You ask, your eyes crinkling in that old mirth you used to wear around him like a beauty mark.

“For you? I’ll find a way.” He promises.

You hum, appraising the jewelry for a second before passing it to him. He can’t help but smile when you lift your hand, silently prompting him. He places the bracelet on you, tightening it on your wrist. It feels like muscle memory when he lifts your hand to place a kiss on the center shell.

The corner of your mouth twitches up and you nod. “Okay.”

He leans in, placing a hand on the base of your neck and pulling you towards him and he’s still in awe that you actually let him. He holds the back of your head as you bury your face in his chest, wrapping your arms around his slender waist. 

"I'm not asking for forgiveness, it wouldn’t be fair to.” He murmurs into the crown of your hair. “But after we do this, I want the chance to make it up to you." He'll spend the rest of his life mending what he tore apart if you let him.

“I think…I’d like that.” You speak into his chest and he feels your voice more than he hears it. “It was for you too.”

“What was?”

“The song I played onstage. I wrote it after it all happened. Honestly, I couldn’t touch the violin without thinking of you, Finn. You were the only person I ever wanted to play for.” You whisper and it feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. Finnick’s taken by the sudden need to look in your eyes more than anything, to see and know you and be seen and known in return. He pulls back enough to look down at you.

“ Star .” He begs you beseechingly, and there’s no hesitation when you look up at him and he grins. It feels like it’s been years. “There you are.”

You smile. It's small and heavier than he remembers, but it's there and he is as whole as he will ever be.

A/N: IMAGINE POURING YOUR HEART OUT AND EXPRESSING HEARTFELT INTIMACY TO THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE JUST TO GET DUMPED yeesh. fun fact: "...but if you only dug a little deeper you’d find your picture framed and hanging along the walls of my soul." I actually texted this to my beta reader about Finn from Adventure Time after seeing an edit bc I love him so much, but then I converted it into Finnick love. also, Finnick's letter was one of the first things I wrote for this story months ago. That balcony talk was inspired by Hozier's Unknown/Nth WE IN THE ARENA NEXT CHAPPY

[utilitycaster]

One of my least favorite types of post in fandom, particularly for actual play, is the "why isn't everyone dropping everything to focus on my blorbo's mental state," and I wanted to talk about why.

The most obvious surface reason, of course, is that unless you are watching something with a very clear single protagonist and that is the character you're talking about, and the story is explicitly about people helping them heal, this is simply not a thing that's likely to happen in most works. It doesn't mean you can't want it; but that want is best explored and expressed through transformative works rather than trying to get the "let's watch blorbo carefully work through every trauma they have" blood from of the narrative stone. (I'll admit my own interest in such works is very limited, but that shouldn't stop you.)

But even when that is the stated purpose, that's just not the sort of story I'm drawn to. It feels too artificial and dishonest to the human experience, and leaves a strange taste in my mouth. I think it derives from a set of intertwined fantasies this represents, and they are admittedly a very seductive pair of lies.

One is the idea that there will come a time, amid seemingly insurmountable external challenges, when everything can pause and during that magical lull all will be resolved. It's the "this weekend I'll get my life together" fallacy. The truth is that this stoppage almost never happens, and in the cases when it does it is rarely a gentle hold, but rather a screeching involuntary halt. The fix is often not enough to truly fix, but rather just enough to get one moving again before being thrust back into the unceasing world. It's magical thinking, of a magic that even fantasy worlds (perhaps especially heroic fantasy worlds, where all the stakes are impossibly heightened) cannot provide: that the world will stop turning long enough for a complete fix, and that a complete fix is even possible or attainable, and that it will not require any ongoing work to maintain once the world has started up again.

The second is the fantasy of being understood without effort: that this quiet period will come without you needing to speak up and say "stop". That your walls will be broken with no contribution from within; that someone else will do all the work and love you despite that. And why not? As anyone who has dealt with any sort of mental health issue knows, it is exhausting. Wouldn't it be nice if someone else just...knew exactly where to place the leverage to pop you out of that rut as you sat unmoving?

It would be! It's also not going to happen.

I am, despite what I say, not against projecting on characters. That's what characters are for. I'm just not particularly interested in seeing characters who get what I sometimes want and know pretty much no one can have. I want to watch characters experience what I might, and succeed, but I do need the struggle to be as real for them as it is for me. I want the character to be in the same hole and know how to get out because they've been here before, not turn to me and shrug and say "honestly, everything went great for me - you're on your own, pal" and levitate out.

There's much more to it too - I love character dynamics, and so the idea of everyone else fading to flat grayscale tools to help one character is uniquely unappetizing. I also find a lot of the discussions surrounding this sort of premise believe that this magical fixing also occurs without anyone ever saying anything even remotely challenging to the person being helped. It really is just essentially reduced to a flavorless hand waving a magic wand over the character in question, which makes for a very short and bad story.

There are other fantasies too, all tied up in this, and all both understandable to have and tedious to watch, most notably the ideas that suffering is purification and that the blorbo who needs help is eternally blameless and never complicit in either their own pain and their actions towards others; and that give and take (and on a meta level, focus within a story) are easily and meaningfully quantifiable and are required to be kept in some cosmic balance (usually one rather heavily tilted towards a fan's favorite character) for a story to be good.

The question ultimately needs to not be "when will everything stop and center and therapize and fix the character I most relate to" but rather "will this character's traumas and issues and past be explored in any meaningful way during the narrative, or, if they are not, will the fact that they are not explored carry its own weight." Ironically, the stop/fix/magic wand wave away fantasy does away with any possibility of meaningful exploration, and that's really why I can't fucking stand it.

[nanomooselet]

Episode Four: Hungry!

Full disclosure, it took me a while to warm up to Wolfwood.

I hadn't read the manga or watched the older adaptation. Didn’t know anything about him except his ridiculous gun and that he was a priest (hence the ridiculous gun, because anime). I couldn't figure out why he was present in the narrative, except... because he was in the manga and older adaption. It seemed a little indulgent; I wanted more time with Meryl. He wasn’t even a priest. Obviously Nick has plenty of homoerotic tension with Vash, but all due respect and sympathy to Vash/Wolfwood shippers, m/m pairings have always left me cold (to be fair, pairings generally do that irrespective of gender. Desire unfulfilled is more my speed).

Sad to say that I still don't ship Vash/Wolfwood, but I did definitely come to understand why people do and why they like the guy. Though am I the only one baffled that Vash gets cast as the virginal princess so often? After this look?

Whew. No wonder Wolfwood looks like he got hit with a two-by-four. Ahem.

This is a very necessary episode that feels maybe too "necessary", like they realised they needed to introduce everything it introduces and didn't leave enough time to integrate it all naturally. It's too tight, and Stampede is already a show so tight it squeaks. Still, I think blowing Wolfwood's cover before the day was out was, if not the only right decision, not a wrong one. Almost immediately this guy comes across as sketchy, half from that he's barely trying to act like he's not (which absolutely sends me; he really hates his job) and half that he's just... an awkward dude, angry and obviously hurt in a way he won’t admit to. And while we know there's more to Vash than his façade, it's hard to tell just how smart he really is, how perceptive, because this is Vash. Meryl is the type to show off her knowledge, because she's young and eager to prove herself. Vash is a creature of endless masks and insurmountable walls. He refuses to, as he sees it, burden anyone else with his thoughts.

So we do exactly what Zazie does in this episode: show Vash something wounded and vulnerable because he'd tear off his own skin if it would make things easier for someone else. Except instead Wolfwood is the one who feels a little too exposed, of course. It's so funny to me how obviously he didn't expect this? And how frustrated when he realises he'll have to drag this self-sacrificial lunatic all the way to July alive without becoming attached. I honestly think he failed in that latter part before they even got shot out of the Worm. Vash is just so loving, and so loveable.

Also, the Worm guys (as I mentally call them) might be my favourite minor characters next to Rosa and her offsiders. They're a hilarious audience to the madness. I’m glad they got so many dinners in one go.

And Zazie - what a great character, one I genuinely think is an improvement over prior incarnations rather than just being different from them. Nail game on point, entirely free of fucks given, and a sterling addition to the cast. I'll talk more about our buggy friend later, and I have more to say about Wolfwood besides that hitting him with the trailer forced me to pause the video until I stopped cackling.

Finally, the closing scene chills me in hindsight for a number of reasons, but what gets me the most is that it's a bookend. At the episode's start, Vash refused to eat. Wolfwood had to convince him to. And it's not that he can't use his Gate, it's that he's decided to keep it closed, so something will have to make him decide to lay bare his power once more.

And somehow, I can't imagine Knives asking nicely.

[winguontheweb]

This is the first chapter of Moonchaser, a written story I was working on extensively in late 2021 before dropping it in january 2022. I have about 50 pages of manuscript, of varying quality (a lot of it not proofread, too) but I am extremely, very proud of this opening chapter! So I'm posting it on here for y'all to read :3

CHAPTER 1

CALL OF THE VOID

???

Treading water in a sea of nothing.

The weight of the world on my shoulders.

A void, in the truest sense of the word.

Just as suddenly as I felt the void, it fell away. It was replaced with pure, blinding white.

It hurts. I thought. My entire face felt like it was burning as I heard a thud in front of me. My eyes forced shut at the sudden brightness.

Sudden? What was before this? I can’t reason that out.

Tremendous pressure was relieved from my face, and I suddenly felt incredibly light-headed. I leaned back against the wall as I regained my senses. 

When did I even last have my senses? I thought. That question came to the front of my mind as I finally opened my eyes, a task which felt insurmountable. After the blur obscuring my vision was cleared, I was greeted with a dimly lit hallway. A light so faint, yet so, so intense. The sound of a large, whirring industrial fan somewhere in the distance. Far away, yet unbearably loud. My ears flicked at every rattle, every distant whoosh of wind, and the noises caused me to wince.

I pushed myself away from the wall, barely keeping my balance as my vision faded briefly, and saw a door behind me. It was a surprisingly tall double door, tall enough that the hallway ceiling slanted upwards to meet its top, if only to emphasize how important this door was to whoever requested it be built here. Beside it, a plaque bore the label of “Queen’s office” - complete with a crown emblem. Behind the door, I could hear many overlapping voices, some of them shouting. Seems like something important. I thought.

“What the hell…” I spoke out loud. My voice was hoarse, and quiet. The sound barely echoed in the empty halls.

“Where the hell?” I asked, louder this time. Total silence in response.

I don’t know why I was expecting an answer. I thought to myself, as I instinctively reached a hand to soothe my throat. My arm felt sore, as my clawed fingers weakly caressed my neck and chin, providing an unfortunately low amount of relief.

As I looked down the hall once more, I noticed I was holding some kind of long, pointed weapon in my gloved hands.

A spear? I didn’t even realize I was holding it. Why was I holding it?

My gaze fixed itself on the spear, as thoughts overlapped in my groggy mind. Out of the corner of my vision, I saw a dark figure run down the hallway from my direction, breaking my trance. That doesn’t make sense. I thought, as I turned my head to watch it run. As my head turned, the figure disappeared.

I squinted. Uneasily, I moved my foot forward. It was unnaturally heavy. but I slowly, yet surely, lifted it up off the floor, continued moving it forward, and then planted it on the ground. And then I repeated this process again, with the other foot. 

Slowly, but surely. 

I could feel my legs tremble, and I knew why- the movements I was making felt foreign to my mind. It felt like I’d been asleep for my whole life, and only just now learned how it felt to feel my own limbs.

As I continued taking my slow, short steps, I began to feel, very intensely, the sensations of the clothes on my body. My leggings rubbed together uncomfortably. The pointy shoulder plates and chestplate were incredibly heavy, and made metallic clanks with each step. Everything felt unnatural. Even my own hair, falling in front of my eyes in long, greasy, gray strands, didn’t feel right.

My mind raced with thoughts with each laborious step. Why does this feel so unnatural? Why am I here? What was I doing? Why am I dressed like this? Who am I? 

When I finally made it to the corner, I saw the figure again, and as before, it was further down the hall. I could clearly see their foggy, shadowy form, but something about them felt blurry around the edges. They looked to be short, but I could not make out any facial details, as they were too obstructed by darkness- or so I thought, until I looked more carefully. When I actually focused, I found that rather than being hidden, their form was pure darkness, with no eyes, mouth, or markings - entirely undefined. Their cloaked figure, with two ears poking out of the top, seemed to be all that was notable. The cloak waved and undulated in some kind of wind, yet the air inside the hallway was totally still.

My steps quickened as I began to chase after this mysterious figure, and as I began to rediscover how to use my legs.

Maybe they have the answers to my questions? blazed at the forefront of my mind as my feet carried me. It was all I had to go on. The figure seemed to be receding just as fast as I was approaching, as if they were a fixture in my vision. I felt a chill up my spine seeing it, yet I could not pinpoint why.

Something creeped at the back of my mind, and I finally realized why I felt strange.

Should I know whatever this thing is? - I didn’t have the answer to that. I couldn’t recognize it, no matter how hard an effort I made to remember.

I opened my mouth to call out to it, but instead of words, only a hoarse croak came out, at the same time that I felt a jolt of pain inside my head. My vision went blurry as I nearly fell to my knees, though I managed to stay balanced with the help of my spear. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. My legs trembled uncontrollably. As I raised my head again, my sight cleared enough to see the shadowy figure standing right in front of me. I could see that the figure stood at about the height of a child, and it truly was just a void of blackness, reflecting only faint hints of purple and blue. I could see the form of a snout protruding from its face, giving it a canine appearance. Even though it was without eyes, I could tell it was staring me down.

“W-who are… who am I?” were the words that slipped out of my mouth.

In response, the figure’s gaze remained fixed, before its head turned to my right, and without hesitation, walked towards the wall, as if it were being puppeted by someone who’s done those movements hundreds of times. I followed its gaze, and realized it was approaching a large metal door leading outside.

Does it want me to look out there? Is it showing me something? I thought. With all my strength, I trudged to the doorway, my legs still unsteady. I had to keep a firm grasp on the spear’s shaft to manage my way over to this cloaked mystery. It merely looked at me expectantly, as I stood there, panting from exhaustion. With one glance at the door, the realization of what it wanted dawned on me, and I winced at the effort I’d have to expend. I dropped my spear on the floor, and I half-walked, half-tumbled ahead, finally gripping the door frame for stability with one hand, and beginning to laboriously turn the door’s turnstile handle with the other. With a creak, it opened slowly at first, before suddenly slamming wide open, caught by an immense gust of wind. I slowly and hesitantly peeked my head through the door, revealing that behind it was a large observation deck. The figure hovered outside on the deck like a ghost, and turned around to once again stare at me. After a long pause where we just stared at each other, I finally followed it, bracing myself for the cold, harsh winds.

What greeted me was the sight of fluffy, white tops of clouds, so luminous from the reflection of the midday sun that I was forced to squint. They formed a large puffy blanket over what looked to be a sprawling city, of which I could only catch a few glimpses through the cloud cover. The fragments of the city that I managed to catch through the sea of clouds revealed a large, spindly tower at the center of it, antennae peeking out and almost reaching the tops of the clouds. Surrounding the tower on all but one side was a plaza, with many wide streets emanating from it in a radial pattern, resembling a wheel. The other side of the tower was bounded by a large, winding river, full of canoes and large boats floating their way down, alongside much smaller rows and rows of houses and establishments. Along the boulevards were colorful buildings flanking each road, seeming to become taller as they got closer to the center. I approached the railings of the deck, enamored by the captivating visage of the sky below. Behind me, I was shadowed by the looming form of the airship, seeing that it was dotted with many windows along the side, and emblazoned with the name “Aschima” in big block letters over the deck. The walls of the airship were painted an olive green, with a sleek finish reflecting the blue of the sky.

Whoever owns this airship must really want it pristine. I pondered, staring at the enormous ship wall. It was impossible for me to see the full scale of it, as my eyes slowly traced its outline against the sky. Maybe it really is a queen who owns it, or someone else important. A politician? A cargo ship, maybe, delivering to this huge city? But why am I here, then? If I was here, at this big, important thing, surely I’d remember the reason why, right? What’s my purpose here? Why can’t I answer that?

I became overwhelmed with my thoughts as I turned back towards the city; my head had begun to throb in pain once more. Clutching my head in one hand, I leaned against the railing for balance. Despite the intense roaring of wind, I thought I heard the noise of faint, distant yelling, along with some footsteps, and as I turned to look for the origin of the sound, the world fell silent instantly. The shadowy figure now loomed over me, sporting bright, white piercing eyes, staring directly into my very soul. 

The wind stopped. The airship seemed to melt away. Beneath my feet, the ground began to feel soft, like mud, and the railings that I was leaning against faded out of existence. The sky turned dark, and a dizzy spell once again washed over me. My hand slipped on the rail, and I lost my balance, feeling myself teeter with the last moments of my consciousness.

I had no choice but to fall into the void.

[f0urcake]

I do my worst

Ever wonder what a Philosophy major who attempts to write into the void for hours (Read: despite the writer's block) in a coffee shop looks like? To simply put into words, this is what might have happened today, and the vulnerability that can come out of it.

Earlier today, I had opened the door of the coffee shop nearby my former school expecting to see a despairing, screaming woman in an insurmountable writer's block, like Sisyphus and his rock, and the endless unchanging hill. But instead— I saw a woman sitting in the corner near the window, far from screaming, but writing and pushing against an invisible wall of her screen that refuses to budge – worse, moving only by inches while listening to music so loud that she does not even notice I walk in.

 She appears calm,

      even though she is burning on the inside. It is like standing in an anechoic chamber and screaming.

 She has even tuned herself out, staring at the empty Word document – the white page blinding her. The more honest truth is that she cannot bring herself to write.

 The words have dried up in her over the rim of her hot brew coffee, have simmered and rotted and died just like the piping hot steam locked up inside the boiling kettle across her seat that has been singing its starving coffee’s ocean dream for 19 minutes. And so, she could not bring herself to feign surprise when it began to pipe its way out of the kettle; even something as hot tap run its pain which boils with rage, a swamp of desires can rise up in the place of the war she conjured and fled from. I do not blame it. The door of the coffee shop is open, and so the steam rose outside it while the woman stayed in her sit— holding the mouse, the blinking cursor begging her to write something; words parched, hands cracked, knowing that the mirages of what she wants will always be sweeter than what this coffee shop has to offer.

