#collapses on th floor tearfully;;

[swingstep]

appreciate your local kamado Today!

#kimetsu no yaiba #kny #demon slayer #tanjiro kamado #nezuko kamado #MANAGED T GET SMTHN DONE FOR TANS BDAY.... HBD LIL MAN!!!! #collapses on th floor tearfully;;

[shadowtriovibes]

Ok 23 with either Sebastian or Ominis would HIT

"after everything you've done, i still love you. with all i am."

—

The stone walls of the Undercroft have never felt colder than when Ominis was propped up against them the night Solomon died.

Perhaps it was because so much of the warmth he’d previously experienced in that room seemed to have been burned away in just one night at Sebastian’s hand – all the memories of playing Gobstones with the Sallow twins, listening as Sebastian had begun to teach you proper defensive spells, even simply studying with his best friends for hours on end as their O.W.L. exams had approached.

Or perhaps it was because the feverishly warm weight of Sebastian against his body simply made everything else feel colder. Sebastian has a way of doing that, Ominis thinks; he burns so brightly that everything else feels dimmer, weaker, colder.

Ever since Sebastian had collapsed against him in grief and brought them both to the floor, his face has been buried in the crook of Ominis’ neck. Ominis doesn’t have to see him to know that he’s still crying – he can feel the warm, wet tears trailing down his neck to his collar.

“Wh-what have I d-done,” Sebastian asks over and over. “Wh-what am I g-going to d-do?”

“It’s going to be alright,” Ominis assures him each time. “We’re going to be alright, Sebastian, I promise.”

Ominis hadn’t seen it happen, but after returning to the castle you’d told him everything: that Solomon had destroyed the relic, that Sebastian had turned on him with the Killing Curse, that Anne had Apparated away with their uncle’s limp body.

Merlin, he can’t believe it’s come to this. Worst of all, he can’t believe he’s still here, clinging to Sebastian just as desperately as the boy is clinging to him.

This is the darkest of Dark Magic. Surely Ominis would never abide by it. By all rights, Sebastian should be on his way to the Ministry this very minute to face trial for what he’s done.

…And yet.

“Are th-they… are they g-going to come for m-me?” Sebastian eventually asks.

“No one’s going to come for you, Sebastian,” Ominis murmurs. “I’ll… I’ll reach out to Anne, all four of us will make a decision that’s–”

“Stay with me,” Sebastian pleads tearfully, tightening his fierce grip on Ominis’ jacket. “I… I l-love you, Ominis, and I’m s-so sorry. Say you’ll stay with me, p-please.”

“Oh, Sebastian,” Ominis sighs as he rubs his broad hands up and down the length of the other boy’s back. “After everything you’ve done, I still love you. With all that I am.”

Sebastian burrows closer to Ominis’ chest. “Surely you’re as m-mad as I am, then.”

“Perhaps I am,” Ominis murmurs into Sebastian’s hair..

“I don’t deserve to b-be here,” Sebastian continues. “Anne’s right, S-Solomon was right, I should be locked up for wh-what I’ve done.”

“I won’t let them,” Ominis insists. “I don’t care about ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t.’ I love you, I’ve always loved you and you’re staying right here with me.”

Sebastian is trembling, Ominis notices.

“I promise you,” Ominis insists. “We swore to each other we’d always protect each other, do you remember?”

“Yes,” Sebastian whispers.

“Then let me protect you,” Ominis croons. “I’ll talk to the Headmaster, I’ll talk to the Ministry... I’ll talk to Anne. We’ll make things better.”

Ominis doesn’t promise to make things right. He can’t, and they both know it. But he can keep Sebastian out of Azkaban, and that’s a good enough place to start.

#sebinis #sebastian x ominis #sebastian sallow x ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fic #mini fic #i tried to write this in a way that lets you decide whether its romantic or platonic love #but in my mind its the former #REGARDLESS I BROUGHT THE ANGST

[an-aura-about-you]

August 7th, 1997

Crossing the Bridge

Somewhere Else Under the King

In today's entry, Jon and Trilby have some nightmares and Martin learns about the founder of the Order of Blessed Agonies:

Jon watches. All he can do is watch.

That awful, inevitable day has come when Martin is more afraid of Terminus than he is of the Ceaseless Watcher.

“It was bound to happen.” Jon Knows this from Martin. “You were already part of the Eye when we got together. I wasn’t afraid of you then. And I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

With that, Martin begins his grim pilgrimage.

“Martin!” Jon shouts, pouring as much compulsion into his voice as possible but to no avail. “Martin, come back!”

“We both know how this must end,” Oliver Banks says.

“This is an outcome of the choice you made,” the Caretaker says.

The sickening, pulsing black root creeps up Martin’s ankle.

Jon puts his hands to his head and whimpers, “I didn’t want this.”

Oliver asks, “What did you think was going to happen?”

The Caretaker adds, “You cannot escape the consequences of your actions.”

The tendril-like root slowly slithers up Martin’s leg. Martin continues his walk.

Jon can’t stomach Martin’s fear, but he can’t turn away, either. He dutifully catalogs every terrified hitch of his breath, every tremble he makes, every wary look as he continues towards fate. Jon is nearly overwhelmed by the now-familiar desire to gouge his fucking eyes out to make it stop.

"If that is a choice you can make, why not do it?" the Caretaker asks, holding out an awl.

Martin clutches a hand to his chest, a root wrapping around his wrist and reaching towards his heart.

“It will still happen even if you can’t see it,” Oliver points out.

“Jon,” Martin tearfully shudders as the roots take their fatal hold.

Jon violently grabs the awl and rapidly swings his shaking hand up to his eye.

Jon lurches up too fast, his face already wet with tears from crying in his sleep. He presses his hands on the back of his head and sets his elbows on his curled up knees, grateful for the pain in his side telling him the truth of what happened. But he can’t stop his sobbing, can’t even attempt to keep it quiet.

He doesn’t hear it at first when Trilby wakes up in a similar state.

-

Trilby feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Someone is here with him, their whispers carrying through the halls of DeFoe Manor. The whispers creep closer, loud enough in his ears that he should feel their breath on him yet still too indistinct to understand. He whips his head around, but no one is there.

The whispers move, and he turns forward again. He can see a light on in the kitchen. His feet move forward of their own volition. He’s there, and Simone is there on the floor. He can’t look away from the awful gaping wound in her ribs, red blood so dark it’s almost black. He tries to step back, but he’s frozen in place.

His view of Simone is blocked by someone stepping between them. It’s all there just as he remembers it: the leather apron, the metal mask, the bloody machete, the Welder. Trilby can’t stop his hand from reaching out, fingers hooking on the mask to pull it off. He finds Jon beneath it.

“Jon?” he asks, fear tempered with confusion.

Jon’s face holds no expression, and he makes no move.

Trilby takes hold of the machete and pulls it from Jon’s hand, who offers no resistance. He drops it to the floor, his hand trembling. “Jon, can you hear me? Did you touch the idol?” he asks, the tension flooding him again.

When he gets no answer, he realizes the whispering has stopped. He strains his ears against the silence, but it doesn’t last long. In mere moments, the air is filled with the nauseating notes of a harpsichord.

Jon reaches for his throat without a word. His mouth is open, but the blade through his neck won’t let him speak.

Trilby falls back at the same time that Jon collapses, the blade removed from him. The Tall Man towers over them both, his body stretched impossibly tall and limbs thin and sharp. Trilby cowers under what he knows is the Tall Man’s stare, somehow able to convey just how much predatory pleasure he takes in the situation without a single physical feature on his face.

The Tall Man steps forward and kneels in front of Trilby.

Acting on panic and instinct, Trilby kicks up towards the Tall Man’s chest.

Trilby shouts and kicks the thin hospital blanket off, unaware of Jon’s crying. “Fuck,” he gasps, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and grabbing his bag. He rips it open and pulls out a small case, grateful that the case’s latch is simple to undo. He takes a pair of gloves from it and frantically yanks them on. It’s doing this that helps him calm down enough to realize he’s not the only one distressed.

“Jon?” he asks while he closes the case. No Welder mask, no apron, and most of all no machete. That’s good, though that comes with its own issue.

Jon jerks his head up with a shudder, his crying past its peak. “Trilby?”

Trilby sighs and gets to his feet, grabbing his IV stand. “Give me a minute,” he says, fully aware that neither of them are likely to get back to sleep. He slowly walks to Siobhan’s bag and drops to his knees. Unlike before, he carefully opens the bag and gently reaches inside. He takes out the bundled shirt and unwraps it, his hands shaking the whole time but knowing he’s not going to be satisfied unless he actually sees the thing. He stares at the wooden idol, feeling it through his gloves, sick from the mix of anger, relief, and medicine.

“God,” he says as though throwing the word from his mouth.

He wraps the idol up again and returns it to the bag. He keeps his gloves on as he forces himself on his feet and makes his way back to bed.

“So, not having a good night?” Trilby asks.

Jon swallows, having had a moment to calm down, and says, “That’s an understatement. You, too?”

Trilby huffs. “To put it mildly.” He puts the case back in his bag and finally takes his gloves off, setting those in the bag as well to leave them easier to access. “First rule for us traveling together, Jon: do not touch what’s in that bag with your bare hands.”

Jon nods and says, “I understand.”

“I want to be sure that you do,” Trilby says. “That artefact is dangerous, fatally so.”

Jon sighs, followed by, “I’m used to that. Dangerous artefacts, that is.” The room is quiet after that, and he gestures towards Trilby. “Mrs. Gilkenny said you were an occult researcher. I have an idea of what to expect. I won’t touch the bag or its contents.”

Trilby turns this over in his head, sets aside what he intends to follow up on later, and nods to Jon. “Okay.” Then, “Do you plan on going back to sleep?”

“No,” Jon answers.

Trilby nods at this and takes some papers out of his bag. “Good. Won’t have to worry about disturbing you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Working. Consider me officially on your case.”

-

Martin takes the time to explore the library, properly explore it. He’s got a general idea of its layout by now, having pulled this text or that to bounce ideas off of Jackson during their initial poetry discussions, but now he’s thoroughly sweeping over each shelf. It doesn’t take long to find the section he expects will be the main focus of their discussion today: religious texts. Near the shelf is a small table holding a sleek, black case. Above the shelf is a portrait: a young clean-shaven man in a wig and fine Georgian era clothes. His smile draws focus, and Martin wishes he could praise the artist for capturing the elusive nuances of skepticism and indulgence in that smile.

“Beautiful, isn’t he?” Jackson comments as he joins Martin.

Martin shakes, surprised by how taken he was with the painting. “Yeah,” he admits. “Is he your ancestor?”

“Ah, no,” Jackson says, fondly shaking his head. “My ancestor was Jack Frehorn. That’s Wilbur Yarrow. He was Jack’s favorite lover.”

Martin gestures to the painting and goes, “I mean, I’d hope so if he’s got a painting of him in his family’s library.”

“Thank you! Seems like every time I look into an academic text about Jack, they call Wilbur his ‘friend,’” he says, complete with air quotes. “It’s ridiculous. Jack even wrote about himself and Wilbur being lovers in his scripture.”

“Yeah? Seems like that’d take away the ambiguity,” Martin says. “Was Wilbur responsible for his awakening as a cult leader or something?”

“In a way.” Jackson approaches, looking up at the portrait. “To be honest, the story is partly about them getting into a fight about a harpsichord.”

Martin laughs, taken aback. “Really?”

“Really,” Jackson answers. “Occultism was starting to take hold, and Jack was among those who got interested. So he began hunting down whatever relics he could find tied to supernatural occurrences. The harpsichord was one of these purchases, made from the remains of an inn called the Unicorn that had seen such happenings. Wilbur, being the one with the sensible head between the two, chided him for wasting his family’s money on it. It’s after this that things take their own turn towards the supernatural, and thus are difficult if not impossible to verify.”

“Go on,” Martin says. “I’m well past ‘you’re never gonna believe this’ when it comes to that sorta stuff. Only-” he holds up a hand “-spare me the most gruesome details?”

Jackson nods. “All right. That night, Jack woke up to an empty bed and somebody playing his harpsichord. Fearing it was a robber playing a joke on him, he took his pistol and went downstairs. What he saw instead, in short, was a demon. So he fired the gun, but it wasn’t the demon that dropped dead.”

Martin shivers with a grimace as he’s left to draw his own conclusion. “And then?”

“The demon came to Jack, who begged for his life. And Jack got what he asked for, but in return...”

Jackson lets the sentence hang unfinished, instead turning his attention to the shelves. He tugs one of the books free and holds it out for Martin, the simple white cover with black text reading, “The Annotated Books of CHZO.” It says the original author of the scripture was Jack Frehorn with the annotations done by a Dorian Lovelace. In one corner is a symbol in red ink, a circle with four triangles put together so their sides form a square in the middle, making it look a bit like a compass rose.

“Chzo?” Martin attempts to say.

“That’s probably as close as a person can say it. The book’s technically meant to be used to better understand the scriptures, but to be honest, I’m not sure what would be a more effective way to warn you about the Order of the Blessed Agonies,” Jackson says.

Martin takes the book, raising an eyebrow as he does. “Besides the fact that they call themselves the Order of the Blessed Agonies?”

“As well as the Friends of Jack Frehorn,” Jackson points out. “Some other names, too, over the years, but Friends of Jack Frehorn is what they like calling themselves in public nowadays. They had a holiday recently, which is probably why that one yesterday felt bold enough to approach us in a public place.” He waves his hand a little. “The introduction gives you a good overview of their core beliefs. And anything we work on with my poetry will probably come from either Frehorn’s section in the Book of Victims or the Book of the Bridge.”

Martin brings the book to the desk and opens it up, saying, “The very fact that there’s a Book of Victims is pretty telling.”

“Believe it or not, the Book of Victims is a selling point for a lot of new followers,” Jackson says. “I guess it’s that idea of purity through pain.”

“That...would do it,” Martin agrees with a nod. “Something about suffering feeling productive? Or at least like being in control if you do it yourself.”

Jackson nods. “But it’s a lie. Don’t forget that, Martin.”

“Which part?” Martin asks.

“Suffering being the same as progress.” Jackson pauses a moment before asking, “Martin, do you think Jack had a choice?”

Martin looks up from the book. “What?”

Jackson rolls his hand a little as if drawing the words out of himself. “I’m sorry, I think I skipped ahead a little. Let me try again. Choice is the way to exercise control. No choice means no control. Do you think Jack had a choice in his story?”

Martin considers the question, the two letting it stand in the silence. Finally, he breaks it with, “Hard to say, really.”

Jackson nods. “It’s worth thinking about. How to see choices, I mean.” He then grabs a chair and joins Martin at the desk. “So! Order of the Blessed Agonies, also known as the Friends of Jack Frehorn. Pretty standard pain cult, I guess. I don’t know how many there actually are in the world, but doubt they’re the only ones. Not only think pain is the way to enlightenment but actively worship pain, believe it’s experienced in body, mind and soul. Stop me if I’m going too fast.”

“Nah, I’m with you so far,” Martin tells him.

And with that, they continue their makeshift lesson.

#tma #chzo mythos #aura's fanfiction #on this day in aura's tma/chzo mythos fanfiction

[bunnyhanasong]

Child Soldier

Main ship: mekamechanic

Side ships: n/a

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Notes: people, including blizzard, seem to only focus on Dva’s cutesy superstar gaming idol arc and completely forget about her not so fluffy past. She’s basically a child solider who has probably seen things a nineteen year old shouldn’t have to experience. I wanted to take that into consideration with this. Baby Hana must be protected she’s so strong n deserves better tbh

Warnings: descriptions of violence and death, panic attacks

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Blood was pounding in her ears as she shakily pushed herself out of her meka. The seat retracted so she could eject from the machine, shakily holding onto the battered pink metal frame. Her mech looked to be in rough shape, which would take a lot of repairs to bring it back to working condition. Still, that wasn’t the biggest worry on Hana’s mind in that moment.

“Hana!” A familiar cheerful voice was barely audible over the rapid beating of her heart, “You did great today!”

“Brigitte,” Hana mumbled, seeing a blur of her girlfriend’s yellow armour in front of her. She felt gentle hands fall on her waist, holding her up as she began to slump against her mech.

“Woah,” Brigitte kept a light hold on Hana are she tried to make eye contact with her, “You alright?”

The younger girl tried to respond but couldn’t focus enough to find the words. She gave a minuscule shake of her head as she tried her hardest to keep her breathing even. The room felt like it was spinning and the harsh lighting of the watchpoint garage was blinding in that moment. She clutched onto Brigitte’s sleeve that was exposed under her armour, trying to find some semblance of grounding.

“Hey, take a breath, Hana. It’s okay,” Brigitte’s lightly accented words were soft and meant to calm her, but they barely registered to Hana.

It wasn’t okay. It had never been okay. It never would be.

Hana took a gasping breath as she tried so hard to stay calm, her increased heart rate making her feel like she’d just run a marathon. The mission had been a tough one for sure, yet Hana wasn’t feeling the physical impact at all. All she felt was the suffocating weight of reality on her shoulders, feeling the realization hit her.

“I... I k-killed them.”

Brigitte was taken aback by the words Hana tearfully mumbled, “They were Talon agents, Hana. They were threatening us and innocent people, you did it to protect others.”

Hana shook her head violently, hands letting go of Brigitte to instead clap over her ears. She slumped down to the ground as her legs finally gave out under her, falling from the older woman’s loose hold as she collapsed in a pile of limbs.

Brigitte became increasingly worried and was unsure what to do. She had never seen her girlfriend like this and was afraid to spook her more. She was curled into herself on the floor as much as she could, sobbing and rambling brokenly in her mother tongue. Brigitte didn’t know enough Korean to understand much, except for a repeated mantra of “I’m sorry.” She was apprehensive to move Hana, unsure if she would want her to interfere. Still, she needed to get her off the garage floor and in a safe environment if she wanted to calm her down.

“Hana,” Brigitte tried again carefully, “Hey, it’s alright. We’ll go see Angela, okay? She can give you something to help you calm down.”

The Korean girl wasn’t listening though, her palms still pressed tightly over her ears. She was breathing shallowly, gasping every so often as she fought the urge to hyperventilate. She was still rambling to herself, tears streaming down her face. Brigitte was startled to say the least, having never seen her teammate so upset before. She quickly recognized this as an anxiety attack and knew she needed to be careful to avoid upsetting Hana even more.

“Hana, look at me,” she crouched down in front of the small woman, “Can I touch you? I want to get you out of the garage but I won’t pick you up if you don’t want me to.”

It took a couple more attempts of questioning before Hana seemed to understand her words. She nodded minutely, which Brigitte took as a prompt to scoop the girl up in her arms. Hana wasn’t heavy, quite the opposite, but with Brigitte’s armour weighing her down it was a bit difficult to get back to her feet.

Hana’s arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, clinging to her as if Brigitte would anchor her. She had begun to sob openly, hiding her face in her girlfriend’s neck. Brigitte tried to be quick and descreet about carrying Hana to the med bay in an attempt to shield the girl from questioning.

When she made it to the Watchpoint medical wing, Brigitte immediately made her way to Mercy’s office. She knew the head medic would be writing up notes of the day’s mission and any injuries sustained or resources used. The Swiss woman was indeed at her desk, and looked very startled when she saw the scene in front of her.

“Hana?” Mercy jumped up and crossed the room, “What happened?”

Brigitte answered for her, “She started panicking when she got out of her meka. Collapsed to the floor and has been hyperventilating since. I couldn’t get her to calm down but I wanted to move her out of that garage.”

Angela frowned and gestured towards the hallway, leading them down to a private exam room at the end of the hall. Brigitte could feel Hana shaking against her, her sobs not as loud now but she still felt tears falling onto her skin. She just shushed her gently as she followed Mercy into the room, letting her shut the door behind them.

“Hana, I’m gonna set you down on the bed, okay?”

Hana shook her head rapidly, clinging tighter to Brigitte. She looked at Angela for help but the doctor just looked concerned. With a sigh, Brigitte shifted Hana in her arms so she could look at her, brushing long hair off of her tear streaked face.

“Can I set you down so I can take off my armour at least? I’ll sit with you right after, I promise. It can’t be comfy with metal digging into you, huh?” Brigitte was speaking slowly and as calm as she could, like one would address a particularly upset child. It took a little more coaxing but eventually Hana nodded, still whining when she was set on the exam bed.

Brigitte tried to be quick with shedding her bulky armour, feeling her muscles screaming from the exertion of the mission and carrying Hana. As she was doing so, Mercy had taken to checking Hana’s vitals, all while the youngest woman was still borderline hyperventilating. Brigitte piled all her gear on the chair beside the bed, leaving her clad only in a long sleeve shirt and athletic pants. Once she sat down on the bed, Hana immediately threw herself back onto her girlfriend, who just gathered the small woman back in her arms.

“Hana,” Angela spoke in her gentle motherly way, “Can you tell us what’s wrong?”

She squeaked a little and hid her face in Brigitte’s neck, her tears starting up again. She really did want to talk to Angela but she couldn’t find the words she wanted. Everything seemed way too loud and too bright and just too much. She found solace in Brigitte’s strong arms holding her close, but she was still shaking with the weight of her anxiety.

“Hana, it’s alright,” Brigitte hummed softly as she pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, “It’s just me and Angie, you’re safe.”

Hana gasped a little as she tried to catch her breath, attempting to reply, “I... I c-can’t.”

Angela crouched in front of the bed, taking one of Hana’s hands in both of hers, “Take your time, liebling. Deep breaths, we can wait.”

“A-Angie,” Hana sobbed as she finally looked at the medic, “I can’t... it’s so- so b-bad. It’s a-all too m... too much.”

“I know, Hana, I know.” Angela felt her heart break seeing the amount of panic in her dark eyes. This strong girl who was always so cheerful and confident, never faltering in her bubbly idol image. She looked so small and fragile in that moment, held close in Brigitte’s arms as she cowered away from whatever thoughts plagued her mind. It was certainly heart breaking to see one of the girls Angela thought of as a daughter so broken and terrified.

“Talk to us, bunny,” Brigitte prompted, using a nickname for Hana that always made her smile. Angela watched as Brigitte kept speaking lowly to Hana, a gentle hand brushing her bangs from her eyes as she tried to get her to focus. She saw the internal struggle that was going on, knew Hana was fighting some serious memories that she was having trouble separating from reality. These were textbook symptoms of a PTSD attack and Angela was kicking herself for not realizing the signs in Hana before.

“Focus on me, alright, Bun? Angela and I are right here; you’re safe and we want to help you.”

Hana nodded a couple times, shakily looking back to Angela as she took another deep breath. She was still leaning heavily against Brigitte, trying to listen to her strong, steady heartbeat in an attempt to calm her own racing heart.

“I- I killed t-them, eomma,” Hana said to Angela with a quivering bottom lip, “They’re... dead be-because of me.”

Angela frowned, still holding onto the girl’s hand, “Who’s dead, liebling?”

“A l-lot of people.”

Brigitte leaned down to press a reassuring kiss to Hana’s temple, “Hana, you did it to protect others. You’ve never killed in cold blood before and I know you never would.”

“Brigitte, I k- I’ve k...killed people,” Hana murmured, “I’m a murderer.”

“Hana, darling, you know that’s not true,” Angela tried to reason with her, “Yes you’ve killed people but they were criminals who had a lot more blood on their hands. You are a strong and talented soldier and peacekeeper, you’ve protected your home and many other places.”

Hana shook her head for the umpteenth time, tears welling in her eyes again. She thumped her head against Brigitte’s chest as tears silently slipped down her cheeks, “I have seen the... l-life leave more eyes th... than I can count. I have been the reason p-people have lost their children; their parents; their loved ones. I’ve killed p... killed people and not thought t-twice about it.”

Running a gentle hand over Hana’s hair, Brigitte felt her heart ache for her girlfriend. Due to Hana’s confident and borderline cocky gamer attitude, it was easy to forget that she was still just nineteen. She was barely into adulthood and yet she had seen so much and done things no teenager should have to do. Brigitte never really thought about the fact that Hana had become a soldier before she was even out of her adolescence, becoming a meka pilot and a protector of her country before she had even finished high school. Hana wasn’t just cutesy gimmicks, impressive gaming rankings, and witty one liners; she had been a child soldier and seen more than her fair share of death.