 Because there is something absurd about the act of putting words and emotions clawing out of her, desperate to be written and read out in other coffee shops. I am sure many writers have felt this is some consolation. I do not know how they managed not to walk away because I contemplate it every day whenever I visit the woman in the same coffee shop. What is this life she is living? Why not just let the bagel consume her (a la Everything Everywhere All at Once) when everything she does feels like a fool's errand? I think something inside of her has broken, and there is no way to mend it that would not require her to sacrifice everything. And yet, she barely has anything.

It is all vague and wishy-washy, perhaps because she is afraid to be too vulnerable with the piece she is yet to write. Because naming it would make it indelible. And so, for the first time today, she gets up from her writing spot to realize that she has written nothing, and she doesn't see the point in it if only as a shout into the void. If only as a cry of desperation.

 It's getting so difficult to bring herself to write inside that coffee shop as she stares and stares, her eyes burn and her heart aches with defeat, and the document stays open until the laptop shuts down.

 And I am still here

          while the woman at the corner attempts yet again to find something to say— anything while the hot steaming coffee on her table sits abandoned, as Leonard Cohen said a broken hallelujah.

 She is trying to be tender,

 despite,

      despite,

           despite.

 I hate that little self-preservation instinct of hers the most. I would rather just give in sometimes. Most times. But she does not let herself because she did not come this far for nothing. The grand irony. But right now, after finally visiting yet again the woman in the coffee shop who had locked herself in that same seat, I wonder how Sisyphus copes with it.

 Still, one hopes for brighter days until I find the courage to invite her to other coffee shops, even if the cold brew she had there wasn't any better.

 That has to be enough.

 After all, regardless of where it lands or who is there to receive it, I have to find a way to make it enough for her once she starts writing again some vital parts of herself. But right now, I would've just given up my pen and sat there with the unrolled rock for the rest of eternity.

 A protest.

[bibliocratic]

meditations jon/martin post-199, pre-200, no finale spoilers

Jon is curled inwards, away from the brickwork of the tunnel walls that degrades into densely packed earth, his body bowed and legs brought up closer to his chest like a slovenly question mark. Martin forms a distorted reflection of him, carnivalesque in the extent of their differences.

Their air mingles in the chrysalis they’ve made with the other. The spectre of cigarette smoke, a dash of unlabelled alcohol. The plastic-lined material of the sleeping bag amplifies the timbre of their speech with the acoustic quality of a confessional, their conversations meandering and earnest and a last-ditch unburdening of the soul, bookended by long, dwarfing silences that resonate with as much meaning. Touch is offered, given, laboured over with more care and thought like the final brush strokes of a painting the artist cannot bear to finish. Intentionally pained in their gentleness.

(“I read your poetry, you know.”

“What? When?”

“Way back. After you found Gertrude. You must have thrown them in the bin, while you were staying in Archive storage.”

“This was when you were…?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Makes sense. Did you… er, did you like them?”

“Not all of them. Too much Keats.”

“Oh come off your high horse, mister…”

“Buut. I was intrigued.”

“I’m so pleased to hear I was intriguing. Go on then. Which ones did you like then, if you can bear to tell me.”

“There was one…um, what was it. I’m sure it had a line about windows, yeah, ‘windows shimmering like trapped oil’.”

“God, that’s the one you liked? That one was terrible, Jon, they all were, that’s why they were in the bin!”

“I thought it had merit.”

“Well, if you thought it had merit…. Wish you’d read some of the actual good stuff. I had a few that I was pretty proud of. They weren’t perfect or anything, but not everything has to be.”

“No. No, you’re right.”)

Martin has his hand over Jon’s chest. Splayed out over his heart, strangely solemn. His forehead is warm against Jon’s, and the proximity rubs all the lines of him blurry. Jon is trailing the pad of his thumb down the back of Martin’s fingers, plotting knuckle to fingertip, and when he stops, the sensation lingers like a mirage.

(“When I was in the Lonely. When Peter did his… did his thing. I didn’t think of you. What losing me would do, how you would feel, how you might mourn like – like I’d had to. I could have, if I’d tried to, but I didn’t want to. Maybe I thought it was easier that way. The last tangible thought I remember having was that it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.”

“I killed him. Peter Lukas.”

“I know.”

“I’m not sorry. I won’t ever be.”

“I know.”)

Time does not adhere to passage for all the future is borne closer to the shoreline of the present. Jon’s fingers continue their knitted-brow memorisation, trace at the puckered and unsightly barbed-wire drag of scarring a centimetre above Martin’s Adam’s apple. Martin kisses him, infrequently, unpredictable, compelled by thoughts Jon is not witness to, and his lips give their attention to clear and damaged skin alike.

It is like the gradual break-up of once insurmountable ice floe. Jagged chunks of conversation, mismatched, unmoored to the open spread of the sea.

(“I never – I never really wanted you dead, you know. Chopped up into little pieces. I just… it’s not an excuse, but you were… your presence was a testament to all the ways I wasn’t doing my job properly, that I wasn’t enough, and I resented that. So, I resented you instead, and I shouldn’t have.”)

(“I was so angry after you told me about the whole Eric Delano, leaving-the-institute, thing. I was angry that you wouldn’t just trust me, that you wouldn’t leave me alone, that you wouldn’t let me fade away. That all of a sudden you wanted me in your life when everything I was doing was to make sure you’d get to keep living it.”)

(“I would have done it. If you’d said yes. I couldn’t do it on my own. I didn’t know what it might do to me. Scared, I suppose. Still am.”)

(“I don’t want to die. I did, for… for a long time. But not now. I don’t want this to be it. All the time we get, all the life we got to live together.”)

Sounds of life from the other tunnels, the susurrus of moving and muted chatter, the preparations for a last stand.

Jon speaks his final piece against the skin of Martin’s collarbone, Martin against Jon’s cheek.

They kiss. Once. Neither of them say that it might be the last, but they both think it.

[lysmune]

Hoarfrost Heart

Human still

Pairing: KaeLumi CW: Kaeya has an anxious breakdown near the end, and a lot of this fic deals with his trauma of not opening up to people.

  Blood is a loyal follower to Kaeya’s truths, a faint whisper that reminds him of everything that could—has—happened if he slivered an inch of his thoughts. It is the scent of iron he could never wash out, not from the thin line of death across the necks of so many people, not from his hands, nor from the soles of his feet, split open as he walks across the evergreen growth of thorns, fed fat from his deceit.

   These are only skin deep, is how he convinces himself as he tucks the unease behind a veiled smile that pinches his cheeks. Flesh wounds will heal but honesty, baring an unguarded heart out upon his sleeve, is a dangerous game and Kaeya has no desire to tempt mortality again.

   One narrow escape is enough.

   Sweet words, sweeter lies, he offers those instead. They always repay him in trust, a valuable currency he never quite could give away, so he sacrifices what spare human feeling he has for the pristine beauty of a white winter when he responds. Clean, untainted, pure.

   It is easier to deal with the disease that is loneliness than a knife to the back.

   A laid-back, duty-shirking cavalry captain, whose dull seaward lineage is made riveting through ten rounds of Death After Noon. That is who Kaeya is.

   That is how he introduces himself to Mondstadt.

   That is the image he’ll set in the starlit traveller’s mind.

   That is who she, with unabashed vocality, politely refuses to believe.

   Lumine chalks it up to the vagueness of a hunch, and he can’t help but roll his eyes, click his tongue. Sure, he might enjoy throwing the same reason around, but it feels like complete nonsense to have it flung back at him. He pouts, intentionally puppy-like and innocent, and pleads with a tone of feigned hurt.

   Lumine laughs.

   Laughs and looks at him with topaz-cut eyes, eyes like honeyed spring water. Kaeya can’t decide whether he should feel offended at her subtle dig, or honoured that he’s made her smile. He settles on brushing it off with a shrug and a, “Well, you’ve got me there.”

   “I know,” is Lumine’s response, a simple phrase that holds much more depth than it lets on, and he wonders if she’s seen just what it is he’s truly hiding.

   The prospect sends chills down his spine. Does she know me, more than I do?

   Kaeya drowns those fears in the tavern, his local safe haven, a place away from his worries and her all-seeing gaze. It is short-lived some nights, languorous on the others, but at least, here, the chatter is comfortable. Leaning forward, he listens to the slurred words, the odd secrets, to keep his thoughts at bay.

   And yet

   And yet, Kaeya finds himself following the wide expanse of her back, her small frame belying her insurmountable strength as she carries every single burden in silence. “Trust me,” she would assure with her sunlit smile. Kaeya would never admit it, but he does—he wants to.

   But what has trust ever given me?

   Rain and ichor, and festering wounds.

   Everything is unflinchingly loud. How laughable, how maddeningly soft of him, to be so weak in his resolve. Against the hushed humdrum dawn, he watches her leave the gates.

   They say if you stare too long at the sun, you’ll go blind. In her presence, Kaeya feels robbed of his vision. He looks to her footprints instead, at the trail of fireflies she leaves in her wake. They don’t hurt him as much as her wayward glances do, not as much as the sincerity in her voice when she reminds him that he can always seek her company when he needs someone to talk to.

   “I won’t stay long in Mondstadt, anyway,” Lumine laughs, laced with melancholia. “Whatever your secret is, I’ll bring it with me.”

   Kaeya’s chest tightens, constricts. “How fun would I be without my mysteries?” he hums and she scoffs.

   “Well, either way,” she says, shrugging while she goes to her feet, “I’m here to listen.”

   He knows, he knows, that’s why it’s proving difficult to keep all his bottled thoughts neatly safeguarded. Everything is easier around her, as though he can just be honest and loose-lipped, and bare, and Kaeya despises it.

   He despises how vulnerable he feels, how vulnerable she makes him feel.

   Each passing day only serves to coddle that parasite of an idea, the frail, tempting whisper at the shell of his ear, gnawing at him endlessly. The words coagulate in his throat, begging to be spoken and put to death all at once, barred only by gritted teeth and sheer willpower.

   Lumine never quite pries him, not when he excuses himself of her company through the blatant lie of working through his commissions; nor when he hides at the corner of the bar when they celebrate her victorious homecoming; nor when his nightly patrols loop him back to her in some cyclical torment.

   She gives him his space, lets him breathe. Kaeya isn’t sure if he enjoys the consideration, the lack of judgement, the misplaced respect.

   A clean-cut, clinical distance maintained. Lumine never quite meets him again, and he never bothers. It’s easier, it’s easier, he tells himself, chanting it through like a broken record.

   It’s easier, Kaeya convinces, even when he finds her perplexed at her usual spot at Good Hunter, bathed in the scarlet red of a sunset.

   “My,” he greets, pulling up the chair reserved for him, “I don’t think I’ve seen you quite so bothered, Traveller.”

  Lumine’s eyes never quite meets his, even when she’s turned her body to his direction. A chill creeps up the length of his spine.

   “I’m leaving for Liyue,” she says under her breath, so quiet it’s near indistinguishable from the wind. “Tomorrow morning.”

   “Oh,” is all Kaeya manages to muster. She doesn’t speak after that. He doesn’t either, all the sentences tangled and fumbling on his tongue, and It’s easier this way, he reminds himself still, even when she’s long receded into Mondstadt’s crowd.

   There’s a ringing in his ears, a loud, obnoxious pounding against his skull.

   Lumine’s leaving.

   The creature in his chest twists, writhing as he inhales deeply, like it is wounded and angry. Isn’t this what I wanted?

   Iron fills his mouth as his teeth bite into the inside of his cheek. He’s never once looked at her, not in the longest time, and before he knows it, Kaeya’s letting his feet lead him to the home she’s staying in, blood cold and hands trembling.

   The last time Kaeya’s ever held a person so warm dear to him, he burned to ashes.

   Something old and ancient stirs, an acquaintance he thought bygone. Wrapping around his shoulders like a winter veil, it hovers, large and engulfing.

  What has trust given you? Trauma sneers. Kaeya swallows. Rain and ichor, and festering wounds. Scorched skin black to its bone, pain still as new and fresh as spring. All that hate and fear, and loneliness.

  His hand rests quietly on the door, shaking softly.

  Intimately, anxiety slithers around his neck, a spurned lover begging for a second chance. His back is soaked in the frozen thunderstorm, the terrorised flesh on his arm throbbing painfully, this memoir he’s carried with him since eighteen.

  I should leave. I should go. There isn’t much point in this.

  Flashes of white dancing at the peripheral of his eye, embers sparking like coals. Kaeya balls his hand into a fist, breaths shallow and ragged, the smell of carbonised ozone filling the air.

  This was a terri-

  “Kaeya.”

  His demons fall quiet.

  Her fingers are warm around his wrist, comfortingly so, a hearth on a winter’s eve, and Kaeya’s heart steadies. Everything does.

  I’m scared, he realises when he keeps his gaze to the ground, when he struggles to look back at her, when he’s being honest to himself past all those pretences, a lost child navigating uncharted wasteland.

  I’m scared, he realises, of learning how to trust. It feels like centuries since he has. What has trust given you? Rain and ichor, and festering wounds.

  Her grip on his wrist tightens.

  A home. A friend. A brother. Tiny, stumbling memories that fill with laughter.

  Kaeya swallows and turns around, and this time, he meets the gold of her eyes. In the dying light of day, she seems to glow brighter still, undying and unyielding.

  They say if you stare too long at the sun, you’ll go blind. As long as it’s her, he can learn to live with that, to have faith in her promises and follow her lead.

  “Are you alright?” Lumine questions, and he’s touched by the worry in her voice. Kaeya allows himself to smile, just barely, and nods.

  “I’m here for that offer,” he says. There’s an unusual tremor in his words, a nervousness that he’s not quite felt in ages, and ages past. She blinks, once, twice, and Kaeya wonders if he’s misread.

  Maybe-

Lumine laughs, then, like chimes in the wind, and Kaeya can’t help but chuckle along. With practiced ease, she slips her hand around his, linking their fingers together.

Kaeya lets her.

“Make yourself at home,” she guides him through the door and into her space effortlessly, seamlessly. Within the four walls she calls hers, in the incandescent ardour of her presence, he feels safe. Safe and heard, and at peace.

  It isn’t likely that Kaeya will tell her everything he’s been shouldering within the day, nor the coming week, or month, or possibly a year, but he knows he eventually will. If it’s her, he wants to, and when she offers him a gentle sunburst smile, he’s certain of it.

 For the first time since eighteen, Kaeya offers his heart, bare and beating, and him.

[hearts-hunger]

in the darkness with the radio playing low || frankie morales x reader

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Summary: When your move into your first house as Mr. and Mrs. Morales is interrupted by a thunderstorm and power outage, you and Frankie remind each other that even an empty house can be home if you’re together.

Pairings: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Wife!Reader

Genre: Hurt/comfort, fluff, angst

Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: a scene and significant discussion of PTSD

A/N: I’m pretty proud of this one. It’s the pièce de résistance of my collected works in terms of hurt/comfort. Please be aware that PTSD plays a major part in the plot; take care of yourselves and stay safe. That said, I think the fluff and tenderness and romance more than makes up for it. Let me know what you think! ♡

“Well, that’s just great.”

You stood with your hands on your hips as your husband came in with an armful of boxes, soaking wet from the downpour that had started without any warning. He looked a little apologetic, as if he disliked being the bearer of bad news, but he couldn’t have done any more to predict it than you could.

“The forecast said cloudy,” you said, frustrated enough that you weren’t paying attention to where he was headed with the boxes and had to quickly move out of his way. “Sorry.”

“‘S ok.” He set the boxes on the kitchen counter with a huff and took his ball cap off to shake some of the water from it. “Is there anything else you want me to try and get?”

You looked out the front door that was still wide open, feeling a wave of discouragement at the torrential downpour that made the distance from the door to the covered bed of Frankie’s truck seem insurmountable.

“I guess not,” you said tiredly. Anything you tried to get would be soaked through by the time it got inside.

Frankie came over to you, and you fell into his comforting bear hug despite how damp his overshirt was. You put your arms around his neck and sighed.

“Not how I envisioned this night going,” you said. You had spent countless hours planning your move into your first house as Mr. and Mrs. Morales, and this had definitely not been on the agenda. Santi, Will, and Ben had helped you pack up into the moving truck earlier in the day, and they were coming bright and early tomorrow to help you move everything in. Your first night was supposed to be you and Frankie and everything you could move in without the boys’ help - not just the three boxes of kitchen things, two lamps, and one set of bedding you’d brought in before it started raining.

Frankie hugged you tighter. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I know how it gets your feathers in a ruffle when things don’t go to plan.”

He wasn’t being unkind; he really did hate it when things didn’t go to plan for you. Though he was very nearly unflappable in any situation, your anxiety tended to get the better of you in overwhelming situations like this one. You tried to make yourself relax, and being held by your husband made it much easier to do than it would have been otherwise.

“It’ll be fine,” you said, as much to yourself as to him. “We’ll just... camp out. It’ll be an adventure.”

Frankie gave you a sweet smile and kissed your forehead. “Proud of you, baby.” He let you go to fish out a dry overshirt from the duffle bag of clothes you’d grabbed, and you basked in the glow of his compliment.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” you said, trying to have a positive outlook. “Instead of trying to move in furniture tomorrow when we don’t really have a feel for the space, we can - ”

A huge clap of thunder made both of you jump, and a second later you were plunged into darkness as your power went out. You couldn’t decide if panic or frustration was a more appropriate reaction.

“Frankie?” you called. An unfamiliar, pitch-black house wasn’t doing much for your anxiety.

“Right here, honey,” he soothed, his hand meeting yours in the darkness. As your eyes adjusted, you kept a tight hold on him, and almost felt a little hurt at the amused look on his face.

“What did you do to make the universe so mad at you?” he asked.

You gave him a shove, but your heart wasn’t in it. “It’s not funny.”

He chuckled. “It’s a little bit funny, baby.” He ran his thumb over your knuckles. “You just can’t catch a break, can you?”

“Apparently not,” you grumbled. All your positivity had faded with this most recent development. “Now we can’t even look at the places we can’t put things.”

He nosed at your jaw, giving you gentle kisses all over your face. “My poor baby,” he said, but he wasn’t making fun. “How can I help?”

You were quite enjoying his attention at the moment. “You’re doing a pretty good job right now.”

He breathed a laugh against your skin. “I thought I might be.”

You let him comfort you, and for a little bit, with his big hands holding you close to him and his scruff against your cheek with every kiss, you didn’t even mind the rain or the loss of power. 

Then, something occurred to you. You gave his shoulder an excited slap.

“Hey!” he protested, though you knew you hadn’t hurt him. Frankie Morales was built of sterner stuff than that.

“I bet you didn’t know your wife was the smartest woman in the whole world,” you said, disentangling yourself from him even though you would have liked to stay right where you were.

Frankie watched as you went rummaging through the boxes marked for the kitchen, using your phone as a light. 

“Sure I did,” he said. “But remind me why you’re the smartest woman in the whole world, and why I suddenly can’t kiss you because of it.”

You grinned as you held your prize aloft for him to see. “Because I put the emergency candles back where they’re supposed to go before we packed everything up.”

His smile was amused as he watched you open the pack of six white candles that would burn for nine hours apiece, plenty of time for the storm to wind down and the power to come back on. You put a few on the counter, along with one in your bedroom and the en suite, and he lit them with the lighter he always kept in his pocket. Before long, the house that had seemed bare and frightening took on a warm and cosy glow.

“Kinda romantic,” Frankie said, pulling you close again. The whole “moving into your first home” thing had him feeling very tender and sentimental recently, and you didn’t mind how keen to cuddle it seemed to make him.

You were happy with your candles, though, and in a much better mood about how the night was going; you had a whole house to explore, and you had your husband to enjoy it with.

“I’ll make you a deal,” you said, running your fingers through his hair.

“What’s that?”

You smiled against his mouth. “You can romance me all you want, but - ” You pulled away and gave him a mischievous grin. “You have to catch me first!”

His smile was fondly exasperated as you went around to the other side of the counter, but he soon got into the game and chased you around the living room. The kitchen counter was your only means of defense, and once you were clear of it, you were no match for his size and speed. You broke into helpless giggles as he caught you by the waist and tickled you until you begged him to stop.

“Ok, ok, you win,” you laughed, breathless between kisses. “I didn’t think that one through, what with all your secret Delta force skills.”

He hummed in agreement. “That’s why I spent all those years training,” he said. “Just so I could catch you.”

You thought of another game. “Ok, how about this?”

He laughed. “What else do I have to do before I can kiss you, woman?”

You gave him an impish smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” You gave him one last kiss to tide him over before you pulled back from him. 

“I’m gonna go hide, and if you can find me, I’m all yours.”

He grinned. “It’s not a big house, cariño. Does this plan of yours involve me finding you in less than a minute?”

“Wouldn’t you be the lucky guy, getting me into bed that quickly?”

He gave you a cocky smile. “Lucky? Oh no, honey. You should know better than anyone that I don’t need luck.”

You grinned. “Shut up.” You directed him to the far corner of the living room, where he obliged you and closed his eyes while he counted to fifty.

“Now, where to hide?” you said to yourself, using your phone as a light as you went through the rest of the house. You’d toured it a handful of times before you’d decided on it, but you didn’t know all the ins and outs. Down the hall from the living room and kitchen were a guest bedroom and bathroom, the master bedroom with an en suite, and an office space that Frankie had confidently said would be perfect for a nursery. You wanted to have kids too, but you figured it would be best to settle in a little before you started painting the walls a cheery baby color.

You decided on the walk-in shower in the en suite - a little predictable, but you’d put three doors between you and Frankie’s undoubtedly quick search of the house, and maybe he’d like to stay put and have shower sex by candlelight. You listened as he counted, his warm voice filling the house despite the sound of rain pouring outside.

“Ready or not, here I come,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

You thought you heard him go into the guest bedroom first, then maybe to the closet in there. You felt a strange sort of anticipation - it was only Frankie, after all, and the consequences of being found were something you were looking forward to. You heard the door to the guest bedroom close and waited for him to cross the hall into the master.

“Where are you?” His voice was closer, so he must have been in your bedroom.

You rolled your eyes, smiling a little. You wouldn’t make it that easy on him. You heard the closet door open and shut.

“No, really,” he said, and his voice was so startlingly different that a thrill of panic shot through you. You could count on one hand the times you’d heard his voice like that, and none of them were happy memories.

“Please come out,” he almost begged, his voice tight and strained and trying so hard not to be. You almost took the sliding shower door off the track in your haste to get out.

“Frankie, hold on,” you said, trying to make your voice carry. You practically ran through to the bedroom, dreading what you might find; as soon as you saw him, you felt a wash of guilt so profound it nearly took your breath away.

In the dim light of the candle flickering on the window sill, you saw he had one hand on the wall, leaning heavily against it; his other hand was tucked under the collar of his t-shirt, running his fingers over his collarbone to self-soothe. He looked frustrated and panicked, and his gaze was unfocused as he looked at you.

“Oh, Frankie,” you said, feeling like your heart had been torn right out of your chest. You started to move towards him and hesitated; you didn’t know if it would make it better or worse for you to be near.

He took his hand from his chest and reached out to you; you took his hand immediately and put your other arm around his neck. He buried his face in your shoulder and put his free hand on your back, crumpling the fabric of your shirt in his grip.

“You’re ok,” he breathed, and the relief in his voice was almost worse than the fear.

“Of course I’m ok,” you said, pulling him closer, trying to get a hold of your own unease. “You’re ok too, Frankie. You’re safe. I’m here.”

His shoulders hitched unevenly as he drew a shaky breath. “Sorry,” he managed, and even with that one word, you could hear how upset and guilty he felt. You held him tighter.

“No, baby,” you said. You ran your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. “Frankie, it’s ok. You don’t have to apologize.”

Looking for you, hunting for you through a dark house - it had been enough to make you feel a little on edge, and you couldn’t imagine what it had triggered in him. You felt how unsteady he was as he held onto you like you were the only thing tethering him; you felt your eyes sting with tears.

“It’s my fault,” you said. “I can’t believe I was that stupid. I’m so sorry, Frankie.”

You felt him stiffen; he pulled back from you, still keeping you close but meeting your eyes with a clarity you couldn’t mistake.

“No,” he said firmly. “This isn’t your fault. You didn’t know any better, and I - ” His breath caught a little. “Christ. You shouldn’t have to.”

He released you, stepping back as bitterness and anger flashed across his face. You didn’t know how to help; you gave him space, wishing you could think of some way to comfort him. 

“I don’t want you always worried about something like this,” he said, his voice taut with frustration. “I don’t want you thinking you have to plan everything so that I don’t lose my mind and start freaking out for no fucking reason.”

You knew he wasn’t angry at you, but Frankie was an imposing figure even when he wasn’t agitated. Even though you knew without a doubt he would never hurt you, you still felt yourself unconsciously try to make yourself smaller.

“I'm so fucking messed up that I can’t even - ” He tugged on the brim of his ball cap. “I knew as soon as I started down the goddamn hall that I couldn't handle it. Reminded me of every single fucking hallway I’ve gone down trying to - ”

He cut himself off before he said it, but both of you knew when he meant. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, his anger seeming to give way to something more like grief and guilt and resentment. 

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. He didn’t meet your eyes. 

He tried again. “I wish I wasn’t - ” He shook his head. “Sorry.”

You took a step towards him, but he didn’t let you get close; you tamped down the sting of embarrassment and heartache and wished you knew what to do with your hands. You crossed your arms over your chest and worried the hem of your shirt sleeve.

“I’m gonna go smoke,” he said. Without waiting for a response, he left you in the bedroom; the rain sounded louder as the door opened, briefly filling the house that seemed empty and unforgiving once again.

God, what had you done? Despite what he said, you should have known better - it was cruel and unkind of you not to. You were his wife, for god’s sake - you knew him, inside and out, and it had been foolish and careless of you to not think before you acted. Now, it seemed as clear as day that it had been ill-advised from the beginning, but you had been so caught up in what you wanted and how you felt; you couldn't believe you’d hurt him like that, intentionally or not.

You needed to talk to someone, to ask how to help your husband, to ask if you even could. Your hands shook a little as you pulled up Santi’s number on your phone and prayed he would answer.

He picked up after a few rings. “Hey there, sunshine,” he said, like he always did.

“Santi,” you said, a little hopelessly. He sounded happy to hear from you; you felt like you would start crying any second.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked. Santi had always been able to read his friends like a book, and you were no exception. “Everything ok with the move?”

You gave a helpless shrug. “Yeah, I mean - no, because it’s pouring down rain and we lost power, but that’s not what’s wrong.”

“Okay,” he said. He kept his tone calm, and you couldn’t have been more grateful to him. “Talk to me.”

You took a shaky breath; you glanced towards the front door, that seemingly insurmountable barrier between you and your husband.

“It’s Frankie,” you said, and your eyes filled with tears despite your best efforts. “I think I triggered him - I wasn’t even thinking, it was so stupid, I was just trying to do something fun but he got so upset and I didn’t know what to - ”

“Hold on, hold on,” Santi said, trying to parse your feverish babbling. “Slow down, honey.”

“Sorry,” you said miserably. You swiped at the tears that wouldn’t stop now that they’d started.

“That’s ok,” he said kindly. “Just take a deep breath.” You did as he said. 

“Alright. Now tell me what happened, from the beginning.”

You hid behind your free hand, embarrassed and upset with yourself. Santi was one of your closest friends, but you didn’t even want to admit to him how careless you’d been.

“Hey,” he said, seeming to understand your brief silence. “You can talk to me, you know that. Whatever happened - it’s not unfixable. I promise.”

You nodded, trying to gather your courage and composure.

“The power went out,” you said. “I found some candles for the kitchen, but the rest of the house is dark. I thought it would be fun if - god, it’s so stupid - I thought it would be fun to play hide and seek, you know - I left him to go hide, and he started to look for me, but then he - ”

Your voice caught. “He didn’t say anything, and I thought he was having fun too, but when he couldn’t find me, he - ” You felt sick just thinking about it. “He was so upset, Santi. He said it reminded him of - ”

Like Frankie, you couldn’t make yourself say it, but you knew Santi had figured it out. 

“He was angry,” you said. “I didn’t know how to help him, and I just felt like I made it worse.”

You heard him sigh over the phone, and you tried to make yourself wait for him to speak instead of insisting he answer right away.

“He’s not angry at you,” Santi said. “I know it feels like he is, but he’s angry at - I don’t know, everything else. Himself. He’s not angry at you.”

“He should be,” you insisted. “I should have known better. I mean, I call myself his wife but I can’t even - ” 

You huffed. “It’s my fault, Santi.”

“It’s not,” he said evenly, like he was more convinced of that than anything else. “It’s too many things to be your fault. The shit he’s been through - that’s not on you, and I know he feels that way too.”

You didn’t know if that was true.

“Where is he now?” Santi asked.

“On the front porch. Smoking.”

“Okay. I want to talk to him in a minute, but... I know this scared you as bad as it scared him.”

“It shouldn’t have,” you said, furious with your own incompetence. “I didn’t - I didn’t go through anything like what he went through, and I can’t imagine having to worry about - ”

You ran your hand over your cheek. “I can’t stop fucking crying, even though nothing happened to me, and I can’t even try and help him without botching it.”

“That’s not fair,” he said. “It happened to both of you, and just because you don’t know how to help doesn’t mean you didn’t.”

“Why didn’t he say anything earlier?” you demanded. Your guilt needed something to latch on to, and Frankie was the easiest target for your anger.

“It probably didn’t even occur to him,” Santi said, unperturbed by your outburst. “He probably didn’t even realize until he couldn’t find you that it would trigger him at all. It’s not his fault, and it’s not yours either.”

You felt the fight go out of you; you were left with a heavy, numbing remorse and a worse headache than you’d had in ages. You lifted the collar of your shirt to scrub your face, hiding from everything for a moment behind the fabric.

“Don’t beat yourself up about this,” he said gently. “I know how you get, sunshine.”

You breathed a tired, wobbly laugh. “Yeah.”

“It’s gonna be ok,” he said. “Frankie loves you, and I can tell you without a doubt that the way you love him does help, more than you know. You hear me?”

You took a deep breath. “I hear you.”

“Alright. Can you take the phone to Frankie?”

You almost dreaded the thought - you wanted Frankie to talk to Santi, but you were wary of even putting yourself close to Frankie for fear that you’d do something wrong, make him more upset.

“Sure,” you said. You went out to the front door; your hand hesitated on the knob.

“Hey,” Santi said. “Before you go - I love you, sunshine.”

You smiled. “I love you too, Santi. You’re coming tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there first thing, don’t you worry.”

“Okay,” you said, more to yourself. If things weren’t better by then, Santi and Will and Ben would be here. You and Frankie weren’t in this alone.

“Okay,” you said again. “Here’s Frankie.”

You opened the door and pressed the phone to your chest, muting the sound of the rain on your end for a moment. Frankie was sitting on the railing, a nearly-finished cigarette between the fingers of his right hand; he was rubbing at his collarbone with his free hand, looking out at the rain.

“Frankie,” you said cautiously, trying not to startle him.

He looked over at you like he hadn’t noticed you’d come out. “What?”

You bit your lip and tried to remember what Santi said - Frankie wasn’t angry with you.

You held out the phone to him. “It’s Santi.”

He grimaced, like talking to his best friend was the last thing on earth he wanted to do, and he didn’t much appreciate you making him do it. He put the cigarette out on the heel of his boot and took the phone from you.

“Hello?” he said, tired and exasperated. He ran a hand over his face.

You went back inside to give them a chance to talk privately. Through the window, you could hear the muted tones of Frankie’s voice; they were speaking in Spanish, and you didn’t know enough to try and parse it even if you’d wanted to.

You looked around your small, dismal house; even the warm glow of the candles didn’t seem to make it any more comforting. You stood in the living room for a minute, trying to figure out what to do with yourself. Any other night you would have just gone to bed, wondering if Frankie would climb in next to you or decide to sleep on the couch, but you didn’t have a bed here yet - or a couch, for that matter. You crossed your arms over your chest at the sudden chill you felt and wished things had gone much differently.

You apparently hadn’t had the foresight to pack a sweater in the grab-bag of clothes, and the only thing long-sleeved was one of Frankie’s soft flannel overshirts. Any other time, you wouldn’t have hesitated to wear it, and might have given your husband some ribbing about how it looked better on you than it did on him. You left it in the bag and paced aimlessly, wondering if Santi was having better luck than you at easing some of Frankie’s pain.

Mostly to occupy yourself, you fished a pot out of the box of kitchen things and set water to boil for the stray pack of ramen you’d found with the emergency candles, of all things. If moving had proven anything, it was that your kitchen was in dire need of some organization. You had thought you and Frankie would start on getting your new kitchen set up tonight, but that didn’t seem likely.

The front door opened just as the water began to boil, and you couldn’t help a shiver as the cold, rainy air gusted in before Frankie closed the door behind him. The candles guttered and sent shadows dancing over the walls. Neither of you said anything for a moment, and Frankie put your phone on the counter.

“Are you cold?” he finally asked. His voice was much gentler than it had been earlier, perhaps even a little sheepish. You didn’t know why, but you blushed. 

“A little, I guess,” you said. “The rain is...”

You trailed off, not sure what you had been meaning to say in the first place. You bit your lip and tried to figure out the timer on your new stove.

You heard him rummaging through something, and you almost jumped when you felt him behind you. He put the overshirt you’d wanted earlier over your shoulders, leaving one hand on your arm while the other brushed over your hair very gently.

You suddenly felt like crying again; your throat ached and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay.

He brushed your hair to the side and kissed the back of your neck, feather-light.

“I’m sorry.”

You held your breath, willing yourself not to cry. He kissed your shoulder, and your breath caught like the beginning of a sob.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he said, and his voice was so sincere and heartsick that it almost hurt you to hear it. “I know I scared you. I was scared too, and I took it out on you and I shouldn’t have. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He slowly wound his arms around your waist, giving you time to pull away from him; you leaned back against him and felt him relax, like whatever had been pulled tight in him had finally been allowed to loosen. He nuzzled against your neck and breathed you in deeply.

“I love you,” he said. “More than anything. I can’t believe you put up with somebody like me.”

You turned in his arms to face him; he kept his hands on the small of your back and kept you close to him. 

You reached your hand up and touched his face, felt his scruff under your fingers, felt the way his pulse beat right under his jaw. Steady and warm, like he always was.

“I love you,” you said. Your voice was dull with crying and washed in relief. “I love you, Frankie Morales. Every bit of you, no matter what. I wish I knew how to love you better, how to - ”

He kissed you before you could say any more, tender and apologetic and full of love.

“No, sweetheart,” he said. He kissed your nose, your cheeks, your temple. “You’re the only reason I’m not broken in a million pieces, you know? You’re the only thing that keeps me together.”

He leaned his forehead against yours. “I love you. I’m sorry I’m such a screwup.”

“Don’t say that,” you said firmly. You held his face in your hands. “I love you. You are not a screwup. None of this is your fault.”

You kissed him, tenderly, and felt how much he needed it.

“I’m with you no matter what, Frankie,” you promised him, like you had on your wedding day and like you would every time he needed reminding. You smiled a little. “You’re stuck with me now.”

He gave a watery laugh, and the sound was like music. 

“Thank god,” he said, and meant it.

He kissed you, gently, cautiously; you kissed him back and held him close. A few tears fell down your cheeks; you were relieved and happy and so in love with him that you didn’t know what to do with it.

“Hey,” he said softly. “No more crying, pretty girl.”

You reached up to wipe away your tears but he got there first, his big hand cradling your face, his thumb running over your cheek to catch them.

“You alright?” he asked. Wanting to know if you needed more time, if you were still hurt. You put your hand over his and leaned into his touch.

“I missed you,” you said. You weren’t sure it made any sense - after all, you’d been apart only for a little while, and even then, he’d only been outside. But the emotional distance, the worry you felt for him, the hopelessness you’d felt trying to help him - you missed him, and you were glad he was with you again.

He kissed your forehead. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I missed you too.”

You rested in that for a moment, letting it shore up the cracks in your heart; all was forgiven between you, and nothing else needed to be said. You were his, and he was yours, and sometimes it took a little heartache to remind you who held your heart together in the first place.

After a moment, you circled a hand around his wrist. 

“Let’s just... give into the fact that we have no power and we’re in a brand new house that’s kind of creepy in the dark,” you said.

He chuckled. “Okay.”

You sighed. “I know I started it, but we have plenty of time to be a rambunctious, fun-loving couple when we’re not going through a very stressful night. Right?”

“Right,” he agreed. “And later, when we actually have furniture and lamps and everything, I’ll play any kind of game you come up with. As long as it’s not hide and seek.”