“Bunny, it’s all part of the job,” Brigitte said slowly, “I know it’s bad and I know it hurts, god I know, but it’s for a good purpose. You’ve probably saved five times as many lives as you’ve taken, don’t forget that.”

“Brig is right, Hana,” Angela agreed, “We do our best to save as many people as possible. We are not killing out of cold blood and we always have a purpose. You’re allowed to feel remorse but please do not make yourself think you’ve done anything wrong.”

A knock on the door distracted Angela and she stood, stooping down to press a kiss to Hana’s hair, “Try to relax, Liebling, I’ll be back.”

Once the medic disappeared through the door to speak to whoever was on the other side, Hana shifted in Brigitte’s arms. She hid her face in her shirt, feeling her girlfriend begin to rub her back gently in an attempt to keep her calm. Hana had stopped crying by then but she was still shaking a bit, sniffling every once in a while as the two sat in silence.

“Hana?”

The younger woman made a sound of reply, not bothering to look up as she merely snuggled closer to Brigitte. The redhead smiled sadly at her and ran her thumb over one of her tear stained cheeks.

“I love you,” Brigitte said softly, “You know that, right?”

Hana squeaked a little at the out of the blue declaration but nodded against her chest, “I know... and I love you too.”

“You know you can talk to me about these things, right? I’m always going to be here for you, bunny, and that will never change. If missions cause you this amount of anxiety please don’t try and hide it, I want to be here for you but I can’t if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Hana hesitated to respond, unsure of how to reply, “I don’t know why... why it’s so bad a-all of a sudden. I was fine...”

Brigitte frowned as Hana sniffled again, “Trauma reveals itself at sporadic moments. You’ve seen a lot, honey, and you’re still young. It’s understandable that you have these worries, but you can’t let them plague you like this.”

“What can I even do? I’m supposed to be a strong and reliable protector and I can’t even do that without having a breakdown. People can’t see me like this, Brig; I’ve got an image to keep up.”

“Hana,” Brigitte shook her head at the implications, “You’re still human and you’re allowed to feel things. You’re allowed to be upset and scared and frustrated. Just because you’re a public figure and a soldier doesn’t mean you need to always be so strong.”

“I can’t disappoint my fans,” Hana argued quietly, “I have to be strong and confident.”

“Having emotions and pain from trauma isn’t weakness, Hana. It’s something you can learn to control and get a hold of when it gets bad, but it’s okay to feel like this. Your fans won’t feel any different about you; you’re still The Hana Song.”

With a sigh of defeat Hana slumped back against Brigitte’s chest, “What’re you so wise for? Pestering me like this is Angie’s job.”

“I’m a medic too, Hana,” Brigitte replied with a low laugh, “And I love you and I want what’s best for you. In this case I think the best thing would be to let Angela test you for PTSD and other related disorders, just so we know if there’s something to be treated.”

Hana groaned, “I hate this.”

“I know, honey,” Brigitte replied as she wrapped her arms tighter around her girlfriend, “But Angela will bring it up eventually.”

“I’m tired,” the younger woman murmured, “And my head hurts.”

“My poor bunny,” Brigitte hummed as she ran a hand through Hana’s disheveled hair, “Are you feeling calmer, though?”

Hana shrugged, “I guess. Now I just feel like shit.”

The door opened as Hana was mid sentence and Angela reappeared, “Language, Hana.”

In response, Hana looked up at Mercy and mumbled something in Korean, clearly a curse of some sort. Rolling her eyes at the childish rebuttal, Angela came over to place a gentle hand on Hana’s flushed cheek.

“How are you feeling?”

“Head hurts,” Hana replied, “Tired too but I doubt I’ll sleep. I never sleep anymore.”

“Hana, you need to rest,” Brigitte chastised gently, worry clear in her tone.

Angela hummed and went over to the table across the room, picking up a tablet and tapping on it a couple times. She turned back to Hana after a few moments, “We have some anti-anxiety medication in stock I could prescribe, they may help you sleep and reduce attacks like this again. I do want to give you a full work up in the future, Hana, but it’s getting late and I would like for you to rest.”

Hana shrugged, “Whatever works, I guess.”

Angela nodded and made a comment about going to get the medication from the medical supply area. When the door clicked shut again Hana sighed and leaned heavily against Brigitte.

It was clear in her sluggish body language that the anxiety attack and the day’s mission had left Hana exhausted. Brigitte shifted Hana in her arms until she could lay them both down on the small hospital bed, though the younger protested a little.

“Just rest, Bun,” Brigitte urged her gently, “If you fall asleep I’ll take the meds from Angie and bring you back to sleeping quarters.”

Knowing she wouldn’t get anywhere in an argument about this, Hana sighed and just pressed closer into Brigitte’s arms. She hid her face in her shoulder, feeling herself relax against Brigitte’s familiar, strong body. Hana mumbled something in Korean into the fabric of her shirt, making her girlfriend ask her to repeat herself.

“I love you,” Hana said again, a bit louder and in English, “Thank you for being here for me.”

“Always, Bunny,” Brigitte promised with a smile, “I love you and I’ll never let you go through this alone.”

#mushy #brigitte is just a big teddy bear who loves her hana v much 🥺 #poor baby dva #shes doing her best #feedback would be lovely!! #overwatch #hana song #dva #brigitte lindholm #mekamechanic #angela ziegler #mercy #overwatch fan fiction #mekamechanic fan fiction #my fics

[kimtanathegeek]

Two Brothers, Many Paths - Ch 3

I just realized that pretty much anything I say here is a spoiler, so...

Undertale copyright Toby Fox

Story and original characters by me, Kimtana

Please do not use without both permission and credit.

Read below, or read it on AO3 here.

First

Previous

Next

The skull-bursting headache nudged Sans awake as muffled screaming filled the back of his consciousness. He winced and struggled to open his eyes. He gasped when he couldn’t see anything, but soon his vision adjusted enough to show the muted outlines of his surroundings. It was now nighttime—he’d been unconscious for hours. His mind was covered in a thick cloud of confusion. The ear-splitting cries jerked him into reality.

Papyrus!

Sans painfully lifted himself up slightly. He was still groggy—no, exhausted—and his body ached as if he’d fallen down a thousand cliffs. His brother’s cries echoed all around the cave and Sans was disoriented in the darkness. He slumped on his side to free his hands and clasped his palms together. As he pulled them apart, a small light blue bone appeared. The blue-white light illuminated the cavern enough that Sans could make out where he was.

He looked around and saw the white bones that penned Papyrus peeking out from the stone formation he was hidden behind. Sans lay the blue bone on the ground as he tried to stand. The moment he was on his feet, his knees buckled and he collapsed painfully on the cavern floor, crying out in anguish. He lay on the ground a moment, trying to muster any sort of energy he could, the heart-breaking wails of his brother repeating over and over.

Sans grabbed the blue bone and tossed it weakly in the direction of Papyrus. It landed pitifully a few feet in front of him, and he dragged himself excruciatingly across the rugged ground, pulling his useless legs behind him as he grunted and panted. When he reached the bone, he threw it in front of him again and dragged himself forward. He continued this way for what seemed like miles, exerting every effort he had remaining, until he finally reached the hysterically crying Papyrus, still secure in the bone crib Sans had fashioned.

When Papyrus saw his brother at long last, his wails softened to quick, broken sobs. Sans had no idea how long his poor brother had been alone like this. He pulled himself up beside Papyrus, collapsing onto his stomach in exhaustion, and weakly extended his hand through the white bones to the still-swaddled up baby. He gently rubbed his brother’s stomach, hushing him as he gasped for breath.

“Shh, hehh, hehh, shh, Pap...,” he comforted. “Hehh, it’s ok, hehh.... I’m, hehh, hehh, here now....”

Papyrus writhed to get free of his cloth prison, but Sans patted him more. “No, hehh, hehh, not yet, Pap, hehh, hehh, we need to wait, hehh, hehh, until Mommy—”

The memory of that afternoon’s events came flooding back in a jolting rush. Sans’ eyes grew wide, reliving the moment his mother died in front of him, tears pouring fourth uncontrollably.

“No! No! No!” he cried out in a panic, grasping the sides of his skull. He banged his head on the cavern floor repeatedly in grief.

Papyrus whimpered, unable to comprehend what was wrong with his older brother, “N-nyeh...?”

Sans lifted his head and tearfully looked at Papyrus through the glow of the bone-white light. How could he explain to Papyrus how their mother had been taken from them? How she would never come back? How she would never hold him or squeeze him or smile at him again?

Sans wept openly as he looked into his brother���s eyes. “P-Papyrus... I...I...,” he sobbed. “I-I’m so sorry!” His voice ripped from his throat painfully. “I’m so sorry! Pap, I’m so sorry!”

He dissolved into a bawling heap, curling into the fetal position as the grief, guilt, and pain ravaged his soul. He wept loudly, his sorrow shattering through him like hot knives, until his little body gave out in exhaustion and he blacked out once more.

 -

 Sans woke a while later. He looked hazily over at Papyrus, who appeared to have also fallen asleep. Sans lay on his side, lacking any energy to go on. But as he looked at his brother, he watched Papyrus’ chest rise and fall slightly with each breath. He didn’t want to go on, but he needed to for Papyrus’ sake.

“Take care of Papyrus....” His mother’s words echoed in his mind.

Sans winced at the memory, fresh tears seeping out. She was right. Papyrus needed him.

He pulled himself up painfully to a sitting position, leaning against the stone formation. He weakly reached over and grabbed his haversack and agonizingly pulled it over to him. Tired from the effort, he rested and caught his breath.

“Hey, Pap...,” he called quietly. His brother stirred, his face contorting as he slowly awoke. “Pap, wake up...you’ve got to eat....”

Papyrus’s opened his eyes sleepily, twisting his head slightly in a yawn. Then he started struggling to get out of the sling.

“Pap, no,” Sans urged, reaching through the bone bars of the crib to rub his brother’s stomach, soothing him. “I know you’ve been in that all day, but I don’t know...h-how t-to....” His voice cracked and tears fell as Sans recalled his mother wrapping his brother up for travel. “I-I don’t know how to wrap it back up. It’s just for a little while longer.”

Sans pulled out a button mushroom from the haversack and broke a piece off. Grunting and wincing painfully, he leaned towards Papyrus and held it in front of his mouth. Papyrus looked at it briefly, then opened his tiny mouth.

“There you go,” Sans grinned as he popped the mushroom piece in.

Papyrus chewed it slowly, then opened his mouth for more. Piece by piece, Sans fed his brother the mushroom, then a small hunk of bread. When Papyrus had had his fill, Sans placed his hand on Papyrus’ chest and closed his eyes. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Good, your HP is full.”

Sans leaned back against the stone formation and sighed wearily. “I think I’m going to have to eat the whole bag to restore my HP.” He winced, remembering the searing pain of the barrier through his soul. “How much did I lose?”

He put his hand on his own chest and closed his eyes. Through his eyelids, he saw the muted white glow from his chest, but he was confused by the reading.

He shook his head quickly. “That can’t be right.... Let me try that again.”

He checked his HP again and received the same number. His eyes shot open and he started to panic. “No...no, no, no....” He checked a third time, his hand trembling.

1 HP/1 HP.

He started breathing heavily, fear rising up his spine. “H-how?! My max was 250, why is it 1 now?! What happened?!” The pain of the barrier slicing through his soul echoed through his mind. “Th-that... that thing.... D-did...did that thing...?”

Sans clutched his chest as he started panting sharply, his eyes wide. Papyrus whimpered, seeing his brother in distress. Panic flooded through Sans, drowning him under waves of terror.

“O-only 1 HP.... only o-one...,” he stammered hysterically. “I-I’ve tripped and lost 10.... I-I banged my elbow and lost 2.... I-I’m going to d-die.... I’m going to die!”

Papyrus saw Sans hyperventilating and started to writhe frantically in his wrappings. When Sans didn’t respond, he cried out to him. But Sans was panicking too severely, unaware of anything around him. Papyrus then started kicking out his wrapped feet, banging against the bones that kept him confined, crying out loudly. Suddenly, he let out a long, ear-splitting screech and numerous tiny white bones shot out of the cavern floor, hit the ceiling with a rushing clatter, and rained down on them both.