You gave a dry laugh. “Yeah. No hide and seek.”

He gave you a chaste kiss. “But for right now, it’s just you and me and a house with no power.”

You nodded, tipping your face up towards his. “Sounds perfect to me.”

He kissed you deeply then, taking his time; when you needed something to brace against, he kept you from leaning back right onto the hot stove and picked you up by the waist to put you on the counter. Your ramen bubbled away as Frankie stood between your knees, his hands on your thighs; you held his face in your hands and kissed him as though you would never get enough of him.

“Your ramen’s about to boil right through our nice sauce pan,” he said after a few minutes. You hadn’t even heard the timer go off.

“Whatever,” you said, breathless. He let you kiss him a few more times. 

“Can I turn it off before we burn the house down, honey?”

You gave an exaggerated sigh. “I guess.”

He let you keep a hold of his hand while he quickly turned off the stove and moved the pot to another burner, and then he was standing in front of you again, looking at you like you’d hung the moon.

“I love you, Mrs. Morales,” he said. “I’m the luckiest guy on earth to be your husband. Even if you do overcook your ramen.”

You breathed a laugh and put your arms around his neck as you leaned close to kiss him again. You tipped his hat back so you could kiss all over his face while his hands roamed over your thighs and waist, tenderly kneading into your skin. 

“Frankie,” you said, breathless from his kisses. 

He hummed against your neck. “What is it, querida?”

You felt your whole body warm as he kissed down your neck, sweet and messy and patient. It was your first night in your first home, and you loved your husband and wanted him deeply.

“Take me to bed,” you said, brushing your fingers through the soft curls that stuck out from under his cap. “Take me to bed or lose me forever.”

You could feel his smile against your skin. “I would, honey, gladly - but you might have noticed we don’t have a bed.”

“Let’s make one,” you said. “I brought in the bedding and blankets and everything - we’ll just be like a couple of pioneers making love on an old bearskin rug.”

He scrunched up his nose and laughed at the thought. “Mm. Musty.”

“Come on,” you said with a laugh. He helped you off the counter and awaited your direction on the bed-making, accepting the pillows and blankets you gave him to hold as you unpacked them. Like you did most mornings when he didn’t leave very early for work, you made your bed together: this time, a warm and comfy pallet on your living room floor.

Like the romantic he was, Frankie put some soft classic rock on his phone; he took you in his arms to slow-dance with you as Bob Seger started to play.

“She was lovely, she was the queen of my nights,” Frankie sang, pulling you close, “there in the darkness with the radio playing low.”

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the warm sound of his voice and the steady beat of his heart. The rain still poured outside and the candles still cast shadows on the wall, but the storm and the darkness and the emptiness of the house all seemed to fade when you were with him. There in your husband’s arms, warm and safe and loved, you knew this new house you shared with Frankie was already home.

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[calpops]

barely breathing | c.h.

You and Calum cope with your daughter getting sick and all of the memories it brings back. 

1.5k words

dates with cal masterlist | my masterlist

Copyright © 2021 calpops. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format (translations included).

~~~

White walls and uncomfortable plastic chairs invade Calum’s world once more. The sterile smell in the air burns deep and the beep of machines brings him back to six months ago, back to a time before your baby could be in his arms, back to when every breath was a fight for her life. Now his arms are empty once again and worry spirals around him in hazy vision and short breaths.

He knows you’re beside him but even that knowledge isn’t enough to pull him from his panic as white coats rush through the halls. His eyes shut, burning and pushing back tears, and all he can see is Mila smiling up at him from her incubator for the first time, all he can hear is her first giggle at the brush of his finger on her nose. All he wants is to hear her first word and see her first steps.

Calum clutches at the arm of the chair instead of your hand, knowing the force is too much and that the slight bite of pain from white knuckles helps remind him to stay alert. He hears you sigh, maybe yawn, he’s not even sure through the disconnect he still feels. It reminds him of the broken breath you took over the phone when you called earlier in the day. Two words had gotten him to his feet from his lax sitting position on Ashton’s couch. His songwriting journal had fallen to the floor. Mila’s sick. His heart had pounded at the explanation and the next two words you barely managed to utter. Come home. He was out the door before either of you could take another breath.

“She’s gonna be okay.”

Calum hears your voice and he rationalizes with your words and finally knows what it feels like to be on the receiving end of something that feels so far out of reach. He doesn’t know how he convinced you she would be okay when she laid in an incubator, or even how he convinced himself, he doesn’t know why he can’t seem to grapple with that sentiment when her prognosis is less dire. All he knows is numbness. He’s numb to the truth that you speak, numb to the bright lights flashing before him and numb in his fingers and chest and just barely feels your hand settle on his forearm.

“Love, look at me.”

He manages to look up and find concern in your gaze. It’s the same gaze you gave him when he came rushing through the door that afternoon to see Mila in your arms and hear the panic in your voice. She’s barely breathing. Three words and little gasps and wheezes had rushed you both to the hospital with glass walls of worry separating you. It’s the first time he’s looked in your eyes since.

“I think you’re having a panic attack,” you tell him, voice soft and trying to be soothing. Calum nods past a shallow breath and feels his shoulders tighten as they shroud in on himself. “You need to breathe. In… and out.”

Your hand runs up and down his arm with each instruction of in and out and within a few minutes he feels again. He feels your fingertips and the honesty in your words and the love in your eyes. The numbness shatters on the tiled floor below when the doctor’s voice cuts through.

“Hoods?” he asks and lets his gaze skirt to both of you when you immediately stand, Calum thankful that you haven’t dropped your hold on his arm. He’s sure it’s the only thing keeping him steady. “You can come see Mila now.”

The walk down the hallway is silent for you and Calum. Harsh lights pool down from above and Calum blinks back the brightness and the burning in his eyes as you both come upon an all too familiar door. You’re not in the same unit as when Mila was born, the NICU two floors above but the sentiment of a hospital room and your child being inside is eerily similar and heartbreaking.

“We have her using a nebulizer,” the doctor says and Calum realizes he’s been talking the entire time; filling the two of you in on how she’s doing. He steels himself and recollects some words. Pneumonia. Asthma. Medicine. Okay. When the door opens and Calum’s eyes land on Mila he feels his breath catch in the back of his throat.

“Can she come home tonight?” Calum hears you ask and he knows he should pay attention, it’s one of the only questions that really matter, but he’s too transfixed on images at present that remind him of the past.

Mila lays still and quiet, the nebulizer giving her medicine to help her heal. But all Calum can see is his newborn daughter taking in oxygen through tubes, the glare of plexiglass form the incubator and an entire life flashing before his eyes. His hand clutches yours as he forces out another deep breath. He can feel himself swaying and zoning in and out on the conversation you hold with the doctor. He’s glad to have you by his side, takes comfort in the soothing motion of your thumb running across the back of his hand. He remembers coaxing you to Mila’s side when she was just days old, encouraging you to reach into the incubator to hold her hand. This time it’s you who gives Calum a push.

With small steps and whispered words he follows your lead to Mila’s side. As soon as he can see her eyes staring up at him he breaks; the glass wall that had been up comes shattering down as he sinks into the chair at her side. He whispers to her and once he starts he can’t stop. He wants her to know that he’s there; a piece of guilt from being away for the day weighing on him unknowingly.

“Cal,” you cut in amongst his mindless blather of I’m here now. He turns to look at you, breath still coming with thought but feels himself ease when your eyes are gentle. “Don’t say that.”

With newfound curiosity Calum looks at you with questions in his eyes. He’s not sure what he’s not supposed to say, words tumbling out without much thought other than of Mila. He’s not sure what not to say or why he shouldn’t say it. You sit by his side, take his hand again and glance at Mila, eyes glossy but strong.

“Don’t blame yourself for not being there,” you finally explain. “It’s not your fault she’s sick. You being there this morning wouldn’t have changed anything. We’d still be here right now.”

Calum nods, rolls his shoulders back and bites his lip through the urge of a sob trying to break through. He understands what you mean and while a part of him can grapple with it and believe it there’s still a hairline fracture of doubt that threatens to break him again. He knows you can see it and appreciates you continuing to talk him away from the shards of broken glass.

“She was fine this morning. Smiling and giggling. It just happened, Cal. One second she was fine and the next she was coughing. You came rushing back. You’re always there for her. Never doubt that.”

A deep breath finally escapes Calum and belief floods him in its place. Your reassurance calms the stormy thoughts in his mind. The reminder of Mila’s smile and giggles replaces images of an incubator and fights for life. His grip on your hand tightens and he motions for you to come closer; you abandon your own chair and settle into his lap and arms. Calum decides this is okay, that the only way it will be better is once you’re all back at home, sitting in the rocker of Mila’s nursery with both of you in his arms.

“Did he say she can go home tonight?” Calum asks, finally finding his voice though it does shake with the effort. “I wasn’t listening.”

Your laughter makes the drab hospital room a little lighter. The kick of Mila’s foot in recognition of the noise makes Calum’s heart and worries a little less heavy.

“Yes. They’re going to finish her dose of medicine and then send us home with everything we need to take care of her.”

“Good. That’s good,” Calum mumbles and buries his face against your shoulder. He doesn’t want to take his eyes off of Mila but he needs a moment to remind himself that you’re there too.

Calum finds himself able to breathe and listen the next time the doctor comes in, finds that his need to be with Mila ends with him holding her from the hospital and sitting with her in the car as you head home. His only want, to sit in the rocker and have you both, comes to light as the moon shines through sheer curtains.

“I’m taking tomorrow off,” Calum says as the sway of the rocking chair guides Mila into sleep, her comfort in your arms insurmountable. “We were supposed to go to the studio but she’s more important.”

You can’t argue with that. Nor would you ever want to.

~~~

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[my-writings-and-musings]

hello! if you are taking requests, can you please do the oxygen loss prompt with megatron and whirl?

I did Whirl in part two, so I have Megatron here with a ridiculously long one and I hope that's okay! I added Thunderclash as well so I can keep my pattern of two because... I like patterns. I might be getting super into this prompt...

Part One: Here!

Part Two: Here!

Part Three: You're Here!

Part Four: Here!

Part Five: Here!

Part Six: Here!

Part Seven: Here!

Part Eight: Here!

Part Nine: Here!

Part Ten: Here!

Part Eleven: Here!

Part Twelve: Here!

Megatron

·You're in the ship's recently finished classroom organizing lesson plans on your own, having been working with Megatron to try and set up more structured class schedules on the growing list of topics he's begun to cover. You're thrilled he's found a kind of calling on the ship, especially one that seems to be allowing bots to see the side of him you know best. He's made it quite clear in his own way that your assistance in this endeavor means the world to him.

·He's on the bridge, scouting out potential locations for refueling on the next leg of the journey with the rest of the commanding officers. For once there's mostly cohesion in their efforts, and his insistence on choosing planets hospitable to humans is met with agreement, if not surprise. They're on schedule to finish early for a quiet afternoon off when everything turns to a level of chaos even the experienced crewmembers have to call extreme. The rumble that shakes the entire ship is one Megatron and experienced space travelers know well; they've been ambushed.

·You're nearly knocked off the desk you're standing on by the unexpected tremors. While you're trying to figure out what could possibly have caused the disturbance, a message is appearing up on the bridge, where alerts of failing systems and corrupted codes almost make it impossible to hear an alien captain decree an intent to storm the ship. Megatron attempts diplomacy before lives are lost, but the enemy makes it clear; this ship and its contents are more valuable than anything they could offer. While the captain notes their species has heard of the famed Lost Light and its crew, their hack of the security systems proved embarrassingly simple, and they look forward to the easy payoff from selling the scraps of the Cybertronians onboard!

·With communications down and systems struggling through an ongoing sabotage, Megatron still prepares to coordinate a defense, but is stopped before he can begin by a final taunt from their enemy. Their hack of the security cameras showed his fondness for his new pet, a homo sapien of all things, and thus his current concern should be for the atmospheric regulation instead of battle plans. But considering how many dead organics he's left in his wake, surely one more shouldn't perturb him too deeply, yes?

·The line goes dead just as the ship's alarm attempts to sound, signaling an impending attack before it too crashes with everything else. His fellow officers are moving to get defenses up however they can, preparing to get the resident tech experts on the job of restoring key systems while trying to plan a counterattack with no way to reach anyone. He's near to frozen as he tries to message you to no avail, the cruel mockery of the enemy cutting deep in ways words rarely do for him, if only because the implication terrifies him like nothing ever has; he's all but helpless to save you.

·Only experience and an undying determination allow him to break through the fog. Without asking for guidance or permission, he states his one intent; to rescue you however he can. If there are any objections, he does not hear them, and soon his pedes are tearing down the hallway to where he last saw you and prays he'll find you; the classroom. Oblivious to his rush, the only thing you're aware of is the fact that something is amiss, but you don't have a clue as to what. Between the tremor, the brief blare of the alarm and your inability to get your communicator running, you only know there's danger inbound.

·Not having much information to work with, you surmise that the classroom is probably not the safest place to hunker down, and recall that the medical and scientific wings aren't far. As the doctors on the ship have added human medicine to their repertoire, and are hardly defenseless, trying to get to them seems your greatest hope for securing yourself. Not wanting to panic, you push your supplies into a somewhat neat pile and climb down the small ladder that's been added to the desk for your sake. Somehow you don't find yourself at the top of your worries at all. Your thoughts center almost entirely on Megatron, who will undoubtedly be forced into whatever conflict might erupt, and even an unexpected staleness in the air around you hardly registers amidst your anxiety.

·Megatron is still too logical of a bot not to stop every crewmember he sees to give them a brief list of orders. He knows that, without a united defense and victory, there won't be any way you can be saved at all. So he takes the hindrance, though bots hardly take long to move when he issues a command. But his growing fear gnaws at him with a simple truth; without communication, he can't even be sure of your location, let alone your condition. Perhaps he's going the wrong way. Perhaps you're already beyond help. Perhaps you've already been discovered by the enemy. All he can do in the face of blinding terror is keep moving, keep coordinating, and keep hoping beyond reason that he'll be fortunate for once.

·You can't remember the classroom ever taking so long to cross, but that's hardly important, especially with your communicator still failing to function. Reaching Megatron would give you incredible comfort right now, if only to hear he's alright, yet that's obviously not going to happen. Honestly, it sounds silly to really think about it, the human worrying for the Cybertronian... But your anxiety isn't comforted merely to remember he's a gigantic combat veteran, not knowing anything about his current status is all it needs to wander to scary places...

·Closing in on your position, the mech in question echoes your worry, but his knowledge of the current danger puts his feelings closer to panic. All he knows is that he's coordinated a not insignificant number of bots for a better defense on his way through the ship. With better resistance on their side, he knows they can win, because they must. The alternative won't come to pass while his spark still flickers within him. That promise comes to an early test when he overhears enemies moving on the path ahead, and he takes the charge without hesitation, his terror converting quite easily to rage for extra assistance.

·By the time you're at the door you know something is wrong with you. Each step comes with a wobble you can't explain, and soon the dizziness you thought was worry has grown to almost debilitating levels. Why is the room spinning? Why does your body feel so heavy? It doesn't worry you as much as it probably should, but you know it needs to be fixed, especially with the ship potentially in jeopardy. Faint activity from the hallway outside spurs you to finally trigger the door to open, which thankfully appears to be one of the few systems still working. Heavy footsteps not too far away register in your ears just as you're forced to lean against a wall for support.

·The aliens that come into view before you quite unexpectedly are large, tough, and well armed. Most races would have found them an insurmountable challenge, and even an experienced Cybertronian combatant couldn't expect an easy victory against a single fighter, leaving you quite hopeless as you stare upwards in confusion. Megatron is not the norm, and his drive to win is fuelled by far more than just survival, so he feels little more than irritation when he finally arrives to the hallway you're pinned within. More than a dozen mark his path to you, their forms clustered around the helpless human in sick curiosity, and as a result they're heedless to his appearance.

·Hulking forms most definitely not of Cybertronian make tower over your body as it struggles to keep upright, the ceiling spinning overhead as you try to connect thoughts and move your legs to flee. A language you don't understand precedes a slow swipe in your direction, one that you stumble away from more than dodge, resulting in you roughly collapsing to the floor. Something like cruel laughter greets your painful tumble. You should be angry, being mocked like a bug skittering from its inevitable squishing, but God you're so exhausted. It's not even in you to be afraid when the barrel of an alien gun is pointed at your head and the scent of ozone fills your nose while the barrel fills with light.

·A second tremor shakes the ship, but this one proves to be far more deadly than the last. Your would be killers are obliterated by a blur of gunmetal gray that pummels them into the floor, and before you can blink the carnage begins and seems to escalate to unimaginable levels of ferocity. Only your familiarity with Megatron allows you to discern him amidst the flurry of quickly diminishing combatants, but he's nothing like the mech you know in this instant, going for sheer brute force over strategy as he tears aliens apart with his bare servos. In the bloody chaos you can't tell if he's taking damage or not despite the sheer numbers he was initially facing.

·The end of it all is somehow more startling than the beggining. In one final attack he ends the last soldier, quieting the cacophony of battle to leave only the steady drip of alien blood down the wall and his own haggard ventilations. There's a dash of bright energon amongst the mess, glowing in rivulets down his side, and somehow that's what gets your cloudy brain moving again. Pushing exhausted legs against the floor, you try to rise as you cry out in concern, reaching for him before you collapse right back against the solid ground.

·Heedless to his own injuries, Megatron is over you in a single instant, no longer blinded by the fury he'd experienced at the sight of you in peril. All he'd known was that your attackers had needed to die, no hesitation, and tearing them apart had come easily from there. Now things are once again far from simple. The blood on his hands doesn't stop him from picking you up as gingerly as he can, though your impossibly tiny body appears more delicate than ever in his massive palms. Though it makes him sick to realize, he does indeed know a struggling organic when he sees one, making the captain's words burn in his audials once more.

·Guilt is forced down to a minimum so he can focus on what matters; you. He needs to get you somewhere safe but with access to oxygen, and the only place that can happen is the medical bay or the laboratory, and he knows both are quite close. He couldn't care less about his own gashed side, so even if the medics and scientists are elsewhere he should likely be able to rig something up before energon loss impacts him. Holding you close, in a way that will permit him to shield you with his body, he starts moving while he speaks to you. It's obvious even to him his words aren't motivating, but at least they seem to get your attention.

·Looking up at him, feeling like you're tiny beyond belief thanks to his incredible size, you wonder how much of this could be real. Megatron had just hurled himself into battle for you, enduring agonizing wounds in the process, and beaten back what should have been impossible odds... If he wasn't so close you could touch him, you'd certainly think he was just a figment of your imagination emerging from the spinning hallways around you. His deep baritone rumbles reassurances to you as your eyes slowly drift shut, your perception fading around the edges until he's all you can see, and you can feel sleep beckoning like never before.

·He truly has seen enough organics dying to recognize that you're fading in his arms, and seeing the connection between such atrocities and you is slowly starting to tear into him with guilt that refuses to be ignored. How many lives just like yours has he snuffed out? How recently was it that he could have ended your life amongst the billions of others, unaware of what a gift you are to the universe? More specifically, because of this, what right does he have to so much as look at you? The thoughts are a dark and unmanageable tangle by the time he arrives at his destination, where an already overwhelmed medical crew is tending to the injured from an apparently victorious battle. He's near to shock when he hands you over to a frantically rushing Ratchet and simply explains you need oxygen, his hand gingerly cupping his injury before he firmly insists on being the last to be repaired. If he's spoken to afterwards, he doesn't remember any of what is said.

·The medical bay is dim when you awaken, and you see that you've been placed in your own private room when you look about, oxygen mask holding secure to your face as you do so. A massive shape against the wall would have startled you if you didn't immediately recognize Megatron. He smiles almost sadly when you awaken, and while you initially attribute his uncharacteristic weariness to the welded injury on his side, he quickly makes it clear that isn't the case. Whispering a simple wish for your recovery, he excuses himself and makes to leave, and you know that something is amiss m

·When you merely call for him to stop, he breaks, confessing that his relief to see you alive is equal only to his certainty that he's not worthy of you and can no longer pretend otherwise. It takes all of your strength to sit up and demand he stay; you refuse to let the bot who just saved you walk out, especially when you've made it abundantly clear his past is something you've accepted, and your firm reminder is cut short only by dizziness forcing you to lay back. The sight stirs him to return to your side, concern in his optics, and you lay a hand on the tip of his digit in a breathless and wordless reminder; he's more than his past to you, and you made that decision knowing the struggles ahead. He smiles as his digit gently strokes your forehead, recalling that he too had made a decision that day; to trust you meant yours.

Thunderclash

·The two of you are in the hangar practicing sparring, which for your benefit mostly consists of him holding up a training dummy against his palm while you whack at it, and as is often the case you've become sidetracked by conversation over actual work. He's laying on his front to keep the two of you closer to eye level, leaning his chin against his spare hand for comfort, talking about all the little things that come to mind as opposed to the grand topics he's used to being asked about. Frankly, this freedom a big part of what he likes about these moments with you. He gets to just be a bot with interests like any other.

·Your casual chat is interrupted by a communication from the command team on the bridge, who summon him for assistance tracing where a series of small anomalies across the ship might be coming from. Systems are glitching in ways that can't be explained, the defensive radar can't seem to decide if there's something in the apparently empty space around them, and in an ironic twist the message goes dead just as communication problems are mentioned. It's quickly apparent something needs to be done.

·Apologizing for having to cut things short, the massive bot offers to give you a ride to the heart of the ship, which he'll have to pass on his way to the bridge. Always eager to spend more time together, you happily oblige, taking the place of the training dummy in his palm as he lifts you to rest beside his spark. While his shoulder is arguably a more dignified location, you take more than a little comfort feeling the hum of his energy at your back, and thus have chosen this as your travel spot. Between his wound and the many setbacks it's taken to get him back in shape, it's just nice to feel his spark going strong.

·Not long after setting off, he gets the sense there's more to these troubles than technical error, and that something less than desirable may be the culprit. It's not something he can explain, but being more attuned to the subtler things in his environment just gives him a feeling. When he voices this to you, along with the thought you should probably be left somewhere safe, you ask what he believes might be coming. Not because you don't believe him, but you know he only drops his smile when he is preparing for something bad, and you haven't seen proof of any concrete threat.

·With almost comedic timing, the ship lurches at that very moment, nearly knocking the big bot off balance. Only his firm but careful hold saves you from a twenty foot fall. The rumble fades off with something like a great dragging sensation through the ship, which you'd compare to a Manhattan sized car grinding to a halt. Now cupping you in both hands, Thunderclash asks earnestly if you're alright, to which you reassuringly reply that a little turbulence isn't enough to do any damage.

·Smiling at the fortitude of your tiny body, he begins walking straight away, shifting to strategy as his red optics narrow in contemplation. He explains that the particular nature of that shake confirmed his suspicions something is planning an attack. Rather, they're initiating an attack. The sensation of a ship being locked to another and anchored is a particular one, and combined with their systems crashing it's obvious an enemy has come prepared to strike for a well planned ambush.

·You see that he's worrying, but you say nothing of it, taking hold of his thumb to communicate support. Being with him in private has made it clear his existence as a perpetual source of strength for others exhausts him, so you've since committed to acting as his well of certainty in difficult times. Not letting your fear bleed in to your words, you instead ask what the two of you should do, confirming your own communicator is uselessly jammed as you do so.

·Moving through the ship at considerable speed with his long legs, he decides that you'll still need to be secured rather quickly, as enemy combatants are probably already storming the ship or preparing to do so. You'd debate him if you weren't well aware of the logic in his plan. No matter what the enemy is, you won't stand much of a chance in a full on brawl, as anything confident enough to attack a Cybertronian starship is likely to have the firepower to back itself up. Still, it's impossible not to be dissapointed by your inability to offer aid, though it's probably for the best as you're rather exhausted from sparring anyway.

·It happens in a blur, but that's partly because of the shocking reaction time of the bot carrying you, something few would expect due to his size. Thunderclash registers the threat as soon as he turns the corner, a feat aided by the very much not Cybertronian appearance of the figures he sees, and then made far easier by the multiple clicks of weapons preparing to fire. Your presence in his hands became his central point of focus in that instant. Turning on the spot, he allowed the first hail of bullets to strike his armored back, keeping you well out of the line of fire before ducking behind an opposite corner for cover. The sting of the gunfire matters little when he sees you safe in his hands, and less when he instructs you to stay low after setting you down and charging in to fight.

·In the heat of it all, you're embarrassed to be caught so frazzled, as this is hardly your first exposure to alien combat. But there's little time to admonish yourself when chaos unfolds just around the corner, and your tiny size permits a small peek... Thunderclash is the gentlest giant in the world to you, but in just a few blinks the hulking aliens are on the losing front, and while his fighting style is far from gratuitous it is effective. You're still trembling from the rush of the initial shock when the last enemy of the group is on the floor, but even with your shaky vision you can see your bot is unharmed. For a moment that little burst of relief supersedes everything else.

·In usual fashion though, he expresses worry for you when he returns to pick you up from where he left you, drawing an affectionate chuckle from you at how impossibly selfless this mech can be. But he doesn't back down from the question like he usually does. His expression of concern intensifies as he starts moving again, and his sharp optics find ample to worry about on your seemingly unharmed body, with particular attention being paid to your face. Those brilliant eyes of yours are well known to him, and so he can tell something is... off in their beautiful depths. Even if his medical studies focus very little on organics, he's able to recognize the signs of a body struggling, and your paleness combined with the way you labor for each breath tells him something is very wrong.

·Now in a race against time, he has no choice but to move, gunning it towards the ship's tech wing where the laboratories and medical bay are located. He doesn't yet know what's wrong with you for certain, but aid will be there if it's anywhere to be found. There's no time to be wasted in securing you somewhere either, he's going to have to face any threats as they come in the moment whilst ensuring your protection in the process. It's a set of circumstances he's encountered before in his long and eventful time as a soldier, but there's an entirely new variable this time around; you. He adores you, like no one he's ever met before, and perhaps it's selfish but the very thought of losing you... he's not sure his spark could take it.

·The soothing tone of his voice and the rhythmic thumping of his footsteps make it surprisingly difficult for you to heed his requests to stay as awake as possible. Even though your breaths are coming in with difficulty, it seems like sleep would be a fantastic idea at the moment, even if only to rest your eyes. His cupped hands just support your body so nicely, and are so warm, and his voice is so delightfully melodic. Why does he seem so intent on keeping you conscious? Why does he look so incredibly upset to see you struggling to keep your eyes open?

·The pathway he chooses is mercifully free of conflict at first, but that matters little due to your rate of deterioration, as you may not make it even at his full speed. Driving isn't an option due to his need to be combat ready, and the lack of options and hope is absolutely tearing him apart. He hasn't had someone like you in his life before, and the desperation in his voice begins to show that, cracking as he loses his steadfast control of his usually impervious wall of confidence. The selfishness of his desire kills him; how dare he put his own feelings on you due to his weakness? Begging you to survive for his sake?

·No amount of haze can prevent you from startling at his pain. There are tears in his optics, though he doesn't even seem to notice them, letting them fall down his face as he pleads. In the warm fog clouding your brain, you feel a surge of worry, and your hand instinctively grabs at his nearest digit to give it a squeeze. Before you can even offer a breathless reasurance, he ceases running and dives from gunfire that seems to erupt from nowhere, laying you in a tiny maintenance crevice before hurling himself at the second delay he knows you don't have time for. The last thing you see before drifting off is the grief in his optics that you wish you'd been able to comfort...

·While his combat skills always make things quick, in this blur of pain and rage he's downright brutal, ending each foe swiftly but with absolute contempt for their existence clear in every torn limb. Hits to his own frame don't register at all. Bullets and blades mean nothing in the face of what he's about to lose, and the vengeance fueling his strength turns foes into scattered body parts more effectively than any grenade ever could. By the end of it all he's likely set a record for the swiftness of his takedown, but it matters as little as his multitude of bleeding wounds. All he can see is your now limp body as he pulls it from the hiding spot, and his vision narrows to only your faintly moving chest and his pedes moving one past the other through the carnage.

·There's a mass of activity in the technology wing, likely due to injuries as well as the many bots ordered to stand guard in the event of battle, but he doesn't hear the reaction his arrival triggers in the slightest. His sharp processor is reduced to one goal, and anything unrelated doesn't exist. At the sight of the crowded medical bay he starts to strategize. Ratchet appears in his vision, first focusing only on his obvious injuries and the alien blood he didn't know was spattered across his frame, before well trained optics catch sight of the tiny human limp in his hands.

·There's a rush of an explanation; they think one of the systems downed was the atmospheric generators, resulting in a loss of the oxygen the ship maintains for your needs. It's all the information Thunderclash needs to act. Brushing off any help for himself and encouraging the more egregiously wounded to be tended first, he requests only to be provided what you need. Busy tending the injured, medics still assist him getting a supply of oxygen going where they can, with Ratchet using his particular knowledge of human anatomy to ensure the ratio is correct for your biology while Thunderclash prepares it all. Dexterous hands set you on a medical slab where an oxygen mask and scanner are used to return your blood oxygen to normal, and just like that, he knows you'll eventually be okay...

·By the time you wake up your tiny frame has been moved to a private room, both to keep you from the chaos of crammed in bots and to give the two of you privacy from adoring admirers. He's beside you, his wounds patched but his frame still dirtied with blood, a sight that shocks you enough to force a gasp into your mask. Perking up the instant he hears you, the hulking mech is as close as the berth allows in a flash. A stream of questions about your wellbeing passes his lips before you can get a word in. Between the dried blood, the patched wounds, and the faint discoloration of his optics that suggests recent weeping... It's hard to know what to ask him, so you vaguely request a rundown of what happened.

·His face falls, and in between recounts of alien attacks and near death experiences there's overwhelming self depreciation. To hear him tell it the entire affair might as well be his fault. You've always known him to be humble, even critical of his actions, but this borders on self destructive. Worse, the crux of his crisis seems to be that he was motivated to save you not just by duty, but by his selfish desire to protect the one he loved so dearly and can't bare to lose. His own desires are inexcusable in these things, as he puts it, and could have hindered him at your expense. Shaky arms rise so that you can grab the nearest part of him, a digit once again, as you encourage him to stop tormenting himself. You owed him your life, several times over just for today alone, and there wasn't a bot in existence less selfish than he. The kindness of his spark was what you'd fallen in love with, and what you still loved now, because he was more than a legend to you. You loved Thunderclash the bot, not the expectation everyone else had built around him, and thus he'd always be enough just by being himself. Finally relaxing after everything, and his spark singing at your ability to become his rock when he needs one, he allows himself to just rest and exist as he is. Laying his helm on the berth beside you, he nuzzles close, allowing himself to feel simple gratitude to have and love you as you do him.

[thiswasinevitableid]

Demonic Intervention (Indruck)

Prompt for the 7th: “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.” - The Tempest (William Shakespeare). This fill is NSFW

It can't get much worse. 

Indrid is barely scraping by. He can count his friends in town on one hand. He’s gay in a tiny, rural community and one of the few men like him is a goddamn priest. His house is a mess. And his every waking moment is filled with the demons of his past or the devils lurking in his future. There are so many of them in his present too, roaming the streets of Kepler. 

What’s one more in the mix?

He lights the stubby black candle by the bed, scratches the symbols on the floor, and retreats into his cocoon of blankets to wait.

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

Duck hates when it’s his turn on the summoning shifts. All this ancient knowledge and power and he’s stuck waiting to see if some yahoo in a graveyard or a wannabe cult leader will call him up into the world. 

He has brambles that need pruning, damn it. 

His name isn’t well known among humans, so he only gets summoned if someone is just rooting around for a demonic entity without caring who they get. He’s only been summoned twice in the last hundred years. The tingle in his horns tells him it’s about to be three. 

The room he arrives in is gloomier than any graveyard; the lights are off, the curtains are shut, and the place looks like it got hit by a tornado with a grudge. By the light of the candle, a pale-haired head emerges from the blankets of the small bed. A hand reaches for the floor, comes back with a pair of red glasses.

“Greetings, infernal one. Thank you for answering my summons.” The man’s voice is flat.

“Even demons got manners. So, uh, what’s the job?”

“There are so many dishes in the sink that the thought of doing them is an insurmountable task. Please do them for me.”

“...You realize I’m takin somethin’ from you for this, right? Like a piece of soul or a month of your life?”

“Mmmm” The man rolls over and says nothing else. 

“A day of your life for this.” Duck feels like he should haggle more, but then he’d had to pretend he actually thought a higher price was fair. 

“I accept your terms.” A crackle of green and black electricity flickers in the air in the form of  Duck’s signature and the other man’s name: Indrid Cold.

“Pleasure doin’ business with you.” 

Indrid says nothing. Duck is sure to wash and dry before he goes. 

The next day he’s summoned to the exact same room, in the exact same state of depressing mess. 

“Greetings, infernal one. Please clean this room.”

“Same terms?”

“Mmhmm” Indrid is just staring at the ceiling. 

“You gotta say you accept.”

“I accept.” 

Duck snaps, turning on the light, and gets to work. Technically he could do all this with a wave of his hand. But then he’d lose his chance to learn a little more about the guy who’s settled on demonic deals instead of a maid service. It’s the opposite of the usual problem he has in these kinds of situations, where the humans reveal their deepest secrets, desires, and fears within five minutes of meeting him. 

The records he stacks near their player, the clothes all go in the hamper to be magicked clean, then are hung in the closet; they’re loose and soft, not a scratchy fabric to be found. Tarot cards and candles abound, as do art supplies, and under a pile of drawings he finds magazines featuring muscular, hairy men in various sexual positions. Some of them even look like his preferred human form, the one he’s wearing now. 

He glances at the bed; Indrid is on his side, facing him, must have been watching him at some point but has dropped into a restless sleep. The blankets are slipping, showing a The Sonics tank top hanging off skinny shoulders. Right, that was one of the bands in the record stack. 

Duck doesn’t tend to pry into souls or auras or shit like that; there are whole heaps of trouble that lay that direction. But as he flicks the dust from the bookshelf covered in paperbacks, he feels the edges of Indrids and nearly falls on his ass from the wave of exhaustion and loneliness. 

When it’s time to go, he pauses to pull the blankets back up around him, sets his glasses on the bedside table, and turns the calendar on the wall from “September 1974” to “October 1974.”

When he’s summoned right back to Indrid’s room the next evening, he spots the same tank top on him as he sits up in bed.

“Greetings infernal one.”

“You can just call me ‘Duck’. It’s a nickname.” 

“Oh” Indrid blinks, perplexed, “very well. I, ah, there are some bills that need to be paid to keep the lights on.”

“You need the money for them?”

“No, just for someone to fill out the forms and checks and put them in the mail.”

“Okay. But my fee’s a little different this time: you gotta tell me when you last ate.”

“I accept. I ate this morning.”

Duck snaps his fingers

“Two days ago!” Indrid yelps, then slaps his hands over his mouth. He glares, “why does it matter?”

“Because while I’m payin those bills, you’re eatin’ dinner.”

“Everything in the fridge is disgusting and I can’t go to the store.” 

Duck takes the short trip out to the kitchen, opens the fridge to the new sound of Indrid’s footfalls behind him. 

“You got lots of decent stuff in here; could make you some eggs?”

“No, thank you.” Indrid shakes his head, looking a bit ill. 

“Well, what do you want? I can summon it up.”

“I’m out of Lucky Charms.” The humans says sheepishly, staring at his bare feet. 

A fresh box of cereal appears on the table, Duck pulling out the half empty bottle of milk. He thinks back to the drawings he saw yesterday and conjures a bowl covered in a pattern of brightly colored moths. 

He gathers the stack of bills of while hearts, stars, and horseshoes rattle into the bowl. After a few moments of crunching he hears, “May I ask a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why is your nickname Duck? Does that word mean something else in demonic speech?”

Duck stuffs paper into envelopes, “Nah. It’s, uh, kinda silly but, uh, most demons learn how to take on an animal form. When it was my turn, they asked me which I wanted and, uh, I said I wanted to try bein’ a duck. Liked it so much I stayed that way for three months.”

There’s an odd, strangled sound that makes him look up; Indrid has one hand over his mouth and is shaking with little squeaks. He’s laughing. 

“I’m, I’m s-sorry but, but I, I cannot get over the image of you as a little, feathery waterbird.”

Duck smirks, “Only part that ever gave me trouble was the quackin’; always came out too deep.”

He just manages to pull the envelopes back as milk comes out the human’s nose and he giggles uncontrollably. 