The shower of miniscule bones snapped Sans back into reality. He blinked, gasping for breath, and looked from the crying Papyrus to the little bones scattered around them.

“Pap...?” Sans whispered. He raised his left palm and the bone crib dissolved away. With all the effort he could summon, he leaned over and picked up his bundled little brother, grunting with pain and exertion. He sat back, settling Papyrus in his arms and lap and rocked him gently.

“I’m sorry...,” he whispered, stroking Papyrus’ tear-soaked cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He grinned soothingly at Papyrus, who was still frowning through welled up tears.

“It’s ok. We’re going to be ok,” he said, as if trying to convince even himself. “I’m going to take care of you, we’re going to get out of here and find Daddy, and we’re going to be ok. And do you know why?”

Papyrus stammered with quivering lips. “N...nyeh...?”

Sans picked him up, holding him face to face. He creased his eyes and smiled. “Because I have you, and you have me. As long as we’re together, we’ll be ok.”

Papyrus’s face broke into a grin. “Nyeh!”

Sans hugged Papyrus to him, nuzzling his skull against his brother’s, and rocked. “I love you. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

 -

 Sans had been rocking Papyrus on his lap as he took stock of the situation. The cavern entrance was blocked, and, from what he could tell—having created several glowing blue bones and tossing them around the area to light it up—the cave had no other openings aside from the giant gaping hole in the floor. Sans picked up one of the tiny bones and threw it weakly into the hole. It disappeared, and silence followed.

“Must be really deep,” Sans gulped, glancing at Papyrus. “I hope it has a bottom.”

Sans sighed concernedly. If that hole was the only way, getting down would be impossible. They didn’t have any rope, and aside from stones and rocks, the cavern only had a few vines along the floor and walls. The bigger problem, however, was Sans’ condition. The injury he sustained at the cave entrance had greatly weakened him, and he was not strong enough to even stand. They couldn’t go anywhere until he was able to walk on his own two feet again.

The reading of his single HP max flashed across his memory. He shivered. What if I never get stronger?

Papyrus struggled in his sling again. The baby skeleton had been wrapped up all day. Sans realized he must have been uncomfortable and made the difficult decision to release him.

“You ready to get out of that thing?”

“Nyeh!” Papyrus answered enthusiastically.

Sans looked at the hole and raised his left palm. Large white bones sprung up high around the rim of the hole like a fence. “Can’t have you falling down there.”

Slowly, he started unwrapping the sling that had encased his brother. His hands trembled and tears fell silently as he pulled apart the strip of red cloth his mother had so carefully wrapped up. At last, the baby skeleton was free, and he lifted his arms up and waved them happily.

“Heh,” Sans laughed, wiping his eyes before his brother saw the escaping tears. “I’m glad you’re happy.”

Sans carefully folded the strip from his mother’s red armor cape with shaky hands and tucked it in the haversack. Papyrus got to his feet and wobbled momentarily, then started ambling around.

Sans reached out his hand urgently. “Careful! I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Papyrus answered him in babble-speak, and continued exploring the cavern with his newfound freedom. This gave Sans an idea, even if it wasn’t the most ideal of ones.

“Hey, Pap,” he called. “Can you see if there’s any holes in the walls for me? Anything we can go through to get out of here? But don’t go in them yourself, just tell me about them, ok?”

Papyrus grinned from ear to ear, more than happy to help his big brother. Sans watched as the little skeleton scampered over to the wall and started patting at it, as if to make sure it was indeed solid. He shifted to the side a couple steps and patted the wall again. He repeated this process all along the cave, at some points—to Sans’ distress—disappearing behind other stony formations out of sight. After a while, he ambled back over to Sans.

“Did you check all the walls?” Sans asked.

Papyrus nodded proudly.

“Any holes?”

The little skeleton shook his head, his face drooping sadly.

“No, no, it’s ok,” Sans said encouragingly. “You did a great job! Now we know that big hole is the only way out.”

At this, Papyrus perked up and grinned. “Nyeh!”

“Can you help me with something else?”

His little brother nodded emphatically.

“See all those vines everywhere?” He pointed out several places. “Can you bring me as many as you can find?”

Without hesitation, Papyrus shuffled over to some vines, bent down with his arms wide, and gathered them in a hug against his body. He waddled back to Sans, plopped them in his lap, and went off for another batch.

Sans was glad that Papyrus was in good spirits, despite his mother’s absence. Visions of her in the valley flashed in his memory, and immediately Sans shook his head to clear them before the sadness overtook him again. He distracted himself by inspecting the vines.

They were thick, but he doubted they would be able to hold the weight of him, his brother, and their food supplies down a potentially bottomless pit. However, figuring that they might prove useful somehow, he pulled the leaves off and coiled them, putting aside those that were dried out and crumbling. Papyrus returned several times with armloads of vines. The brothers worked on their tasks in silence in the blue-white glow of the scattered bones.

Papyrus presented Sans with the last of the vines and flumped on the cavern floor beside his brother and watched him work.

Sans rubbed the top of Papyrus’ skull. “Thanks, Pap. This is a huge help. You did a vine job.”

Papyrus giggled, rocking back and forth. Sans grinned.

He put the coil of vines in one of the pockets of the haversack. Then he looked down at the leaves and dried out vines.

“We could use those for a fire,” he said thoughtfully. Then he winced sadly. “I don’t know how, though....”

His parents had taught him many things—foraging, crafting, creating bones, certain skeletal magic techniques—but he had been too young to learn how to build a fire.

Fortunately, he had lighting from the blue bones, the food he brought didn’t need cooking, and the cold didn’t affect him or his brother too much, so fire wasn’t a necessity right now. Afraid to discard them and then find themselves in a situation that required them, he put them in the haversack pocket with the vines. Preparedness was another skill his mother and father had ingrained in him.

Having finished the lengthy task, Sans figured it was time to try to stand up again. He pushed himself up and leaned on the stone formation, but his knees buckled again. He fell on the floor hard, crying out in pain. Papyrus rushed over to him, whimpering as he put his tiny hands on Sans’ back. Sans pulled his hand underneath him to put over his chest to check his health—0.95 HP/1 HP.

Sans lifted his head up weakly, his voice strained. “Looks like we’re not leaving tonight, Pap.”

Papyrus trotted over to Sans’ jacket, where it still lay heaped up where the “crib” had once been. Papyrus returned to Sans’ side and gently put the jacket on his big brother like a blanket.

Sans laughed weakly. “Yeah, we should get some sleep.”

Papyrus dragged the haversack over to his brother laboriously and pushed it against Sans’ head. Sans realized what his brother was doing and lifted his head for the “pillow” his brother provided and laid his head down sideways on it.

“Thanks, Pap....”

He reached in the bag and pulled out a small piece of dried fruit and quickly ate it to bring himself to “full” health.

Papyrus got on his hands and knees and crawled against Sans, nudging his brother’s arm with his head and snuggled in beside him. Sans pulled the jacket around so that Papyrus, too, was covered and wrapped his arms around his brother, nuzzling the top of his head with his chin.

The two brothers fell asleep, bathed in the blue-white glow of bones, feeling the brief respite of peace in the knowledge that they had each other.

#undertale #undertale fanfic #undertale fanfiction #sans #papyrus #babybones #skelebros

[natsspammityspamspamham]

Something that I wrote a while back

Synopsis: It’s about a guy who is kinda like a grim reaper. Yeah. He helps souls transfer into the afterlife.  Trigger Warning: Death Word: ~1900

Life and death.

The beginning and the end.

Anything that happens between those two points is up to the person living it. We can’t control what we are born into. Sometimes, a person can try as hard as they want and still receive nothing from their efforts. Sometimes, luck can grace a person with its presence and give them something that they didn’t deserve. Luck is a coin whose faces are one and the same. Luck isn’t a coin you necessarily flip.

But even if where we start is different, can we end up in a place we want to by the time our mortal lives end?

Within human beings, there are different nationalities, ethnicities, beliefs, morals, and levels of capabilities. We vary in size, face, hair, shape, and even aspirations. But even when you are born into something, it’s okay to believe you want to do something else… right?

Differences make us unique and adaptable, yet we hurt each other for it. It scares me to think that I’m different from you. I’m different from everyone else. We are alike in so many ways yet not the same.

Most of us have secrets. I am no exception. I have many secrets that I conceal within me, but through one of my secrets, I have met many people. I have seen many lives come before me, and I’ve lent a hand to those who were in the dark for I shed a light that guided them to new beginnings. But by no means am I a god; I am a normal mortal human being who is imperfect. I have sinned, made mistakes, and cleaned the pieces from the messes I’ve made. I simply guide souls with regrets into the afterlife for reincarnation. A part of their soul and character remains, but it is regained with every new life. I make sure people are at peace before a part of them says goodbye.

I knocked on her door. I had only received her name. We haven’t even met. She opened the door.

“You’re here to pick me up?” she asked. I nodded. “Well, I’m going to need to get something. You can come in if you like.”

She walked back inside. I invited myself into the quaint house. The stained hardwood floors paved down the hallway. I could hear shuffling in the back where her room was located. There was a living room with an old flower-print couch on the side. There were pictures on the mantle of a girl growing up through the years. She was riding her bike in one then catching fish in another. As she grew older, she began to wear more makeup and began to smile a little less. The fine china dishes were untouched in the cabinets collecting dust. It was a fine home. I walked down the hall with my steps echoing with every touch of the dark hardwood. Pictures lined the walls.

“Did you draw these?” I pointed to the images boxed by frames in the hallway by her room. She didn’t respond. It started with juvenile portraits of her mom, dad, and her. She began drawing simple flowers then ballgowns and dresses. Her final portrait was of a solemn crying face that seemed to belong to her. I turned and entered her room. It was a little cold, but it was mostly neat besides a few pieces of clothing on top of the dresser. “I’m not done yet. Can you please wait outside?” Her voice was shaking. I may have only caught a glimpse, but it was all I needed. She stood over her desk with teardrops cascading down her face. Her hands trembled subtly as it held a picture frame in her hand. She took a minute to recuperate then met me outside.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.”

We began walking down the cracked pavement. There was no one around. The world seemed quiet and untouched.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Lucy Hadfield.” She grew stiff.

“How old are you?”

“I’m… 18.” She was uncomfortable.

“May I ask—”

The wind blew a gust. Her flowing blonde hair glistened in the setting sun. She still had tears in her crystal blue eyes. “May I ask how you died?” Her body let go. A few more tears streamed down her face. She tried to smile. She scoffed with a shaking voice, “Shouldn’t you already know?” The clearest and most honest tears streamed from her face.

She sighed, “I had already gotten everything out of the way too. My soul was put at peace the moment I died. There was nothing left unsaid.” She tried to laugh and gasp for air. “I think my parents knew it was only a matter of time. I hung out with the wrong people, did stupid things, and wanted to be rebellious. I was a teenager. I… I wanted to fit in. I wanted to feel okay. I wanted to be alright. I didn’t want to fit into the norm, and I knew I wasn’t going to be accepted.”

She looked into the mirror and began to sob. “But I didn’t want to die! I didn’t want to leave everyone and everything behind. I tried so hard.” She gasped for air as tears were streaming down her face. She was kneeling collapsed on the floor.

“March 27th. Opioids. I died of an overdose! I couldn’t do anything! I was powerless! I was filled with regret. The paramedics tried their best to save me. They injected me. They performed CPR. I was too far in. This wasn’t supposed to happen! Why did this happen? I felt trapped. No one listened! Why does no one listen?! I cried for help! Why did they leave me alone?! My anxiety was a monster. It got out of hand, and my parents didn’t want to do anything about it! It was just recreational pot at first. Then it went to pain killers, cocaine, but nothing stopped it. I felt so lost. I tried to kill myself, and my parents still didn’t know what to do. They almost lost their daughter once, but they couldn’t save her! They had a name to upkeep. My dad was a reputable municipal politician. My mom was a stay-at-home mom. I was tortured by the circumstances I was born in; can’t you see? I just wanted someone to look out for me, someone to help, and when I thought I found the right people, it just got worse. I understand now that they didn’t know what do to. I get it.”