“Ow, ow, heeh, oh g-goodness, I’m s-sorry I, I just haven’t laughed in so long, ugh, there’s milk on my shirt-”

“Guess you’re gonna need to shower now too.” 

“Nono, I can just change-”

Duck waves the bills back and forth, “Uh uh, if you want me to actually put these in the mailbox, you gotta agree to shower.”

“But that’s changing the terms!”

“Demon.” Duck grins. 

“Very well. Let me finish my dinner first.” Indrid scarfs the rest of the cereal, pads back towards the bedroom while Duck cleans the table. He waits to hear water running before going to the mailbox. When he gets back he sticks his head into the steamy bathroom.

“I’m gonna go now.”

“Oh, alright. Thank you again.” Indrid pokes his head out from the shower curtain and Duck resists the temptation to make the whole barrier disappear just for a peak. What can he say? He’s always liked his humans a bit unique looking. 

He draws a special sigil in the steamed-up mirror and heads for home. 

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

Indrid sets the candle on the table, lights it, adds the symbol he found in the mirror, and then starts unpacking his groceries. 

“Lookit you doin’ chores.” The whiff of burnt pine needles accompanies Duck’s voice and draws the tension from Indrid’s shoulders. 

“I’ll have you know I swept today as well.” Indrid turns and crunches the bag of potato chips in his fists; Duck hasn’t put his horns or claws away, and his shirt is half unbuttoned. 

“Caught me while I was gardenin, which is why I ain’t as put together as normal. What can I do for you?”

“This may sound strange but, ah, what is the fee for just talking with you?”

Duck’s eyebrows shoot up and then he chuckles, “You’re full of surprises, little moth.”

Indrid touches the luna moth on his shoulder; how much had Duck studied him when he was here? Did he like what he saw? Does he give everyone he makes deals with nicknames that come out in a drawl like summer honey?

“Hows a little nibble of the old soul sound?”

“I accept. Ah, would you like some cookies? A friend of mine brought them over to me.”

“Sure. The fella on the fridge bring ‘em?” The demon indicates the picture of himself and Barclay, the one he can’t bring himself to throw away. 

“No. My friend Dani, she’s in charge of the gardens for the little co-op in town and when the bakery has seconds she often drops them off for me.” 

He really needs to stop staring at Duck’s chest, even demons probably find ogling rude. Duck’s eyes--one blue, one brown-- catch his own and suddenly claw tips are undoing the remaining buttons. Indrid goes pink but manages to get the cookies and two glasses of water on the table without incident. 

“You know, you never told me why you stayed a duck for so long.”

“It’s the least demonic thing you’ve ever heard but, uh, I just thought it was nice. Bein’ out in the woods, paddlin’ on the lake and watchin the world go by. Sleepin under the stars. Just makes you feel like you’re part of somethin’ bigger than yourself. Now, I got a question for you; why go to all the trouble of summonin’ me just to do your chores?”

Indrid bites his lip, “I knew I was in the kind of mental place where I could not manage it myself. And it felt safer to ask you than to ask my friends. Not that they wouldn’t help me. It’s just, when my mind is like that it turns so inward I can’t conceive of a world that might contain things for me.”

The demon says nothing for a moment, sips his water with a thoughtful look. Then he sets down the empty glass, “Glad you’re feelin a little better.” He tilts his head to indicate the sketch on the counter, “that new?”

“Yes” excitement bubbles up in his chest, “I was reading about--ah, well, it’s, it’s sort of a long story, I don’t want to bore you.”

Duck kicks his feet up on the spare chair and gestures for him to continue. So he does, tells the demon about reading every book he could find on the mythology and folklore of the Mexico and the American southwest, about his new inspiration for a series of drawings, his worries that no one will like them or purchase them and he’ll be stuck running his little psychic side business until he dies 

Duck, in turn, tells him about life as a forest demon, about his hellcat, and about the fact he routinely comes up to the human world for french onion soup because the stuff made in his realm never tastes right. When Indrid next looks at the clock, it’s well after midnight. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you so long.”

“No complaints here. But I oughta get home and feed Winnie before she shreds my cabinets again.” The demon stands, rounding the table, “gotta get my fee first.”

“Right. How should I…” Indrid stiffens as Duck bends forward, wondering if the sharp teeth that smiled at him all night are about to pierce his skin. 

Warm lips meet his forehead and he sighs at the tenderness in the gesture. Duck, however, moans as he pulls back, then quickly covers his mouth.

“Uh, that, that’s a totally, uh, totally not, uh, un-normal reaction, uh, fuck, see you around.” 

He’s gone with a campfire crackle, leaving Indrid to wonder how a demon can be such a terrible liar.

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

“Sweet fuckin hell.” Duck gasps as his living room forms around him. His lips still tingle from kissing the human’s forehead, from the sheer force of the want and yes that came when he took that sip of soul. It’s never like that, never comes so willingly and eagerly, like the soul is searching for someone to look after it. 

Technically, there’s nothing stopping him from zipping right back up there and pinning Indrid to his bed while he takes what the human seems so happy to give. 

Duck takes five deep breaths, then ten, and then goes to retrieve Winnie from the cabinet she clawed her way into.

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

When Barclay suggested Indrid find someone to confide in, Indrid’s going to guess he didn’t mean, “routinely invite a demon into your house to play cards or listen to music.”

Most times, Indrid isn’t even summoning him; they have two standing dates a week, plus a game night with Dani and her new girlfriend, Aubrey (who Duck seems to know but refuses to say more about how). Duck will sometimes drop by unannounced, and he hardly ever collects a fee these days. When he does, it’s always a taste of Indrid’s soul, taken via a kiss on the cheek. 

Indrid would let him take it any way he wanted. He’s well past denying the fact Duck is type in all his forms, that he’s gentler than most humans, and that he’s so charming Indrid would eat out of his hand. 

Duck even goes out with him, like the boyfriend he wishes he had. When he puts on his human form to accompany Indrid around town, he radiates enough residual, demonic energy that the people who normally make Indrid’s life a living hell stay far, far away. In fact, tonight is the first night in months he’s had something close to a disaster, and it was mostly an accident. He’s peeling his beer-soaked shirt over his head when he feels mis-matched eyes on his back.

“Have a little too much fun bartendin’ tonight?” Duck holds out his hand, rendering the shirt fresh and clean when it touches his palm.

“Some caveman hit on one of our regulars and would not back off when asked. She threw a full pint of beer on him and I happened to be standing right behind him when she did.” He wiggles out of his jeans, let’s Duck give them the same treatment he gave the shirt, “ugh, I need a bath, I smell like Rheingold.”

“Allow me.” Duck waves his hand and steam wafts from the bedroom, goes into it and grabs the bubble bath from under the sink as Indrid follows him in his underwear. Duck’s constant glancing at his crotch and legs makes him bold. 

“What’s the fee for such excellent service?”

“No fee, little moth. I’m just doin’ a favor for my friend.”

“And what if your friend wants to repay you anyway?”

When the demon looks up from the tub, his eyes are glowing, “Only if he’s doin’ it because he wants to and not because he owes me.”

“I want to, so very badly.”

In a flash Duck is in the tub, beckoning Indrid to join him. Indrid tests the water with his finger just to be safe.

“Mmm, nice and warm.”

“Hellfire, sugar. Now get your cute ass into the tub or--oh fuck yeah.” Duck growls as Indrid strips and climbs in with him, drags him into his lap and traces his claws up his sides while Indrid yanks him into a kiss.Curious, Indrid reaches one hand up to rub the base of his horn, the dark brown curls like smooth bark beneath his fingers. 

“Fuuuck” Duck groans, “feels like gettin a back-rub.”

“Then I better keep at it. Oh, oh my” Indrid sits back to admire the vines of green appearing in Duck’s skin, “you’re absolutely beautiful.”

“Kinky little thing, you like that I’m a demon.” Duck scrapes his teeth along Indrid’s shoulder, “that really why you summoned me? You were hopin I’d have my, uh, demonic way with you?”

“N-no, I, I, it’s no secret I’m attracted to you but I, you make me feel so happy, I’m so safe when I’m with you, and, and if all your care and affection towards me has been part of some malevolent plan please, please just tell me because I, I think I’m falling in love with you.” He kisses Duck with far more force than before, forestalling the inevitable confession that this was all just a game for his soul and his own, pathetic admission that he’s not sure that changes anything. 

“Oh, sugar” Duck keeps brushing their lips together as he speaks, “First time I tasted your soul I knew I was fucked. Knew I wanted to keep seein’ you, even if you never gave me another goddamn thing.”

Indrid buries his face in Duck’s shoulder, letting out shuddery sighs as Duck pets his back. He’s never leaving this spot, Duck is just going to have to carry him about while he does his infernal business and his housekeeping.

“Tell me what you want, little moth.” Duck kisses the shell of his ear. It still tingles, even when his soul stays put.

“Please fuck me? Oh! Oh that’s very efficient and extremely strange.” He squirms in Duck’s lap as his ass turns slick and stretched, like someone has pulled four fingers from it.

“Do it the traditional way some other time” The curved head of a cock bumps his ass, “you wanna feel just to be sure you can take it?”

He flails in the water a moment, finds a warm, responsive shaft with four, bumpy ridges leading to the head. It’s no bigger than the one toy he splurged on during his last trip to the city.

“Yes, certainly, oh, oh, AHHhnnnn yes.” The cock is hotter than his body as it slides in and he wonders if it will just melt him from the inside out, if Duck’s cum will be just as warm, how it will feel on his tongue and down his throat when he drags the demon into his bed.

“That’s it sugar, take it all the way. Fuck, been jerkin off to the thought of you on my dick for months.”

“Nnngh” Is his eloquent reply, the ridges of Duck’s cock making his toes curl and his fingers dig into Duck’s skin. 

“You like that idea, little moth? Knowin I could be out temptin anyone I wanted to and instead I was in bed thinkin’ about you?”

“Mhhmmm” He whines, the desire pouring off the demon wrapping around him and soothing his insecurities. 

Duck slows the thrusts of his hips and his voice is gentle when he whispers, “Course I did; no one can compare to you, ‘Drid.”

“Ohgod, Duck, please, please, please, want to be yours, always yours-”

“Careful,sugar, that sounds like you’re anglin’ for an infernal marriage.”

“A, a what? OHhhhnnyes” He moans as claws knead his ass.

“It’s a special kind of deal where a human agrees to marry a demon. Soon as they’re dead, they go straight to their spouse, no other options provided.” Duck cups his face, holding it steady so he can look into his eyes, “but there ain’t no need for that right now; way I see it, we can do this like we were just two normal fellas for now.”

“But it sounds fun.” Indrid offers a teasing pout and gets an adoring kiss in return. 

“Yeah? What if I tell you a lot of demons mark their spouses by piercing these” He pinches Indrid’s nipples, the pain making him bounce more determinedly on his dick. His demon growls, drops one hand down to thumb at the head of his aching cock, “pierce here too. Won’t even do it in public like you’re supposed to; do it at home so no one else will see just what a sweet, needy thing you are for me--whoah, fuck, did not expect you to cum just from playin with this nice dick a little.”

“V-very sensitive” Indrid gasps against the green swirls in Duck’s shoulder, his orgasm such a surprise he’s still registering it, hips twitching and tongue threatening to loll out of his mouth.

“Keep that in mind for next time. Might even bring a cage so you don’t cum too early and spoil my plans. Now, hold tight, little moth.” 

Indrid clings to the warm bulk of Duck’s body as his cock pounds up into him, the demon easily holding his hips up and his ass open so all he can do is whimper and writhe on it. When he cums it’s hot enough that Indrid squirms

“Don’t hurt does it?” Duck pets his sides, concerned. 

“Nono, it, it’s nice, just very strange.” Indrid winces as Duck pulls out, watches him wave his fingers to clear away the mess. When the demon makes no move to let go, Indrid looks up, “you really meant what you said? About wanting me as a boyfriend?”

“Damn right I do. Now c’mere, lemme get the beer outta your hair.”

Indrid hums as Duck scrubs his scalp and runs warm water over his skin, talking all the while about how they should go camping as a first date so no one will bother them, says he’ll even turn into a duck to make Indrid smile. 

Indrid says he knows just the spot, let’s his boyfriend dry them off and bundle them to bed and then, for the first time, falls asleep with a devil in his arms.

[lectophile]

I Love Nesta Archeron

SPOILER ALERT for Sarah J. Mass's A Court of Thorns and Roses Trilogy.

With the newly-released title and release date of Sarah J. Mass's Nessian spin-off, A Court of Silver Flames, I have noticed that the YA fantasy community, or at least a good enough portion of it, has begun to become very vocal about its lack of fondness for Nesta and their displeasure at her being matched with Cassian, who they believe "deserves so much better". As the self-proclaimed number one fan of Nesta, I have an urge, that will not go unrequited, to dispel the idea that Nesta is a terrible person.

I have to admit, when I first read the series, I disliked Nesta, Elain, and their father an unfathomable amount. I relished in the idea that somewhere, later on in the series, they would each be served a mouthful of the crap they deserved. I would say, in terms of relativity, Nesta was highest on my dislike meter, Elain next, and then their father. Elain having bought Feyre the small tins of paint and Feyre's father telling her to never come back and live out her dreams were small redemptions in their favor. I admired Nesta's protectiveness over Elain, but disdained her for so easily having forgone attempting to protect Feyre, because, after all, she was the youngest.

After having read the series three times, and having deliciously bathed in gallons worth of putting-Nesta-and-occassionally-Elain-in-their-place, compliments of our wonderful, and even more scrumptious, winged friends: Rhys and Cass, I have come to the new conclusion about our dear Nesta. As the oldest, Nesta was able to receive the most education out of all three of the Archeron sisters. She learned valuable skills for women in society, making her a suitable match for eligible bachelors—but that was worthless when their family became poor. Nesta had no skills in surviving in a world where you had to fend for yourself. All she knew was which fork to use with salad and how to greet gentlemen. Feyre, on the other hand, had not even learned to read and write, making it easier for her to adapt to their new situation and assume the role of interim head of household while the rest of the remaining Archeron family pondered on a life Feyre had never had the chance to be a part of.

Nesta began resenting Feyre when Feyre successfully began taking care of their family. Nesta was being showed-up by a fourteen year old girl that couldn't even read, and all Nesta had succeeded at doing was mope around and wait to die. Nesta was ashamed of herself for this, blamed Feyre for her shame, and, in turn, wanted to make Feyre feel it as well—hence, abusing Feyre, I do not excuse it, but I don’t know when the book community decided to cancel characters for being terrible in the past and GROWING to become better people. Nesta also never looked after Feyre like you would hope an older sister would do for their younger sibling because Nesta didn't feel that Feyre needed taking care of. Feyre could hunt, make money, make food, and anything she set her mind to—she didn't need Nesta for anything. Nesta took this as a jab, feeling that if Feyre thought she was so good that she could do everything for herself, why should Nesta even lift a finger? Feyre was doing it all and seemingly handling it perfectly fine. Because of this, Nesta preferred Elain to Feyre; for one, Elain needed guidance and someone to follow, which appealed to Nesta's superiority complex; secondly, Nesta took care of Elain as she did because Elain gave her a purpose, to find someone for Elain to marry off to and care for her in the meanwhile.

Later on in the series, when Feyre shows up to their home as Fae and with part of the Inner Circle, Nesta feels a whirlwind of emotions, which makes her lock up even more than she always did. Nesta is scared of letting people see how weak and frail she is and how she has no real purpose in this world; and she is especially wary of letting Feyre see it because, even though she always resented Feyre, she liked that Feyre admired her for her steely exterior and unbendable will. For one, Nesta was shocked out of her mind because Feyre was Fae, something that all humans south of The Wall were taught to fear; Another thing Nesta felt with Feyre coming back into her and Elain's life was fear. Nesta feared that Feyre was going to disrupt everything Nesta had achieved while Feyre was gone: getting Elain engaged to Graysen. With Feyre gone and their father on his secret voyage, Nesta was finally the one in charge, the dependable one, the one protecting their family—even if that was only Elain—and Feyre was not only throwing off the balance, but threatening to destroy it altogether.

After having felt like we, the readers, had gone hand-in-hand with Feyre through everything, from the trials Under the Mountain to her neglect by Tamlin, we were angry and enraged that Nesta had the audacity to be so rude to Feyre, who had done absolutely nothing to Nesta all the months she was gone. For heaven's sake, Feyre hadn't even made contact with Nesta up until this moment. But, we have to understand, Nesta uses her anger to keep people out and prevent them from seeing how insurmountably weak and riddled with dark emotion she is. Feyre seems to have the world figured out: a mate, a close group of friends, wealth beyond imagination, and a beautiful home; and Nesta is upset that Feyre would want to take away the little her and Elain do have for, what she believes, is Fae business.

After having realized all of this, I loved Nesta with my whole heart—the most out of the whole Inner Circle, Az coming in close, close second. She reminded me of myself: flawed, jealous, wrathful, prideful, and resentful. Feyre seems to be some kind of unnatural super-being—ignoring the fact that she actually is for the sake of my argument—able to overcome everything in her way, making me want to be like her and making me resent the parts of myself that she overcame within herself. Nesta is Sarah J. Mass's way of letting us know, we can be powerful, strong, courageous women that surprise ourselves with our ability to do anything we set our minds to, as well as being flawed, broken, and distant. We do not have to be Elains: so kind that an other-worldly Cauldron gifts us power out of its sheer amazement at how lovely we are inside and out. We can be ferocious and take power for ourselves, just as Nesta had ripped power from the Cauldron with her teeth as repayment for making her and Elain undergo what they did. Nesta is devastatingly beautiful, graceful, collected, cool, intelligent, determined, curious, wrathful, prideful, resentful, and most of all, humiliated with herself for not being the strong person she wishes she could be. I love Nesta so, so much. I wish her all the luck and happiness in the world.