She tearfully smiled, “My soul is at peace knowing that my parents now accept what happened. They know their faults. My father now advocates for mental health. I couldn’t be happier, so why… why am I still so upset. Why am I still crying?”

“I do not know. I sincerely apologize.” I bowed again. I was lying. She had a right to still be in pain. One of the hardest parts of my job was putting a straight face. Almost everyone I meet who has died may be at peace, but many of them do wish to live again to see their loved ones. It is not that they are not at peace, but they simply desire something that has been taken away from them. You truly don’t know what you have until it’s gone. “I can assure you that—”

“Why am I still in pain?” she asked. “It hurts so much…” she clutched her chest. “How can my heart hurt if it’s not even beating?”

“Even though the pain from the mortal world is lifted upon death, some pain transcends beyond while some new feelings may emerge.” She rose from the ground and slapped me. She raised her fist angrily before setting it back down.

“What am I doing? I’m just delaying the inevitable.” Her arms slung by her sides. “Please, let me say goodbye to them. I was a terrible daughter. A terrible human being. It’s not their fault they didn’t know what to do. Please, I want to share some time with them.”

The tears slowed but never stopped. I stayed outside the room. A thought lingered in my mind. There was a letter addressed to her that was written post-mortem.

“To my beautiful daughter Lucy, Your father and I miss you very much. He’s fighting hard every day in your place. Sometimes I find him asleep on his desk with drool on his paperwork. We think of you every day. Your life never leaves our minds. We’re sorry for how we handled your grief. We should’ve been there when you needed us. I’m now giving speeches and seminars to parents everywhere. As much as we miss you every day, we don’t want your efforts to go to waste. We’ve got it from here! Thank you for being our daughter. We are so proud of you, - Mom”

It was in a frame covered with tears.

She walked into the kitchen where both her parents were sitting at the kitchen table enjoying dinner. A certain glimmer was missing from their eyes. Their smiles were pained, and their movements were strained. She embraced them hard. She didn’t want to let go. Not yet. Her parents paused it was as if something had come over them. Tears filled their eyes, but they did not know the cause.

“Mom, Dad, I love you. I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me.”

She began walking out of the house and gave her final goodbyes. I managed to read the piece of paper that was beside the picture frame scattered with tears.

“What’s going to happen now?” she asked.

“Your spirit will remain here, but your life will be passed on for reincarnation. In essence, your spirit in this lifetime will never die and will always remain, but your life force will be reborn.”

She stepped through the doors of the afterlife. It’s an experience few can describe, but I have seen it countless times. You may feel like you are alone in death, but you never are. Loved ones and other’s spirits will guide you through the unknown. Everyone experiences it differently, but nobody is ever forgotten or alone. Even in life, you may feel isolated, you may feel like you are forgotten or alone, but that is never the case. Someone, whether it’d be through spirit or guidance, is always there. She waved goodbye as she faded with the doorway. She had a smile on her face, but unlike before, it was one that was pure and true. Her soul was truly at peace, her spirit was released, and she was free to move on to her next life without being burdened by her past. Lucy Hadfield will never be truly dead like some in life believe; she will simply be beyond the mortal’s view watching over those she loves and cares about.

This section ends here, and even though this story takes a more dramatic and sullen tone, I was originally intending for this story to be a bit lighter? It all changes when someone stumbles in. She completely changes everything. A bit more of the reaper’s background (won’t say backstory) is revealed. The two meeting turns into more confusion (for me because I don’t know how to write it).

#writing #dino rambles

[blueplanettrash]

if youre still continuing the werewolf lance series, could you write something where lance becomes an agressive wolf due to a moon or smth and nearly attacks the team, but comes to his senses right before?

Boys, I get to sleep in for the next six days until my next exam and I haven’t been so excited in my life. Probably because I can stay up as long as I want without there being any real consequence. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this next part of werewolf Lance ❤️

After the week of Lance being stuck in his wolf form, the team decided that they would monitor any planets for lunar activity in order to safely let Lance transform. It was about time for Lance to transform, the ache in his bones becoming unbearable. He hesitantly approached Coran and Allura and told them how he was feeling and asked if they would be able to land on a planet for a night. They happily agreed but decided that it would probably be better for him to choose which planet he wanted to land on considering that he knew what would be best for his cycle.

“I think this one looks pretty good,” he said after studying the bridge’s star map for a while. He swiped the planet over to Allura’s console so she could input the coordinates. Before she began creating the wormhole she decided to call the rest of the tea up to the bridge so they would be able to stay with Lance as he transformed.

“Whats up Allura?” Pidge asked as she and the other paladins came through the door.

“We are docking planetside for the night to allow Lance to transform,” she announced gesturing over to Lance, who was blushing and curling up slightly in embarrassment. They looked over at him with smiles on their faces.

“Sorry guys,” he said rubbing the back of his neck.

“Don’t worry about it Lance, we love you whatever form you’re in,” Hunk said picking him up in a hug. He grinned and happily snuggled into Hunk’s arms.

“Alright, opening wormhole now,” Allura announced. They watched as blue flashed in front of the Castle and they travelled through to see another planet. It looked to be a barren planet covered in sand like a dessert, they were in luck as they landed on the day side of the planet so they had a few hours to prepare for Lance’s night.

“Is there anything else we need to do to prepare?” Keith asked Lance. He thought for a moment but shook his head.

“I don’t think so,”

“So what? We just wait?” Hunk asked coming up behind him and putting his hand on his shoulder. Lance shrugged his shoulders and gave the teen a small smile. Shiro walked in, a few blankets in his arms. He walked over to the two of them and threw the blankets over top of them.

“Shiro,” Lance groaned. He laughed and ruffled his hair before walking over to talk to Pidge and Allura. They watched as the sun started lowering in the sky and the colours of red and pink stretched across the sky. Soon enough the moon started rising. Strangely the moon appeared red in the sky and they looked at it in confusion even as Lance started writhing and transforming under the blankets that Shiro brought.

“It’s like a harvest moon,” Keith said in awe as he looked at the moon. It was much closer to the planet than the moon that orbited Earth.

They switched their attention back to their teammate as his transformation seemed more violent than the last time they saw it.

“Is this normal?” Pidge whispered to Hunk who was nervously wringing his hands together.

“I don’t think so,” he replied, they could tell that he wanted to get to his knees and comfort the werewolf but wasn’t about to ignore his friend’s warning. They let out a sigh of relief when he finally stilled and could see his chest heaving up and down for a breath. They immediately started forward ready to comfort and pet him like they did before.

“Hey Lance, are you okay?” Shiro asked crouching low towards him. Lance’s eye snapped open and looked over at the approaching figures. Shiro reached out with his galra hand, intending to stroke his ears back like he usually did.

With a loud snarl, Lance leapt up and clamped his teeth down on his cybernetic arm and started trashing it around. Shiro let out a scream and held fast to his upper arm trying to get himself steady. With a loud screech of metal, his teeth ripped through the metal and Shiro flew back in shock. The galra arm dropped from Lance’s jaw with a loud snarl and he stalked forward. He jumped forward again, this time aimed at Pidge with teeth and claws bared. A yelp came out of his mouth when Hunk’s fist struck him on the side of the head and neck, making him fly away from the ground in a heap.

“Sorry!” Hunk called tearfully, pulling Shiro up and pulling them out of the room. They ran through the Castle hearing Lance’s claws clicking on the floor in the distance behind them. They slammed the door to the training deck open and before they could seal it, Lance forced his body through the closing doors. He paced on the other side of the room, drool slipping out of his mouth to drip onto the floor. With a single twitch, he was sprinting towards the paladins but was slammed back into the floor as Coran transformed and running into him. Allura followed a second later and circled him the opposite way of Coran.

“Lance, stop this!” She demanded. Lance shook his head slightly as if he was getting rid of a voice in his head. He was twitching all over and foaming at the mouth as he watched the two of them warily.

“Lance, can you hear us?” Coran asked with worry. Lance didn’t show any signs of knowing what the two of them were saying and only watched them eerily before looking back over at the paladins. He shook his furry head again and focused on Allura. Without a second thought, he jumped on top of Allura, and attempted to sink his claws into her. She yelped and threw him off of her, this was nothing like the play fighting they did. This was dangerous and scary. He actually wanted to hurt her.

“Please Lance,” she cried as he came forward again. He sprinted towards her again, jaw open, ready to rip into her throat. Thankfully Coran was quicker and clamped down on the side of his neck, and held him to the ground. He flailed his legs around trying to get off of the ground and let out awful growls and snarls at the Altean. The paladins watched the blood from Hunk’s punch and saliva drip out of Lance’s mouth onto the floor. He looked completely feral, they didn’t want to admit it but he was terrifying them. Especially since he had completely ripped Shiro’s arm, who was still looking at the port in shock. Coran held him securely though, firmly but not enough to cause any more damage to him.

Lance couldn’t see anything but danger around him. Red in colour and wriggling around him tauntingly. It started with the sentry’s arm coming towards him. He couldn’t be captured, he had to help his friends and get back to Earth. He had to get rid of it but before he could, a massive galra punched him in the face. He had to go after them though, no matter much his jaw hurt.

He couldn’t let them escape. He had to protect the team.

He forced his way inside their ship, he had them trapped now. There was one galra that was smaller than the others, he could take that one first. Then he could worry about the others. He didn’t account that they would have yuppers though, big aggressive ones at that.

“Lance, stop this!”

What?

Yuppers don’t know how to say anything but yup. Did they mutate this one or something? How did it know his name?

There were too many questions but he couldn’t focus on them right now, he had a job to do. If he had to go through the yuppers to do it, then that’s what would have to happen.

“Lance can you hear us?” he just barely heard it this time, too focused on his target to pay attention to the other yupper he encountered. He moved his attention back to the galra pressed against the wall. One of them was inspecting the sentry’s sparking arm. They usually didn’t give another shit about the sentries, they were easily replaced. Why was this one so special? No. Not important. He shook his head and focus on his target, the smaller yupper. He lunged forward trying to take it off guard but it launched him off of it and he skidded across the room. He only had a few more chances before they all ambush him, he needed to take care of this. He tried to grab the yupper again but was attacked by the second one. He yelped when he was slammed onto the floor in front of the group of galra. He couldn’t imagine what they were going to do to him. He struggled frantically, snarling in the hope that he would scare the yupper that was holding him. His chest heaved in breaths and he ceased his struggling, trying to gauge the group in front of him.

There were four of them in the group, three galra and one sentry. It was still strange, the sentry was acting strangely human-like. It was looking at the missing limb as if it was in shock. The galra looked between the sentry and him with concerned and terrified expressions on their faces. Why did they look so worried? He was at their mercy, why weren’t they trying to kill him?

He had never seen galra dressed like this either, they did have on the normal dark armour but they didn’t have any weapons. He had never seen a galra that wore glasses before, he thought that they had perfect eyesight for some reason. A dark purple headband was also a surprise he’s never seen anyone but Hunk wear a headband like that. A deep sense of unease planet itself in his stomach as his eyes roved over the other two. A gasp tore it’s way out of his throat as he saw the knife pointed defensively towards him. That was Keith’s knife. He never let that knife leave his possessions, it wouldn’t be anywhere near here. He already had an idea what was happening, but a final look at the sentry confirmed it. It had a deep gouge in the middle of its face, it wasn’t very visible unless you looked closely since the metal was the same colour through and through.

“I did this,” he whispered out. With that, the illusion around him collapsed and he saw the full-blown terror in his friend’s eyes. The shock Shiro was going through as he looked at his ripped off arm. The quiet growls that were coming from Coran’s mouth as he held him down.

Immediately a loud whine came from Lance’s mouth as he stared over at the paladins. They focused on his face when he let out the sound, from Allura and Coran’s side, they heard a loud drawn out sob. Coran unclamped from around his neck and Lance leapt up and ran to the corner of the room away from them and curled up.

“Lance?” Coran asked walking forward slightly. Lance pushed his head onto the wall and refused to look at him.

“Please leave me alone,” he said quietly. Coran hesitated slightly but backed away. As he walked back to the other paladins he transformed.

“He wishes to be alone,” he informed them sadly.