And, last but not least, something to remind everyone of. In A Court of Frost and Starlight, Nesta behaves outrageously—but this is her way of trying to cope, trying to get some sort of feeling back after having been turned Fae. Her transformation had occurred during the chaos of the battle to save humans from Hybern, and so there was no time for her to take for herself and understand what had been done to her. Once the adrenaline of battle and victory had faded, she was left with a hole within herself in a foreign body, leading an immortal life with an even more foreign power within her. Feyre also suffered from post-traumatic disorder, but in a different way—as all people go through trauma uniquely and individually. Nesta does not want to admit how broken, how weak, how confused she is, and all the Inner Circle wants to do is what they think will make her happy—but they don't get that she can't even feel. Personally, I find that everyone, except for Cass and Az, seems to have their own opinion of her behavior without really trying to understand why it's happening—especially Feyre. I think Feyre has always felt responsible for the well-being of her sisters, and so she does this the most. She has never truly understood Nesta, why she’s so closed off, why she’s so distant, and it hurts her as well, because Nesta is the only sort of mother figure—a strange one I know, but she was the oldest, wisest woman in her life for a long time—Feyre had, as their mother was basically absent and then died. Feyre is also young, so we have to understand that she does not truly understand how trauma can be different for each person, and so she tries to solve this by assuming that Nesta’s trauma may be similar in some way to that of what she went through in Under-the-Mountain. Feyre isn’t doing anything wrong, it’s just a younger sister trying to make her older sister as happy as she is—think Anna with Elsa. Also, Feyre is confused because she would have thought that the beauty and power of the Fae realm would have made Nesta feel better about being Changed, but, as I will dive more in depth below, the circumstances surrounding their views on being Fae are completely different, and frankly opposite for Feyre and Elain/Nesta. Feyre’s seeming misunderstanding and attempts at helping Nesta infuriate Nesta because she feels like some broken doll her sister wants to sew up new so that she can look pretty for the rest of them.

I also want to add that being Fae means completely different things for each of the Archeron sisters. Feyre loves being Fae, and I think it’s because she has associated it with the insurmountable happiness that has been brought into her life after she had Changed: she found Rhys, became strong enough to defend herself and anyone she cared about, was able to paint whenever, whatever, and however she wanted, found a family that truly supported her and loved her and required nothing of her, and was finally able to dream of a future that was only for her, not for her sisters or father. Elain hates being Fae, or at least hated it at first but seems to be adapting to it, because it took away the future she had always dreamed of. While Feyre never really had the chance to dream of anything for herself, Elain did—because, she’s sweet and I also love her, she really didn’t lift a finger until she shoved Az’s knife into the King of Hybern’s neck. Elain was raised in a society where domesticity are the best characteristics of a woman, and it is what she should strive for. She strived to be a loving wife, with a beautiful home to decorate, to have parties and socialize with everyone, and to be the sweet angel her husband came to after a long day’s work. She had that, and being Fae took that away because her fiancé hates the Fae. The man she thought would love her no matter what she was or looked like, hated her. I mean, if that happened to any of us, we’d all have been destroyed from within: she trusted this man with her heart, she trusted that he would always love and care for her—and for her to trust men was difficult because she had trusted her father to always look after her, but he failed her—and then he said he hated her for the abomination she was, for something she couldn’t control. Being Fae took away Elain’s dreams, and so it is not all the pretty, supernatural stuff that we, the readers, would love to be a part of—because, remember that the series was written in first-person from Feyre’s point of view, so obviously we’ll have some bias towards being Fae and her beliefs. Nesta hates being Fae. Nesta demands control over her life, she demands being the one in charge of it. If she’s gonna die, it’ll be because she said so; if she’s gonna eat, it’s because she said so. She will not let anyone or anything control who she is or how she lives her life, and then she was forced to be immortal. Imagine, feeling so lost, so insurmountably despairing, in an immortal body. While she was mortal she could at least wait for death to take her away from the tortures of being poor, cold, starving, and out of control, at least death was something she had decided on accepting, not forced upon her—but as a Fae, she would have to wait hundreds to even thousands of years for merciful death to take her away from all these feelings, emotions, and general environments that she has absolutely no control of and feels she could never truly be a part of. I have not ever been depressed or suffered from PTSD, but from what I have learned, I have heard that it feels like a never ending hole you fall into, where you are consumed by darkness and there is nothing else you can see, and anywhere you are within that hole, you are alone and no one can reach you. Imagine that, but feeling like you will feel that way for the rest of your immortal life.

Last, last thing: Nesta and Cassian are mates. If she had an instinct within her to call Cass from battle just in time to save him from the Cauldron; if her willingness to sacrifice her life so she could die with him because she could not live without him, didn't convince you of their status as mates, I *clap* do *clap* not *clap* know *clap* what *clap* will.

Anyways, thank you for reaching this point of my fanatic rant over Nesta.

[heyheydidjaknow]

I would’ve posted this earlier but, alas, I passed out early. This is a longer one, but tumblr got its act together so I can post it all in one part. You guys know where the other chapters are, and if you don’t, they’re at the end of the chapter. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go eat straight Nutella.

Chapter 10

“I’m thinking about getting some gloves.”

He looks over at you as he laces up his skates. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling slightly to yourself as you look your hands over, trying to imagine what they would look like. “Like, badass, fingerless gloves.”

He smiles. “Dude, those would look metal as fuck.”

“Totally, right?” Your smile widens. “With studs and shit.”

He gets to his feet, hopping onto the ice. “Hell yeah.” He drops a puck to assault as you go back to your backed-up coursework the best you can—your handwriting has gone to hell, but you are working with what you have.

You flinch at the crack of his stick, the cross of the T ending up underneath the letter somehow. A cheer from Casey tells you the rubber cylinder’s fate.

‘I swear I learned this.' You squint at the basic algebra, the pencil, crudely held in your fist, hovering over the packet. ‘Why can’t I do this?’

“How’s your pile coming along?” Another crack.

“It’s comin’.” You run your fingers through your hair. “Just… trynna remember how to do ne—… subtraction.” ‘Not debate. Negating is debate.’

He laughs. Another crack. “Man, that thing really fucked you over, huh?”

“Thoroughly.” You decide against continuing to torture yourself, having been at it for the past five hours—most of it in the library before Casey invited you to watch him practice some more— and set the large stack of homework back in your bag. “Are you actually making the shots?”

“Casey Jones doesn’t miss shots.” Another crack.

“Pardon me, oh almighty king of the ice.” You stand on your good leg, grabbing the side of the wall to watch as he went back to collect his pucks.

You two have managed to bond over a mutual respect/love of heavy metal and hockey and, seeing as you are staying out of the Hamatos’ hair for a while—not upon request, but out of courtesy—you have managed to spend a lot more time with him than you may have otherwise. Your school has not assigned Biology any big projects yet, so, until you are assigned it, you do not have anything other than your health to stress about.

“Pardon accepted.” You watch his form as he performs another slap shot.

“You…” you trail off, trying to remember what you were going to say.

“What?”

You shrug. “Dunno.” You lean your head on your arms. “I’ll remember eventually.”

He drops the second puck. “Got any plans after this?”

You sigh. “Nope. Probably gonna head home and try not to cut my fingers making dinner again.”

He takes another shot. “Then let’s go out after this. You and me.”

You smile. “What, don’t have any plans either?”

“Nah.” He drops the third. “Dad doesn’t care if I’m home late anyway.”

“True, true.” You have decided against prying into his home life; it is not your place and does not concern you in the slightest. “Where do you wanna go?”

“Wanna catch a movie? Heard there was this new pizza place just a couple blocks down if you wanna try to sneak it in.”

You snicker. “In the box and all?”

“Yes.” He grins mischievously and hits this one off the walls. Some way, somehow, it still makes it into the goal. “I bet your sweatshirt is big enough to stick the box under.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Not in the mood for burns on top of scars, Jones,” you reprimand him teasingly. “That just ain't it.”

“Then you can wear mine under that one and—”

“Your sweat-soaked hoodie you’ve been practicing in all day?” You cringe at the thought. “Over my dead body.”

“I mean…” he licks his teeth, smile widening, “it’s not exactly like you’re in the best—”

You laugh. “So not cool!”

He puts his hands up in defense, gliding over. “I mean, am I wrong, though?”

“That is completely besides the point, you ass.” You balance on your foot, crossing your arms. “Damn. Making fun of the girl with the broken leg.”

He leans against the wall. “Man, you were dying before the crash.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, whatever, Jones.” You lean against your hand. “How’s Johanna,” you sing.

He presses his hand against your face, pushing you away. “Annie is doing fine.”

You grin, steadying yourself on the wall. “Do you feel her, Johanna?”

“I’m gonna tell her you call her that if you don’t quit it.”

“Do you think that walls can hide her? Even when you’re at her window?”

He pushed his arm all the way out. You hop back.

“Her name isn’t even Johanna.”

“But she is Johanna,” you whine in protest, not bothering to hide your mirth. “She has the hair, the voice, the disposition. She’s an ingénue and you know it.” You have been teasing him about this for a while now: the girl in question—Annabelle Halshaw, a year below you two—had caught his eye when he had heard through the grapevine that she was the lead singer in some indie band. When he had shown you a picture and told you the story, you insisted on calling her Johanna for her golden hair and soft, sweet singing voice he had proudly had you listen to.

“She’s not.”

You roll your eyes, sitting back down as you grab your bag. “Lie to yourself all you want,” you goad, “but deep down, you know in your heart that the truth,” you put a finger up, “is apparent.”

He hops off the ice, sitting next to you as he unlaces his skates. “Whatever.” He smirks. “How’s The Don?”

You avert your gaze. “I haven’t seen ‘im.”

“Boo.” He tied the laces together. “Some girlfriend you are,” he ribs.

You go red. “Not my boyfriend. Not even friends with benefits.”

“Yeah, sure.” He sets the skates into his bag. “That’s why you already know his family.”

“That—”

“And why you’ve had him over to your place.”

“If you don’t cool your tits, I’m telling Lucy you’re crushing on her friend.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“What,” you simper, “think I won’t?”

He grabs his bag. “If you do, I’ll show her that video.”

You laugh, following him out of the rink. “You’re the worst.” You note how strange it is that he spent so little time on the ice as you two walk out, but you do not say anything about it.

“Hey, you’re the one throwing threats around.”

“Yeah,” you argue, “but my threat is clearly better.”

He rolls his eyes, pushing you again.

You two keep chatting on the way to the theatre about anything and everything, from new bands to upcoming games to the newest blockbuster horror movies. You are not personally on the hockey team, but, as his friend, it is your duty to care. Besides, you figure, it gives you something to look forward to.

The movie is fine. You convince him against sneaking an entire pizza in, you split a bucket of popcorn, and you give him shit for getting freaked out by the disembowelment scene. It is payback for him teasing you about crying during the last movie you two went to a couple of days ago.

You two stand at the streetlight.

“Dude, it’s like eight,” he groans. “It’s not even late.”

“True,” you agree. “Counterpoint: I still have another week’s worth of work to do by Friday on top of the homework I’ll have to do anyway, so unless you wanna help—”

“Forget I asked.” He pulls his hood up against the autumn wind. “Need me to walk you back?”

“Nah.” You shrug. “If someone mugs me, they’ll give me an excuse to not do my homework.”

“Murdered?

“I’m already halfway there.”

He grins. “See ya tomorrow, Y/N.”

“See ya, Jones.” You wave as he runs off.

The walk home is quiet and considerably easier than it was a couple of weeks ago. Seeing as you now get queasy whenever you get into a car, you have been limited to taking the subway and walking, which, among other things, has contributed positively to your physical strength. You know that you should probably at least try to take the bus or a cab around town to build your tolerance up, but the last time you tried, you had almost tripped and fallen from how shaky your legs were getting out. Oddly enough, you note as you go through the door, you do not have a considerably larger fear of heights than you did before, or of fire, but cars were tripping you up, even though you were the one that crashed it. You feel thankful that, at least, you do not think your fear is crippling. At least, you reason, you can still get into the car.

You lock the door behind you, debating whether you feel like adding to the collection of cuts you now possess— they are self-inflicted, but not intentionally so; you stubbornly refuse to acknowledge the fact that you physically cannot use your hands to cut things. You decide against it tonight, tossing your bag on the bed as you sprawl across it, admittedly exhausted. You allow yourself a couple of seconds with your eyes closed before you pull yourself up with a groan and get back to work.

A part of you wishes that you had the physical energy to stay out longer. You are always trying to find excuses not to sleep, and although the mountain of homework and readjusting your timelines for things you missed is certainly one way to keep yourself preoccupied, it is not exactly what you would consider fun. Then again, reliving your greatest traumas while you sleep is not exactly fun either.

You catch yourself peeling at the newly applied bandages on your fingers, fingernails catching under the crudely applied adhesives. Applying bandages properly requires more dexterity and patience than you currently possess, and you are hardly going to ask someone else for help with something as stupid as that. You have lasted this long without needing too much help. People can live by themselves. You will live, probably. Well? Not your concern.

‘I should eat something.’ Your eyes strain to focus on the piece of paper in front of you, your mind wandering aimlessly as you try to impress the actual importance of finishing this upon yourself, but you find that is an insurmountable feat.

You drop your bag off the side of the bed, reaching down and pulling your shoe off, leaning back into your pillows, the weight of the day practically immobilizing you. Fumbling hands switch the lamp off, bathing your room in momentary, blissful darkness before the gravity of your decision sets in.

“Alright, me,” you breathe to yourself. “What’s it gonna be today? My folks? Bradford? What’s his face? Hell,” you chuckle, “why not all three? I’m sadistic enough, I’m sure.”

You close your eyes. “Give me your worse,” you challenge as you slip into unconsciousness.

--

Two weeks.

He had kept his distance for about two weeks. It was not as if he did not care or was not morbidly curious what the crash had done to you—his glances through the curtains did not tell him much-- but, after some debate, he had figured you needed time to recuperate before you would want his company. Two weeks, he figured, would be enough time for you to get back on your feet or, at least, for you to start wanting company.

His excuse to see you had come in the form of his brother’s newfound prideful boasting. Feigning insult was as good an excuse as any to go see you; after all, he just so happened to be in the neighborhood anyway, and it was normal to pop in to see someone if you were already just a couple blocks down, right? Sneaking away was easy enough—they would not mind his absence—and he, after much prep work, knew exactly how and why he was going to say the things he would to get in your good favor. The plan, he knows, would have gone swimmingly.

His plans seem asinine when he hears you crying.

His brothers do not cry much. He does not, either; it was a habit that they had all thoroughly bullied themselves out of when they were much younger and, if they still did, he knew nothing of it. His master did not encourage this, per se, but talked, then, frequently about the importance of maintaining a more stoic disposition and not allowing emotions to cripple you in battle. Practically, Donatello was satisfied with that explanation, having not properly cried for more than a year now. To hear the sound again, especially coming from you, was novel.

Novel, too, is how you are crying. The sound is less of actual sobbing and more of you being strangled, quiet gasps for air escaping your lips as you shake on the bed, curled in on yourself and clutching at your chest as if whatever pain you are experiencing is centered and can be relieved by something between your collarbones. His eyes, for the first time, trace the lines on your skin, your sleeves riding up your arms to reveal them to him, tears racing down and along the gash in your face. Everything about the scene, from the soft gasping of panic to your position to the heavy scarring, is completely foreign to him, rivaled only by one or two particularly hard nights when he and his brother were much younger.

He slides in through the window, leaning onto the bed. His fingers flick your lamp back on as he grabs your shivering shoulder tightly, shaking you awake as he mumbles words of encouragement. He is not sure if his help will be appreciated, if snapping you out of it was even what he is supposed to do in this situation, but now is not the time to think of that. You are in pain. He can offer you this kindness. “Wake up,” he pleads, not thinking of how this would look until your eyes snap open to look at him.

Immediately, the reality of the situation sets in, and he scrambles off the bed. ‘Why did I think that would be a good idea?’ Panic. ‘You just walked into her room like a fucking creep. See, now she’s going to—’

“Sorry.”

He blinks, looking up at you from his place on the floor. “Huh?”

You clear your throat, wiping the tears from your eye with your sleeve quickly as you bring your knees to your chest, voice hoarse. “Sorry,” you repeat. “That you… I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for, but I know I should be apologizing.”

He is completely dumbfounded.

Your eyes glance to the open window. “I should probably start closing and locking my window, right?” You rub the back of your neck, voice clearing the longer you talk. “It didn’t occur to me since I’m so high up, but if you guys can get in, The Foot can too, right?”

‘Why is she apologizing?’

You push the hair out of your face. ‘You need something, right? I—uh—need to stop saying ‘right’ so much.” You shake your head to clear it. “’ Sup?”

He hears himself mumble some bullshit out about being in the neighborhood.

You sigh. “Sorry.” You close your eyes. “I’m usually up later; I’ve been so tired lately.”

‘Is she serious right now?’ He is completely lost. ‘She was just crying her eyes out in her sleep and now she’s apologizing? Did I miss something?’ You are smiling now, eyes still bloodshot, as if the whole thing is a figment of his imagination, still shivering where you sit.

He rises to his feet, kneeling in front of you on the bed. “What was it about?”

You blink, seemingly confused. “Huh?”

“Your nightmare,” he clarifies. “You were crying. What was it about?”

You avert eye contact. “Nothing too crazy,” you shrug. “Just about the crash. Nothing too exciting.” If possible, he thinks the bags under your eyes are worse than the last time you saw him.

He takes your hands loosely, turning them palms up to look, for the first time, at the patchwork quilt that is now your skin. “What happened in it?” He runs his thumb along the lines, keeping his voice low; he remembers how that used to help when Mikey used to have fits when they were younger. Leonardo and Raphael were never good at that; they took better to being more violently snapped out of their moods, but, then again, they never had this kind of breakdown; theirs were always more driven by loathing, self or otherwise.

You pause, still not looking him in the face as your muscles relax. He remembers, vividly, how he had done something similar when you two had first met, how much better, health-wise, you looked. ‘How long has it been since then? Three months? A little less?’

You take a deep breath. “Just… family shit,” you mumble, eyelids drooping as you trace his frame loosely. “Fire.”

Your gaze is piercing as you finally look at him properly. He feels something catch in his throat as you bow your head.

“It’s my fault, you know.” Your voice is so soft, barely a whisper. “That they’re dead, I mean.”

The air is a suffocating blanket that smothers you both.

“I never told you, did I?” Your focus does not shift as it might have a bit ago. It is locked solely and intensely on him, taking in every detail of his expression. “How I died? How they died? Why I died?”

Hesitantly, he shakes his head. He thinks it best to just be quiet and let you talk. He does not think he has ever heard anyone speak in quite the same tones, ever looked at him quite the same way you are.

You take another breath. “I wanted to try my hand at baking.” You force your eyes to stay focused on his. “I was—still am—not good about sleep. I always slept bad, and never at the right times. I used to take pills for it, to try to get myself back on track.”

He sees where this is going.

“I thought I could still stay up as late as I was used to.” You glance to the side, stealing yourself a second before focusing back on the boy in front of you. “I sat down in my room, turned on a movie. I set a timer. I fell asleep.” You swallow, hands shaking in his. “I can’t smell well, either. I must not have smelled the burning.” Your lips curl in a bitter smile. “Sure as fuck felt it, though, when I woke up.”

He lets you finish.

You try to blink the tears out of your eyes. “They were asleep,” Your voice rises ever so slightly. “I fell asleep at two something. I woke up when they started yelling.” You purse your lips, face reddening in shame as your nostrils flair. “They were trying to get someone out of bed when the roof caved in above them. My door got blocked.”

You feel yourself smile.

“So,” you strain not to cry, “that, Donatello, is why I’m here and why I’m dead, and why I really do deserve to burn again.” You laugh. “Hell, my body count is rivaling some serial killers, so that’s… that’s certainly something.”

He lets go of your hands, face blank.

You lean forward, placing your hands on your knees. “I don’t blame you,” You wipe a wayward tear out of your eyes, trying to swallow the frog in your throat. “Fuck, man, I’d think less of me, too, if it were me.” You nod towards the window. “I get it if you want to leave, but I thought you might want to know why—”

He stops you mid-sentence, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to him.

Your arms lay slack at your sides as you try to process what is happening.

He does not say a word.

You break.

You burry your face into him, tears welling in your eyes as you let out a strangled sob. You hold onto him tightly as you struggle to breathe, body shaking as you wrap your own arms around him the best you can. The sound roars in your ears like thunder, the deafening quiet of the apartment punctuated only by your own cries. He gently holds you there, resting his head on top of yours. Each sound you make sounds as though you are physically being choked by your guilt, and his chest feels as though it is being crushed by an invisible hand as he listens to your pain.

Neither of you knows how long you stay like that.

He considers telling you a story from a long time ago, about some training he and his brothers had back then, but thought better of it; he does not want to upset you any more than you already are, and being in good company with someone like him may not be exactly what you need right now. Granted, he does not know what you do need, but he knows listening to him talk about bashing brains would not help your sensibilities any.

Instead, he stays quiet.

You pull away after a while, wiping your face off again as you mumble out an apology.

“Don’t apologize.” He clears his throat. “It’s good to cry; it releases endorphins.”

You smile at that. “Well,” you giggle tearfully, “if it releases endorphins.”

He smiles back, face flushing. You look good, he thinks, even with your face all red. He knows that, scientifically, there is probably a reason, but he cannot think of it right now.

He stands up. “I’ll get—”

You grab his hand tightly.

He looks back at you.

“Can I ask a favor?”

He blinks. “Of course,” he agrees easily. “Anything.”

You glance off. “Promise not to take it weird?”

He feels his heart rate increase. “Y-yeah,” he nods.

He feels you pull him gently back on the bed. “Can you stay here tonight?”

His eyes widen as they flicker between the mattress and you. “What,” he clarifies breathlessly, “like sleep with you?”

You nod.

“In the same bed?”

You hesitate, nod again.

He clears his throat, face heating again. “Like, actually?”

“If it wasn’t actually, I wouldn’t ask, would I?” You grip his hand tightly. “I just really don’t want to be alone tonight.”

‘Oh.’ He mentally kicks himself. ‘She’s scared. Don’t make her uncomfortable.’

“It’s alright if you don’t—”

He is extremely quick to reassure you that he is more than happy—‘Bad choice of wording.’—to stay tonight until you fall asleep, but that he would not stay the whole night as to not worry his brothers.

You nod in agreement. “That’s fine.” You rub the back of your neck. “Not sure I would be good company when I wake up, anyway; I still have class.”

“Oh, right.” He nods in understanding, pushing himself further onto the bed. “Which side…?”

You shrug. “Which way do you face?”

“I usually lie on my stomach.”

“Then it doesn’t matter.” You slide your sweatshirt over your head after a bit of squirming around, tossing it onto the couch.

His face is now scarlet. “Okay then,” he mumbles, laying down on the side away from the window. ‘Is she going to—no, stop that.’

You look over at him, face down on the mattress. You can almost feel the heat coming off him. “Are you alright there, buddy?”

He nods.

You shrug, laying down under the blanket and curling into him, facing the window. “Mind getting the light?”

He reaches over, clicking it off.

You sigh in content, turning to face him, teetering on the edge of the mattress. “I’m not venomous,” you inform him teasingly. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: of the two of us, you should not be the one who’s a nervous wreck.”

“You dunno that.” His voice is muffled by the bed.

“You’re the strong one,” you argue.

“So?” He turns his head to look at you. “I’m the guy laying in the—I’m just gonna stop that sentence.”

“It’s only bad if it isn’t consensual.” You smile reassuringly. “I invited you to lay with me, right? So, unless I make you uneasy, then we’re all good.”

He breaks eye contact. “So,” he clarifies, “you don’t mind if I move closer to you?”

You shake your head.

He hesitantly slides himself further onto the bed. “Can I move closer than this?”

“You’ve already seen me bawl my eyes out. You’re doing me a service. Move as close or as far as you want.”

He moves to press his side against you. “Is this fine?”

You nod. “Look, how about this?” You rest your arm under your head. “If you do something I’m uncomfortable with, the safe word is pina colada.”

‘We already have a safe word?’ He was not sure if he is on cloud nine or just terrified of you.

You are very confused why he looks so warm. “Do you need me to turn the AC on?”

He shakes his head. “I’m good,” he assures you tightly. Slowly, he reached an arm out and over your waist, pulling you closer. You do not seem to resist in any way, wrapping your good leg around one of his to pull him closer.

‘Conscious touching.’ He glances down at you, trying to act cool. ‘Conscious, intentional touching. She smells so nice and she feels—okay, this is not going to work if you keep being a perv.’

“Thanks,” you mumble, humming softly. “I appreciate this more than you know.”

Cloud nine. Definitely on cloud nine.

“Every time.”

You giggle.

He blinks. “What?”

“Every time,” you note, already nodding off. “Like in that book.”

‘Which one?’ “They wrote it down for a reason, right?�� The longer he spends like this, the smoother he feels.

“Totally.” You smile, closing your eyes. “Just know that this goes both ways, alright? If you ever need help like this, you know who to call.”

This is new. ‘Help like this? What, like crying?’ His eyebrows furrow as he tries to understand what you mean. ‘Or he means if I ever need company in my—what did I just say?’

You pick up on his confusion. “Emotional help, I mean.” Your fingers trace the indentations in his shell absentmindedly. “I mean, I know sometimes I didn’t want to go to my family about stuff. I dunno if you have that…” you trail off, realizing that you might be unintentionally bashing his brothers. You sincerely do not want to blow this.

“I mean,” he says after a bit, “I think I get what you’re talking about.” He sighs. “You mean stuff that they’d make fun of me for, right?”

You nod.

He feels his heart melt a little. “I’ll have to take you up on that.”

You forgot how safe he makes you feel. “Goodnight, Donnie,” you mumble sleepily.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

You pass out not long after that. If he has to estimate a general amount of time, he will clock it in at about five minutes. He does not move, however, until about thirty minutes before sunrise, too busy listening to the sound of your breathing and memorizing how exactly your body feels next to his. As he slips out of the window, early morning air waking him back up completely, he wonders if, someday, he could stay to see you wake up next to him. Not out of necessity, but just because you both wanted to stay like that for a while more.

‘I hope so. It’s a nice dream to have, anyhow.’

Table of Contents

Chapter 9

Chapter 11

[cartoonfangirl1218]

The Owl House zodiac signs

I decided to match zodiac signs with TOH characters because why not. Info from https://www.astrology-zodiac-signs.com.

Luz: Libra

Strengths: Cooperative, diplomatic, gracious, fair-minded, social Weaknesses: Indecisive, avoids confrontations, will carry a grudge, self-pity

Likes: Harmony, gentleness, sharing with others, the outdoors Dislikes: Violence, injustice, loudmouths, conformity

They are in a constant chase for justice and equality, realizing through life that the only thing that should be truly important to themselves in their own inner core of personality. They will be inspired by good books, insurmountable discussions and people who have a lot to say. ibra representatives are highly social and put their friends in the limelight, but sometimes raise their expectation bars too high, but will often help others understand the other side of their personal conflicts and trouble with other people.

She enjoys being taught about new things and enjoys talking about herself and her personal interests, just as much as she likes sinking deep into her partner’s life. She is charming, intelligent, and finds solutions to problems that arise along the way with certain ease.

Eda: Sagittarius or Aries.

Strengths: Generous, idealistic, great sense of humor Weaknesses: Promises more than can deliver, very impatient, will say anything no matter how undiplomatic

Likes: Freedom, travel, philosophy, being outdoors

Dislikes: Clingy people, being constrained, off-the-wall theories, details Freedom is their greatest treasure, because only then they can freely travel and explore different cultures and philosophies. Because of their honesty, Sagittarius-born are often impatient and tactless. The fun-loving Sagittarius enjoys making and spending money.

Aries

Strengths: Courageous, determined, confident, enthusiastic, optimistic, honest, passionate

Weaknesses: Impatient, moody, short-tempered, impulsive, aggressive

Likes: Comfortable clothes, taking on leadership roles, physical challenges, individual sports

Dislikes: Inactivity, delays, work that does not use one's talents

Aries rules the head and leads with the head, often literally walking head first, leaning forwards for speed and focus. Its representatives are naturally brave and rarely afraid of trial and risk. They possess youthful strength and energy, regardless of their age and quickly perform any given tasks. They are continuously looking for dynamic, speed and competition, always being the first in everything - from work to social gatherings.  They are tolerant of people they come in contact with, respectful of different personalities and the openness they can provoke with simple presence. Their circle of friends needs a wide range of strange individuals.

Independent and ambitious, an Aries often knows where they want to go at a young age, separating from their family a bit early. They will take on family obligations when they need to be taken care of, never refusing more work as if their pool of energy is infinite. They live in the present and aren't that focused on the future, and this can make them irrational and hasty when it comes to financial decisions. Still, they seem to always find a way to earn money and compensate for what they have spent.

King: Leo

Strengths: Creative, passionate, generous, warm-hearted, cheerful, humorous

Weaknesses: Arrogant, stubborn, self-centered, lazy, inflexible

Likes: Theater, taking holidays, being admired, expensive things, bright colors, fun with friends

Dislikes: Being ignored, facing difficult reality, not being treated like a king or queen

Aware of their desires and personality, they can easily ask for everything they need, but could just as easily unconsciously neglect the needs of other people in their chase for personal gain or status. Leo is generous, faithful and a truly loyal friend, born with a certain dignity and commitment to individual values. Tuned to themselves for the most part, they tend to become independent as soon as possible. Still, a Leo will do anything to protect their loved ones.

Willow: Taurus

Strengths: Reliable, patient, practical, devoted, responsible, stable

Weaknesses: Stubborn, possessive, uncompromising

Taurus likes: Gardening, cooking, music, romance, high quality clothes, working with hands

Taurus dislikes: Sudden changes, complications, insecurity of any kind, synthetic fabrics

They are loyal and don't like sudden changes, criticism or the chase of guilt people are often prone to, being somewhat dependable on other people and emotions they seem to be unable to let go of. Still, no matter their potential emotional challenge, these individuals have the ability to bring a practical voice of reason in any chaotic and unhealthy situation. People born in this sign are loyal and always willing to lend a hand of friendship, although they can be closed up for the outer world before they build trust for new social contacts they make. Many of their friendships begin in childhood with a tendency to last them a lifetime.

Gus: Gemini Strengths: Gentle, affectionate, curious, adaptable, ability to learn quickly and exchange ideas

Weaknesses: Nervous, inconsistent, indecisive

Gemini likes: Music, books, magazines, chats with nearly anyone, short trips around the town

Gemini dislikes: Being alone, being confined, repetition and routine

They are fascinated with the world itself, extremely curious, with a constant feeling that there is not enough time to experience everything they want to see. Gemini's changeable and open mind makes them excellent artists, especially writers and journalists.

Lilith: Virgo

Strengths: Loyal, analytical, kind, hardworking, practical

Weaknesses: Shyness, worry, overly critical of self and others, all work and no play

Virgo likes: Animals, healthy food, books, nature, cleanliness

Virgo dislikes: Rudeness, asking for help, taking center stage

This is a sign often misunderstood, not because they lack the ability to express, but because they won’t accept their feelings as valid, true, or even relevant when opposed to reason. Their goals and dreams still have strictly defined borders in their mind. People born with their Sun in Virgo are very dedicated to their family and attentive to elderly and sick people. They understand tradition and the importance of responsibility, proud of their upbringing and everything that made their mind be as dominant as it is.

Amity: Scorpio or Capricorn

Strengths: Resourceful, brave, passionate, stubborn, a true friend

Weaknesses: Distrusting, jealous, secretive, violent

Scorpio likes: Truth, facts, being right, longtime friends, teasing, a grand passion

Scorpio dislikes: Dishonesty, revealing secrets, passive people

They are excellent leaders because they are very dedicated to what they do. Scorpios hate dishonesty and they can be very jealous and suspicious, so they need to learn how to adapt more easily to different human behaviors.

Capricorn

Strengths: Responsible, disciplined, self-control, good managers

Weaknesses: Know-it-all, unforgiving, condescending, expecting the worst

Capricorn likes: Family, tradition, music, understated status, quality craftsmanship

Capricorn dislikes: Almost everything at some point

Capricorn speaks of each natural chain reaction of fear, Immersed in their secrecy, they face the world just as they are – brave enough to never run away, but constantly afraid of their inner monsters. Capricorn women are ambitious, persistent, responsible and reliable. She only wants to find someone to make her smile, and can’t wait to open up and feel the real pull of emotion that makes her warm up to the possibilities that lie in the future. It will take some time for her to lower her guard and feel safe and comfortable enough to show just how sensitive and caring she can be when she is in love.

Edric and Emira: Aquarius

Strengths: Progressive, original, independent, humanitarian

Weaknesses: Runs from emotional expression, temperamental, uncompromising, aloof

Likes: Fun with friends, helping others, fighting for causes, intellectual conversation, a good listener

Dislikes: Limitations, broken promises, being lonely, dull or boring situations, people who disagree with them

Aquarius-born have a reputation for being cold and insensitive persons, but this is just their defence mechanism against premature intimacy. They need to learn to trust others and express their emotions in a healthy way.

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

i like how r*kep*ck was introduced as this cool, badass, mysterious & skilled cursebreaker but at the end of y6 (not even the end of the game) she gets her ass kicked by a 17 y/o who wasn’t even in their last year of school then & also gets deceived by them if we choose to do so. i mean she gets made a fool of either way, she pretty much has no dignity left when she gets tied up & shut up by a spell (cast by another 17 y/o) lmao. i almost feel bad for her, i mean what a downgrade. but since she’s a total bitch, i don’t feel bad for her. she doesn’t deserve any of my condolences. 😒

But I love that so much, I really do. Because here’s the thing - it really doesn’t indicate anything about Rakepick’s decline as a character or force to be reckoned with. I mean, it emphatically does, but if we just take what the game is giving us, if we throw out any behind-the-scenes theories and force the game to be considered exclusively from the perspective of what this would mean in-universe...then it’s kind of awesome. Because there’s no reason within the story why Rakepick would fall so easily, no reason to assume this says anything about her. But it says everything about MC. I think that might be what they’re going for. That this is a marker of how much MC has grown, and become more powerful. Which is no doubt what R wants to see happen, but it could be a great or terrible depending on the path MC chooses to take. 

I mention these moments a lot, but I feel that they’re important and demonstrate this point. No matter what else Rakepick was, from the beginning she did try to teach MC, and hone their skills. Given what we now know about her, it’s very possible that she was grooming MC from the very beginning, to lead The Cabal one-day. Or who knows, maybe at one point, she had ideas about turning them into a weapon to use against them. I’d imagine her loyalty was paper-thin. Regardless, depending on dialogue choices, Rakepick can say that MC has not yet “scratched the surface of their potential” and that this is “frightening in many ways.” Combo that with her cryptic instruction to take the lead...I think she could see even then that MC would one day be a fearsome agent and leader among R if they were to choose that path. Whatever her agenda was, she could see that. I think that line about how it was “frightening” is telling...frightening for who? In what way? 

Well, here’s something that’s a little scary. In just a year and half, MC went from being unable to get a single spell off on Rakepick before she destroyed their damn wand...to overpowering her in a duel and making her look like a moron. And, depending on your choices, outsmarting her as well. Demonstrating a ruthless intelligence in trapping her, and the nerve to use that intelligence to destroy their enemies, unrestrained by the moral questions of doing so. Not even two years ago, Rakepick was this impassable, insurmountable wall. But as of Year 7? MC has settled things with her, and emerged victorious. She fell before them. You know, it almost reminds me of Star Wars: How the Apprentices who study The Dark Side invariably wind up killing their Masters to succeed them, but only when they’ve reached a point of surpassing them in power. MC has reached that point. They have slain the Dark Witch who was once their Master. And now? Well, now it’s simply down to MC’s choice if they’re going to follow in her footsteps. Again, the symbolism of MC polyjuicing Rakepick, literally turning into her...can’t be ignored. 

Ultimately, Rakepick doesn’t matter anymore. Her role in the story is over. Her purpose has been fulfilled. She has trained MC in the ways of Curse-Breaking. Of exploration, investigation, and martial magic. In her own words, she taught them how to “attack” The Dark Arts. The exact opposite of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and probably the shadow of actually using them. It’s been teased many times that MC will eventually learn an Unforgiveable, and I can believe it. MC will have to have a choice to make, and R will either get everything they wanted, their gamble will pay off...or, MC will teach them a very, very painful lesson. Rakepick  may represent R itself, in the sense that on their orders, she mentored MC, but that backfired on her. The Cabal has invested so much into MC, but what will they do if, no matter what, MC refuses to join them? Still considers them a mortal enemy? Because they’ve given MC all of the tools needed to destroy them, and all the motivation necessary to burn them to the ground and not look back.

Rakepick’s done for, her story is over. Because now, in no small part because she mentored them for two years...MC is powerful enough to knock her out of the story. As she knew they would be. I’d say they’re starting to scratch the surface of their potential, wouldn’t you? The only question now is...how much have they unlocked? Just how fearsome could MC really be if they decided to go all out?