“What? He almost just killed us and he wants to be left alone?” Keith asked angrily. He crossed his arms and glared over at the corner of the room. He felt a hand come down on his shoulder and turned to look at Shiro.

“Do you really think he meant to though?” He asked with a frown. Keith huffed but looked down at the ground.

“I’m not leaving this room guys,” Hunk said sternly sitting on the ground and watching Lance.

“Me neither,” Pidge agreed sitting beside him. Shiro looked down at them with a smile.

“I guess that’s, that,” he said sitting on the other side of Hunk. Hunk looked over to look at his arm.

“Well, maybe I’ll leave for a second to get my tools and maybe we can do something about your arm,” he said with a smile.

“Yes, that would be pretty handy,” he deadpanned waving his stump at him. Pidge choked and burst out laughing.

“Goddammit Shiro,” Keith groaned wiping his hands down his face. Shiro shrugged and laid back as Hunk got up to gather his tools. He sent Lance one last glance before he left through the door.

As the sun started peeking up over the horizon, Coran was able to walk over and throw a blanket over the unmoving wolf. They watched in pity as his transformation began again but it was nowhere as near violent as the earlier one had been. They got and began walking towards him again. He peeked his head out and as he saw them coming closer, burst into fresh tears.

“I’m so sorry!” he bawled curling the blanket around him. “I don’t know what happened, that’s never happened to me before, I’m so so sorry,”

“Lance it’s okay,” Allura started lifting her hands up calmly.

“No, it’s not okay! I could have killed someone!” He argued tears rolling down his face in frustration and anger at himself.

“Lance, the only one that got hurt last night was you, we’re all completely fine,” Keith said gesturing around at each other.

“Really?” He asked skeptically. He looked around at all of them, it didn’t look like anyone had gotten hurt until his eyes rested on Shiro. Or more specifically, his arm.

“I did that, didn’t I?” He asked shakily pointing at the bare port on his arm.

“Well, yes, but I finally get to get rid of my connection to the galra and Hunk and Pidge are going to build me a better one,” he said kneeling on the ground in front of him. He opened his remaining arm open wide, an obvious invitation to hug. Lance shrunk back slightly because of the memories but after a moment shuffled forward and fell into Shiro’s embrace. Without a word, everyone else joined in and held on as Lance cried into Shiro’s shoulder again. He didn’t deserve to feel so loved after everything that happened that night, but they thought differently. They thought that he needed this after everything that he had been through.

Even if he did go through someone’s arm in the process.

In Lance’s opinion though, the new one was much better.

It threw much more smoothly than the other, and much further. Making their games of catch even better than the others.

Part 1/2/3/4/5

Stories Masterlist

#vld #voltron #voltron legendary defender #lance mcclain #lance #shiro #takashi shirogane #hunk garrett #hunk #pidge gunderson #pidge #keith #keith kogane #coran #allura #langst #angst #werewolves #werewolf!lance #werewolf lance #shapeshifting #agressive werewolf #fanfic

[a-slightcatchoflightning]

Hold On - An FBG AU

Tw:// suicide, blood, fireworks, vomit mention, burns (if there are any more, please tell me)

Based on the song: Hold On - Chord Overstreet

(This might make more sense if you listen to it first)

For @casual-laurie omg this took me so long I’m sorry

Words: 3,811

November 5th: 4pm

He succumbed to the chill in the air, pulling his windbreaker around him in attempt to pull what little warmth his body produced closer to him; the cigarette dropped from his mouth and he ground it into the dirt with his heel the way any chain-smoker would, before yanking his windbreaker even closer to his chin, his breaths raspy as the temperature ever lowered itself.

“Come on Dervs, time to go home” Lofty told the greyhound as she raised her head and tilted it to the left as though to question the crushed filter resting beneath the toe of Lofty’s boot.

“I don’t smoke” He told her, tugging her lead gently and walking her away from the pond they were facing, losing the reflections that danced across the water, “I know you wouldn’t judge me, even if I did…”

As they turned the corner to the park gate Lofty felt the smoke in the air, but he shrugged it off, instinctually pulling Dervla a little closer into heel.

365 days earlier

“I’m sorry; we need to ask you keep your distance Sir!” One of the paramedic’s cries, but the man running alongside the stretcher doesn’t see him. His tunnel vision is focused only on his son and the pooling crimson that decorates the sheet beneath him – despite their best efforts, even the paramedics can’t erase the action of mere hours before.

“But he’s my son!” The man screams, wrestling with the numerous nurses and porters immediately on hand as they burst through into the ED, “He’s my son…” His voice cracks as he tears a hand across his face in desperate attempt to clear his eyes of the tears that stream from them, distorting his vision.

“Sir, please” Yet another nurse attempts to pull him to the side, away from the incoming trolley and to the side of the doors leading into resus.

“No! I need to be with my son!” His words overlap the frantic instructions of the doctors and suddenly a nurse he knows steps from those crowding his son.

“Dyl…Dyl!” His shouts swamp all of those around him, breaking through part of the man’s hazed mind. “Dyl, he isn’t going to be okay if you keep obstructing them, you need to come with me!” Somehow, Lee manages to stay calm despite the haste.

“H-He’s gonna b-bleed out like M-Maddie did” Dylan whines as he lets Lee steer him through double doors to the relative room, his struggling is numbed by the realisation.

“No, no, no; Dylan it’s gonna be okay, he’s not gonna bleed out, I promise… He’s gonna be okay…”

Dylan nods tearfully, gripping Lee’s shoulders as he trembles. “Are-are you just saying that because you want it to be true, or do you…” His eyes glaze over as he turns, trying to take in the room and forget everything else. “Do you jus- do you just want it to be true?” His teeth are gritted, and his voice wavers dangerously as Lee shakes his head and helps him to sit.

“It will be true” He assures him.

November 5th: 5pm

“Dads, I’m home” Lofty called through the boat, shutting the door with a solid thump, behind him. Kicking off his shoes, he loosened Dervla’s lead and watched as she skittered off into the kitchen, leaving him to hang the lead on the hook by their faded red door.

“Hello Ben, how was it?” Dylan came through the kitchen door, half-occupied with the tying of his bowtie, clearly readying himself for the night.

“Yeah… It was good” Lofty forced a smile now how face had thawed from the biting cold outside. “Bit cold.” He added shrugging off his coat and following Dylan into the kitchen.

His feet were heavy.

“Here Ben, give us a hand!” David laughed from where he stood by the stove. His tie hung loose around his neck, making him look as though a child dressing in his father’s clothes.

“Okay” Lofty replied, stepping over and deftly tying the tie around his Dad’s neck, adjusting it slightly until it looked smart, “Your waistcoat looks nice, Papa”

“Thank you Ben” David smiled, ruffling his son’s curls gently, “So what are you going to be doing tonight? You could always invite Max over?”

Lofty ran a hand through his curls. “Max is busy tonight… And Iain and Dixie are still in Cyprus…” Admittedly Max wasn’t busy, but having him over would ruin Lofty’s plans, he thought, “Do you mind if I go to my room? I need to work on the curtain call…”

“Of course you can go, Ben” Dylan assured him from where he stood to his son’s left; he was slightly confused as to why his son was asking to go to his room, but he shrugged it off anyway and turned to his husband with a soft smile.

365 days earlier

Lofty bounces into the kitchen, steadying himself on the table, before looking up and grinning at David, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Anything I can help with Papa?”

“Could you give this a stir for me please? I’m going to go find out where your Dad’s got to… He said he’d only be fifteen minutes” David chuckles, shaking his head fondly as he takes his mobile and leaves the room.

Lofty smiles into the mixture he stirs it, watching intently as it swirls in the heat of the pan, and he thinks of the night ahead.

November 5th: 6pm

Lofty collapsed on his bed; his head had only been getting louder since he awoke, and he wasn’t sure he could stand it for much longer, let alone if it was going to be the same every year. Sure, Will had warned him this might happen, but he wasn’t expecting such a sheer concentration of volume to descend on him in one go.

“Ben?” A soft knock brought Lofty out of his trance and he sat up, brushing the tears he hadn’t even noticed had fallen, from his face.

“Yeah?”

“We know today’s hard for you… We can stay on the boat tonight if you like…” Dylan spoke gently as he sat beside his son on the bed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him ever so slightly closer.

“No, I’m okay Dad” Lofty smiled up at him, “You and David have been planning this for months… You should go, I’ll be okay”

“Are you sure?” Hope wavered in Dylan’s voice, as much as he tried to mask it, and Lofty heard the hope. He couldn’t crush his Dad again; Dylan was constantly doing things for him, it was his turn now.

“Of course!” Lofty stood from the bed and walked across to his desk, picking up some homework left strewn. “I’ll watch a movie with Dervla and get this done” He waved the drama work unenthusiastically and felt a gentle heat inside when Dylan chuckled in response.

“Okay then, we’re only a phone call away” Dylan stood, making his way towards the open door, before turning back again. “I’m proud of you Ben”.

He closed the door on his way out.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Lofty flopped back down onto his bed, listening for the inevitable clunk of the front door closing and the sound of heels on gravel. The expected noises sounded just fifteen minutes later and gave the cue for Lofty to sit again.

If it hadn’t been for the sound of a screamer along the horizon.

365 days earlier

A crack of gunpowder sounds as the firework shoots off the deck of the boat and Lofty jumps in anticipation; everyone sighs as a reflection of gold sparks flit across the surface of the water like butterflies – they are in awe of the beauty that splits the sky.

November 5th: 7pm

Lofty shot off the end of his bed before having even sat up fully and snatched his mobile from his desk, leaving the script discarded atop his duvet.

“C-come on” He stuttered, watching as his fingers helplessly attempted to make contact with the dial-pad button, before giving in and jabbing the phonebook image, tears blurring his vision.

One ring…

           Two rings…

The end of the line crackled as Max picked up, breathless, most likely from running to the phone.

“Lofty? I thought you were going out tonight?”

“M-max…”

“Lofty this isn’t funny, why are you calling me?” Lofty could hear what could only be… irritation in his boyfriend’s voice, and he shrank back physically at the thought.

“I’m sorry, please help”

“Why?”

“Th-there was a screamer” Lofty stated bluntly, not able to rub the tears away as quickly as they formed behind his quivering eyelids.

365 days earlier

The boat chars around Lofty’s shaking form – the body of the firework they’d said farewell to only moments ago pierces his chest and lower half of his face, cruelly branding the areas into which it rips.

“Ben!” Dylan’s voice is hoarse and his screams of anguish echo across the water, ricocheting for what must be a mile. His son’s body judders in the cold and when Dylan gasps for breath, he can hear the teeth of the boy chattering. “Ben, I’m not going to let you die” Dylan whines, biting back tears.

A second figure rushes through the sliding glass doors, phone grasped in hand. He shakes with such violence; he may as well be his own personal earthquake.

“A-ambulance is on its w-way” David can feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, too much for his body to accommodate for, so instead it vibrates in fear.

Dylan’s sobs, and his son’s chattering teeth are muted as the atmosphere is filled with the overwhelming barrage of sirens. For a brief moment, Dylan’s attention flicks to the side as he realises Lee is on shift until gone midnight that night, and then dread swarms his body as realisation hits as to just how many burn injuries will have to be treated that night.

Does Lofty stand a chance?

November 5th: 9pm

Lofty awoke, an imprint of his phone left pressed into his face from where he lay sprawled across his bedroom floor. Rubbing his head as he stood, he winced against the gentle bruise that formed; he couldn’t remember how he reached the floor, and then all of a sudden, he could. Wincing weakly at the glow of the streetlights through his bedroom window, Lofty pushed himself from the floor and grabbed his phone.

“Fuck you” He muttered as he crept from his room.

“Th-there was a screamer”

“You know what Loft? I get that you’re having a-a crisis or something, but I’m really not in the mood!”

“Please… I’m sorry…”

“You will be. Don’t fucking lie and say you’re too busy to call and then call me begging for help!”

“M-Max if you knew…”

“Stop crying, we aren’t six anymore. I’m really angry Lofty; you can’t just screw me over like this!”

“Fine so leave! Just leave me alone, I don’t care about you anymore! I hope you stop caring too! Maybe it’ll hurt less…”

      “Oh bugger off then”

Max hung up, leaving only a dead line to punctuate the next rattling screamer. Lofty needn’t have worried though; his sobs soon drowned the sound of any fireworks.

Lofty could feel the clamminess of his hands as he wrung them together with anxiety, his fingers shaking violently as he hung over the call button, Max’s name highlighting the otherwise darkness surrounding him as he stood alone in the bathroom. A tap on the bath dripped and Lofty shivered again.

For a split-second, realisation of what this might do to his dads hit him, but he shoved it back, shrouding it in the darkness that seemed to inhabit his soul; it was as much a scar as the one that disfigured his chest and left arm, why should he have to cope with either scar any longer?

His finger slipped and suddenly the dial-tone was sounding, but as much as he wanted to, Lofty couldn’t hang up.

So he waited.

“Lofty I already said… Okay, I’m sorry for most of what I said, but call me back tomo-“

“I’m about to kill myself-and, and I want you to know it’s not your fault” Lofty choked back a sob, biting his lip in desperation to keep back the tears; he didn’t deserve to be the one crying for what he was about to do, “There are t-too many screamers and they-they keep getting in my head… Not just today, every day… I can-“

The line went dead with a click and Lofty felt his knees collapse as though they were never there to start with.

An indistinguishable murmur – a mixture of relief and hurt – escaped his lips as he went to make the first cut with the blade concealed in his phone case.

365 days earlier

“Oh my god, Dad!” Lofty laughs uncontrollably as David emerges from the living room wearing a hat constructed entirely of balloons, shaped into a giraffe.

Lofty’s fingers are intertwined with Max’s in the chill of the November air and they wear matching grins as they watch David make a matching hat for Dylan who shakes his head fondly and plays moody, refusing to wear it as though a young child.

“Here, I’ll wear it” Lofty giggles, taking the hat and placing it on his head one-handed, only to miss and for it to fly away in the gentle breeze, landing atop the water.

“You know we’re going to have to get that in, right?” Dylan mutters to his husband, “The council will be all over us if we don’t…”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s do fireworks first though darling” David leans in to peck Dylan’s lips and Lofty and Max groan jokingly, turning away to look over the water as they steal a kiss of their own.

November 5th: 9:30pm

Max ran, his chest heaving as rain thundered down onto him, each droplet sharp like a blade as it plastered his hair to his face. Scrubbing the soaked tendrils of hair from his face messily with one hand, he used the other to steady himself as he fell into the side of the boat, having finally reached it.

“Lofty open up!” His screams resounded around the port, quickly followed by his raining down of thumps at the door. “Lofty!” His throat was scraped raw and he kicked the plant pot over, not bothered by the broken pottery eight-year-old Lofty had worked at for hours.

Upon grabbing the key, Max grazed his knuckles on the wood of the stair and swore viciously as his shaking hands attempted desperately to unlock the door.

He didn’t stop screaming until he reached the bathroom.

365 days earlier

“I’m so sorry” Lee walks into the room. He looks numb, as though his surroundings and himself have been paused and put on mute. It’s grey, the thought invades Dylan’s brain, and he can think of nothing else.

“What.” It’s more of a statement than a question, but Lee takes what Dylan says on board, pulling at his scrubs anxiously, before shutting the door behind him and muting the surroundings even further.

“I-it’s unchangeable… it’ll be there forever, I’m so sorry”

“What.”

November 5th: 10pm

“L-Lofty no…” Max’s fingers stumbled across his boyfriend’s bloodied phone screen as he searched for the ‘9’ on the emergency call dial pad.

“Mmph” Came the unexpected response.

Max’s hands slid around as he tore his t-shirt and tied each of the two strips frantically around Lofty’s upper arms.

“Please don’t leave me!” He screamed as his boyfriend’s eyelids fell shut and his posture became more slumped than before, if that was possible. “Lofty please!”

Hold on, I still want you Come back, I still need you Let me take your hand, I'll make it right I swear to love you all my life Hold on, I still need you

“P-please” Tears like torrential rain tipped from Max’s eyes and he didn’t try to control them anymore, nor did he care about his exposed upper half or the wet locks of hair that stuck to his head. Blood decorated his upper torso like some sick stain, marking him as a traitor; a traitor to his own boyfriend. His own Lofty.

He shuddered.

“I-if only I hadn’t yelled at you…” He choked to Lofty’s un-responsive form, “I=I’m so sorry”

365 days earlier

Sirens dance through the air and Dylan’s attention hooks away from the invisible blood laced across his palms and instead onto them. Still, he can’t stop staring into the lines on his hands – those marks.

He imagines a fortune teller reading them; what would they say? A solemn voice perhaps - or one deeply concentrating. How would he handle the words? “Your son is dead.” Would the teller even need to concentrate? The answer is inevitable; even the merest of mortals can see it coming a mile off…

So why can’t Dylan believe it?

November 5th: 11pm

A long endless highway, you're silent beside me

Max had vomited, as much as he’d wanted to hide the shock and the chill in his bones. His mouth tasted of acid, but he couldn’t tell – his boyfriend lay on a stretcher, a heart monitor displaying the slowing pulse Max never wanted to see as they raced towards Holby Hospital.

“Try to remain calm” The paramedic spoke quietly, in an even voice, but Max could see even he had dark circles that read pity beneath his eyes, and his hands were nervous despite the slow reassurance of his voice.

“S-sorry” Max’s teeth chattered and the second paramedic of the three unrolled a crinkling foil blanket and lay it gently over his trembling form. Max pulled it closer instinctually.

“No need to apologise” The second paramedic had a blonde pixie cut, and was wide in stature, but with kind eyes: the sort that gave the impression she was always smiling, even though everyone in the hastening vehicle wore the same grave expression. As she made eye contact with Max, she knew he knew what she did.

a nightmare I can't escape from Helplessly praying, the light isn't fadin'

365 days earlier

“I love you” Max whispers, smiling against Lofty’s lips, and pulling him a little closer.

“I love you too”

I can't imagine a world with you gone The joy and the chaos, the demons we're made of I'd be so lost if you left me alone

November 5th: 11:30pm

They took you away on a table I pace back and forth as you lay still

“Where’s my son?” A frightened father crashed through the double doors into the ED, immediately spotting Max sitting to the side, his eyes red and swollen with shed tears, and more tears yet unshed.

Dylan felt something drop.

           A weight.

“Please take a seat sir” A nurse came slowly across to where Dylan stood, every essence of his once formal attire displaying his distress. As the nurse’s hands made gentle contact with either of Dylan’s shoulders, Dylan gave in, allowing himself to be led across to where Max sat.

“What happened?”

“I-I’m sorry” Max stuttered, before going silent.

365 days earlier

“We need more bloods! Can you put pressure on the blood please?” Lee’s calls became gradually more frantic as the boy’s blood pressure dropped suddenly. “This is our last chance! I’m not letting this one go; not another tonight” His voice rose over the panic of resus, and strangely, calmed his colleagues who appeared to take on a new, more controlled urgency.

November 5th: 00:00am

I don't wanna let go I know I'm not that strong

“Why did you two fight?” Dylan’s voice was a monotone that split the silence between the two of them. Well, if silence meant doctors and nurses rushing overtime with burns victims on top of the expected RTC’s.

“He called me. He said… He said he was busy tonight, and then he called me and tried to t-tell me about screamers” A fresh tear crept down Max’s face, but he wiped it; irritated. “I yelled at him.”

That last statement hung stalely in the air and Dylan processed it, selecting his next words carefully.

“Max… As much as I’d like to… I don’t believe this was your fault…”

“How is it not my fault?” Max’s voice also hung as a monotone, “I yelled at him Dylan! Don’t you get what I’m saying?”

Dylan looked into the tired, sore eyes of the boy who sat before him. His hoodie was creased more than it should have been and his hair messy and half-dry stuck to his face and neck in places. Bloodshot eyes with a red-rim looked back into his, and didn’t at all resemble the usual cocoa-brown that Max’s held.

“He told me” Dylan took a breath, “He told me that you were busy tonight.”

“Oh.”

“I think he’s been planning this quite some time, Max, and I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault.”

Max slammed his palm against his forehead and cried out in anguish. “That’s what he was fucking trying to tell me wasn’t it!? All the crap about screamers and being sorry and everything; why didn’t I see it before!?”

“Max, this wasn’t your fault darling” Dylan rapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders, but was pushed away almost as soon as his arm made contact.

“Th-there were signs” Max didn’t try to wipe away the tears that dribbled softly down his face.

“What signs, love?” Max paused at the new terms of endearment Dylan used, but continued anyway.

“He started… h-he started smoking, but he wouldn’t ac-actually do it… He just pretended and th-then crushed it b-because he said he’d skipped death once and he-he wanted to show it who w-was in charge… He called me one night an-and asked if there was a voice in m-my head too and I s-said yeah because I th-thought he’d just woken fr-from a dream… It was four am…”

“Hey, you couldn’t have possible seen this coming…” Dylan reassured him.

Just as Max opened his mouth to argue, David crashed through the doors from outside, scanning the room desperately, before his eyes landed on the two sorry figures, one of whom stood. Dylan ran over and embraced him frantically, the sobs he’d wanted to release for hours now, finally being allowed to escape.

Max could just about pick up the mutters from the two men, a mixture of “It’s okay… You’re okay” and then, “Blames himself…”

Max shook his head and turned it to count the streetlights through an angled window as the two men came and took the seats to his left. He shook his head again.

365 days earlier

“Dylan?” Lee waved a hand slowly in front of the older man’s face, bringing Dylan’s attention back into the room gradually.

“Just say it” Dylan muttered, staring at the floor.

“He’s alive.”

Let's go home.

#shoelace fandom #pls review #fierce brave gang

[pandabearlikes]

Temporary Affairs

Table of Contents 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 

Chapter 14. For Better or For Worse

  “I’m not marrying him,” you said firmly.

  The coffee mug fell from your mother’s hands, shattering on the table.  Coffee spilled across the cloth as your mother desperately tried to clean up the mess. 

  “What?” your father asked.

  “I’m not marrying Kim Jongin.  Ever,” your voice trembled. 

  “_______ah, do you know what you are saying?” your mother asked. 

  “Yes, if I was not clear enough.  I will repeat myself.  I will never, ever marry Kim Jongin,” you spoke.  Your knees wobbled. 

  “Did you guys get into a small argument?  You were fine a few days ago.  He even came over during New Years,” your mother tried to downplay so that your father would calm down. 

  “I don’t care if you want to or not, you are marrying him,” your father said sternly as he got up to leave. 

  “Appa…” you called out then criticized, “Please.  You can’t use my marriage as a means for your business.  That is so unfair!”

  A slap landed across your face.  Your palm pressed against your cheek as it throbbed.  Beside you, your mother’s hand shook in fear. 

  “________ah, how dare you talk to your father like that!” she lectured. 

  You burst into tears as you got up from your kneeling position.  Instantly, you stormed off to your room. 

  “You are marrying Kim Jongin and you will marry him as soon as possible!” your father called after you.

  Slamming your bedroom door, you slid down the wall, collapsing onto the floor like some unwanted trash. 

  ----

  Due to your sudden outburst, the wedding was moved from May 20th to February 14th.  For the entire month, you begged and pleaded, kneeled and cried but your father was adamant about using your happiness as his source of financial stability.  Jongin called you all day everyday until you were desperate enough to rip your SIM card into pieces. 

  Three days before the wedding, you went on a hunger strike.  You refused any food that came remotely close to you and locked yourself in your princess room.  By day two, dark rings formed under your eyes and you had no energy to even lift your body up, much less walk down the aisle.  A sad smile crept onto your face when you thought you succeeded.  However, on the night before the wedding, your father broke the door down.  Doctors and nurses rushed in securing an IV drip onto your wrist.  You thrashed around, trying to rip it off but they sedated you.  Your eyes rolled back and your body fell limp against your bed.  The last thing you heard before knocking out was your mother begging your father to let you go. 

  When you woke up the next morning, you were still dizzy and weak but alive enough for your father to push you to the church chapel.  You refused to get dressed so some workers forcefully stripped you.  Crying, you covered your exposed body with your arms.  As they tugged on the corset straps, you coughed uncontrollably.  Your mother motioned for the maids to step out for a brief moment.  She placed a hand on your shoulder. 

  “_______ah, my precious daughter.  Please stop fighting,” she begged. 

  You sobbed, “I loved him I really did…but I can’t marry him”.

  “Please, _______ah.  You know your father’s health is not good.  Last night, he fainted when he saw your pale face,” she tearfully spoke.

  “W-what?” you asked, shocked.

  “I understand that it is not fair that we must use your marriage as a way to keep us financially stable, but it is what it is,” she patted your arm. 

  Turning to the mirror, you saw the bone that protruded out on your shoulders.  Your complexion looked like that of a ghost.  Blinking away tears, you nodded to your mother.  She sighed in relief and left. 

  With shaking hands, you held your breath and tightened your dress.  The extra weight of the gown caused you to stumble backward.  Shaking your head, you grabbed onto a rail to steady yourself.  Quickly, you placed your headpiece on.  The veil cascaded down your face like waterfalls.  Soon after, the makeup guru came in to darken your pale skin and hide the bags under your eyes. 

  Outside, the wedding bells began to ring.  You stood up from your chair and walked to meet up with your father.  Your mother’s words were true.  He had aged a decade in less than three days and you swallowed in guilt, feeling like you were the worst daughter on this planet. 

  “Appa, sorry…” you apologized. 

  Tears welled in his eyes but he blinked it back.  Your arm looped through his.  The Wedding March began to play.  You took a deep breath and walked toward the aisle, beside your father.  As the church door opened, you saw Kim Jongin for the first time in a month.  He was still as handsome as ever, though obviously agitated and much thinner.  With eyes staring back to yours, he watched you as you dragged your weak body down the aisle.  Your father took your hand and placed it onto Jongin’s outstretched palms.  Immediately, the bipolarity of temperatures caused you to flinch back.  You were burning up a fever and Jongin was as cold as ice.  Gazing around, the room spun and you almost collapsed over if it hadn’t been your husband’s strong grip on you. 

  The preacher spoke words of introduction but all you heard were loud ringing noises in your ear.  By the time you had to say your vows, you were practically leaning your entire weight against Jongin.  He looked at you worriedly. 

  “The groom will now say his wedding vows”, the preacher man spoke.

  You both turned to look at each other. 

  With his hands tightly holding yours, Jongin began, “I, Kim Jongin, choose you, ________ ________, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part”.

            Tears fell down your face as you desperately tried to believe his words but you couldn’t.  You just couldn’t.  But even though you couldn’t…from the soreness of your wounded heart, you knew you had no choice because you were in love.  Because love made you do stupid things. 

  The preacher rambled on and on but you couldn’t concentrate enough to comprehend what he was saying. 

  As Jongin squeezed your hands, you tearfully said, “I, ________ ________, choose you, Kim Jongin, as my lawfully wedded husband.  I promise to love you for today, always, and eternity, to accept you for who you are and to cherish you no matter what the circumstances are, to listen to your words, and to trust you with my heart, through sorrow and success, for all the days of my life.     

  You looked up to see your husband’s face swamped in tears.  Shaking, he slipped the wedding band onto your hand.  You took his hand and held it against your chest before placing the ring onto his finger. 

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss the bride!” the preacher spoke. 

  Instantly, Jongin cupped your face and he kissed you desperately, like none before.  Through your tears, you kissed him back with just as much passion.  Because even if he didn’t love me…it didn’t and never will stop me from loving him.  The crowd cheered.  When you parted lips, you almost fainted, yet again, but your newly wedded husband knew enough to hold you tightly. 

  “Oppa…” you whispered as he stroked your face. 

  He kissed you a few times again and you clung to him until you had no more strength to even hold on any longer.  As soon as the pre-session ended, you collapsed into your husband’s arms. 

  “_________ah.  _________!” he called, shaking your weak body. 

  Instantaneously, he lifted you up.  You closed your eyes to stop the vertigo from escalating but it does not help. 

  “O-oppa, I’m really dizzy,” you weakly say. 

  As you discovered your heart racing, your breathing turning labor, and your vision blurring, you felt a smile curl onto your lips for even if you died this moment, you got to experience the beauty of being in love and now officially being Jongin’s wife.  You were satisfied with just that…  A tear rolled down the corner of your eyes, dropping onto Jongin’s hands that held tightly onto your feeble frame.   

  In a resting area, he gently placed you down on a sofa.  Taking off his blazer, he wrapped it around your bare shoulders.  You began to cough uncontrollably.  Jongin got up for his seat but you pulled him back. 

  “Don’t go.  I’m scared,” you whimpered.  Because I’m selfish and I want you to stay with me just a little longer.    

  “I was just going to get you some water,” he coaxed, stroking your hair. 

  You shook your head, which only made you dizzier.

  “Okay, okay.  I’ll stay.  Shh…” your husband said, holding your hand to his lip. 

  Struggling hard to stop trembling, you ended up wheezing for air.  Jongin rubbed the sweat from your temples as you burned up with a high fever. 

  “We need to go to the hospital,” he informed and began to lift you up but you stopped him. 

  “No.  No.  No.  We need to be at the wedding reception tonight,” you murmured.

  “No, we are not going with you like this,” Jongin firmly replied. 

  Despite the expected vertigo, you still violently shook your head.  Tears brimmed on the corners of you eyes and you begged, “Oppa, please…I need to do this”. 

  Jongin closed his eyes, no longer being able to watch you suffer like this.  You lifted your hand up to caress his face.  He held onto your hand. 

  “Oppa, thank you for taking me as your wife,” you tearfully whispered before your body depleted of energy and your hand fell to your side. 

  “Jagiya!” your husband screamed, shaking you conscious. 

  Your eyes weakly opened again and you jolted upright, coughing convulsively.  As you were semi-conscious, you recalled a medical professional walk into the room, hooking an IV drip to your wrist.  Jongin continued to stroke your forehead, worriedly. 

  “Oppa…” you heard your voice call out.  Please don’t leave me yet. 

  “I’m here.  I’m right next to you,” he frantically answered, holding tightly onto your outstretched hand. 

  Your body slumped back down in relief.  Leaning over, he kissed you on your forehead.  His kiss felt like an ice cube melting on a fireplace.  You shivered and he lifted the blazer to cover you more properly.  Though your eyelids dangerously swung, you tried your hardest to stay awake, cherishing every minute, every second you still had left with the man you foolishly gave your heart to.  But the medication was slowly making its course throughout your body and gradually the darkness welcomed you into its embrace.    

  You dreamt of happier times.  Times when you two used to bicker, times when he used to wrap you up in his warm jacket, times when you fit perfectly into his caress like a puzzle piece, and times your lips met, spilling out subdued feelings and emotions. 

  When you were awake again, it was already pitch black outside.  For a brief moment the darkness was so alike your dream that you hadn’t realized your spirit had returned back to reality.  You stirred in your sleep and jerked up when you remembered that your attendance was needed at the wedding reception. 

  “Jagiya, be careful,” you husband warned. 

  “Oppa, the wedding reception…” you spoke, your voice now much stronger thanks to the much-needed rest. 

  “Don’t worry, it hasn’t started yet,” he replied, rubbing his thumb over your cheek and neck. 

  You sighed in relief, slouching your sore body back against the sofa.  Your husband stared at you for the longest time before slowly leaning forward to give your lips a gentle peck.  You stared into his eyes, trying hard to decipher his inner motive but all you saw were utter sincerity.  So you made the decision to accept him back, even if it was a lie because you weren’t brave enough to lose him nor live a life knowing that he had taken your heart captive.      

  “You always make me worry about you,” he whispered, gazing back into your big, round eyes. 

  “S-sorry…” you quietly apologized, looking down on your hands in guilt.

  “But I want to spend the rest of my life worrying about this clumsy girl, who likes to trip on flat surfaces, has a stomach of a five year old’s, and doesn’t ever know when to stop talking,” he confessed. 

  A few teardrops fell onto your wedding dress.  Jongin tenderly wiped them away with his thumb.  You held his hand to your face, inhaling the warmth of his skin against yours.  A meager giggle escaped from your lips, through the tears.  Biting your lip, you tried your hardest to hide your foolish grin that began to creep on your face but failed miserably.  Oh what the heck… You stretched both your arms to cling onto your husband’s neck.  His arms slid around your waist as you two wrapped each other in a tight embrace.  Slightly turning, he lovingly pecked your cheek.  You snuggled into the crook of his neck. 

  “Ahem,” someone cleared her throat at the door. 

  Reluctantly, you separated from your husband to see whom the intruder was.  She was none other than your mother-in-law. 

  “Omma…” Jongin complained, throwing his head back in frustration. 

  You smiled sadly at his reaction.  At least he wants me enough to feel angry? 

  Bowing, you greeted, “Omunim”.

  She walked over to you and patted your hands. 

  “________ah, how are you feeling?” she asked worriedly.

  “I’m feeling a lot better.  Sorry for making you worry, Omunim,” you replied. 

  She patted your hand again and asked, “Do you think you can go to the reception?”

  You nodded but Jongin furrowed his eyebrows at you. 

  “Are you sure?  Don’t force yourself if you don’t feel well,” she reasoned but you nodded again. 

  “If anything, Oppa will be right beside me,” you answered then turned to your husband, “Right, Oppa?”

  His lip smacked into a thin line and he looked at you unimpressed but didn’t complain any further.  As you stood up, you realized your brain was still a little hazed but you blinked a few times to ease the symptoms.  Jongin reluctantly let go of your hand so you could follow your mother-in-law to get dressed for the reception party. 

  Changing into a light blue empire waist gown, you smiled at your healthier reflection.  Your skin tone appeared a lot warmer and your cheeks blushed a sweet pink, even without makeup.  The makeup guru looked at you with a pleased expression and you bowed at her to thank her for her hard work.  As soon as you stepped out of the changing room, you encountered your worried husband leaning against the hallway wall.  Immediately, he straightened himself up and smoothed out his shirt.  He is so handsome.  _______ah, let’s just pretend everything is real.  You threw on a grin.  Walking up to him, you helped him fix his tie.  His fingers laced over your hand. 

  “How is this even fair?  Men change into another shirt but look exactly the same.  Girls change and they look like a whole different person,” you jokingly whined to pick up the tensed aura between you two. 

  “You’re still the same beautiful goddess to me,” Jongin said with a serious tone.

You paused your fidgeting of his tie to stare into his deep, dark eyes that replicated the twinkling stars in the mist of a galaxy.  Do you really mean it?  Or are you saying it to mess with my heart?  Because, you win, Kim Jongin, you win.  Even if you don’t mean it, I’ll believe it.    

  Sighing and blinking back tears, you shyly fidgeted with his sleeve and murmured, “I knew you were trouble…” 

  “What did you say?” he crooked his neck to slyly look at you, before pecking you on the lips.  I’ll believe you…even if you don’t mean it.    

  Closing your glossy eyes, you tiptoed and placed you lips against his.  He bent over and pulled you closer to him.  With a shaky whimper, you wrap your arms around his waist, clinging onto this moment as if it was the last.  Smiling, he teasingly licked your lips, causing you to shyly blush.  You flirt.  You slapped his chest playfully while he pulled you into a hug.  With a contented sigh, your arms curled around his waist again.  Maybe, you could find happiness with this man.  Maybe he did love you.  At least, I’ll keep telling myself that…because that’s all I can do now…

  “Jongin-ah.  _______ah,” Jongin’s mother called and motioned for you two to go over, “It’s time to go in”.

  Your husband threw his head back and whispered, “Omma is such a cockblock”.

  Laughing, you intertwined your hands into his and dragged him to join your mother-in-law.         

          a/n: Gahhh angsty chapter >3<  BUT THEY’RE MARRIED.  YAY.  Break up didn’t last at all…but so sad just when the girl started to believe that Jongin loved her…now even though they’re married she doesn’t believe him o(╥﹏╥)o

  Jongin-ah, tsk tsk tsk, how are you going to fix this?  ;p If you guise are looking at the chapter titles listed in the MasterList and Table of Contents, can you guess what tmr’s chp is about? 

#kai scenario #kai scenarios #kai fanfic #kai fanfiction #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #exo scenario #exo scenarios #kai #kim jongin #jongin #exo #exo angst #exo fluff #Temporary Affairs