#the realization was slow and dawning but then hit by like a lighting strike

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Forty-Eight

On the morning of her wedding, Maera awoke at dawn, the soft light of the breaking day filtering through the windows. Her dark brown curls, with that single striking silver streak, framed her face, and her emerald-green eyes blinked sleepily as she stirred in her bed. The room itself was bathed in a gentle morning glow, the curtains billowing softly with a breeze, and the air felt charged with anticipation. Her wedding dress hung nearby, waiting to be worn, and Maera felt her heart beating with both nervousness and excitement as she realized that this was the day she would become Aemond's wife.

Thena entered the room on cue with a warm smile on her face, drawing back the curtains to allow more of the morning light to filter in. The room seemed to come alive with the soft glow of dawn, casting a gentle ambiance that matched the significance of the day.

A large bathtub was brought in and filled with steaming hot water infused with fragrant floral oils, creating a luxurious and inviting environment. Maera was helped to disrobe from her nightdress, her dark brown curls falling loosely around her shoulders. With gentle hands, Thena assisted Maera into the soothing bath, ensuring that her future as a bride began in a state of relaxation and tranquility.

Maera bathed with Thena's attentive assistance, the warm water and fragrant oils enveloping her in a cocoon of relaxation. As she soaked, her thoughts inevitably drifted toward the wedding and the impending marriage. While she knew Aemond well, having shared a complicated history, she couldn't help but wonder what their life together as husband and wife would truly be like.

She fretted over the possibility of falling out again, just as they had years ago, but this time the stakes were different. As his wife, she wouldn't have the luxury of returning to her family home; she'd be bound to stay by his side, whatever challenges they might face. This prospect weighed heavily on her mind, a mix of anxiety and excitement intertwined in her thoughts.

Of course, the wedding night loomed in the distance, and Maera couldn't help but feel a touch of vulnerability. The idea of sharing such an intimate moment with Aemond both thrilled and worried her. It was a step into the unknown, and the prospect of exposing herself, both physically and emotionally, was a source of apprehension.

Amidst these worries, there were other uncertainties that nagged at her, such as her ability to fulfill her duties and expectations as a Targaryen wife. Maera was keenly aware of the responsibilities that came with her new role, and the weight of these obligations added to her nervousness.

As she bathed, Maera felt frustrated with herself for feeling this way. She had always considered herself strong and resolute, but on this morning, she couldn't help but acknowledge the jumble of emotions that swirled within her, reminding her of her own vulnerability in the face of such momentous change.

In the midst of her contemplations, Maera was gently interrupted by Thena, who was still meticulously attending to her by applying a cloth to her shoulders, the damp hit fabric causing her muscles to relax. Maera sighed softly and cast a rueful glance at her maid. "Thena," she began, her voice tinged with exasperation, "I cannot help but feel like I should be more composed on the day of my wedding. These nerves... they're unsettling."

Thena, with her understanding brown eyes and auburn hair, listened attentively as she began to wash Maera's hair. She knew her mistress well and could sense the mix of emotions that filled the room

"It's perfectly natural to feel this way, my Lady," she reassured Maera. "Weddings are momentous occasions, and it's only natural to have a mix of emotions. You're stepping into a new chapter of your life, after all."

With those soothing words, Thena continued her ministrations, hoping to ease some of her worries as they prepared for the day ahead. Maera knew their wedding would be a significant event, not just for her and Aemond, but for the entire realm. It was a moment for the royals to display unity and strength, to rally their people in these trying times.

The loyal maid helped Maera out of the bath, carefully wrapping her in a soft robe before gently drying her hair with a towel. Maera settled into her dressing table chair, allowing Thena to brush her hair. As the strokes of the brush tugged gently through her locks, memories of her late mother, Lady Gael, flooded her mind.

She remembered the way her mother used to sit at her own dressing table at Rain House, brushing Maera's hair as they shared stories and laughter. Lady Gael's presence had always been a comforting and steadying force during the short time Maera had had her in her life, and Maera found herself yearning for her mother's guidance and support on this important day.

With her hair now free of tangles, Maera rose from the chair, thoughts interrupted by a number of servants entering her room. They hurried to Maera’s dining table, carrying platters of breakfast items and setting them down, creating a mouthwatering spread of food. There were pastries, fresh fruits, sausages, and various other dishes, too much for Maera to eat alone, especially on a day like today.

Then Ser Arryk entered the room in his shining armor, the cloak of his order flowing behind him. His hazel eyes held a vigilant gaze, and his mousey brown hair was neatly tied back, emphasizing the stern lines of his face. A short beard framed his chin, adding a touch of character to his knightly appearance. With an air of authority and loyalty, he announced the arrival of guests. Maera was taken aback as Queen Helaena and Dowager Queen Alicent entered her chambers, both exuding an air of warmth and affection.

Queen Helaena, in her white nightclothes and a golden robe, entered with a radiant smile gracing her face. Her silver hair was elegantly braided, and a subtle pregnancy bump showed beneath her attire. She was beaming with excitement for Maera's upcoming wedding, her violet eyes filled with joy and wonder.

Dowager Queen Alicent, donned in a green robe, allowed her auburn hair to flow freely. There was a loving warmth in her brown eyes as she gazed at Maera, the girl who would, in a matter of hours, become her daughter-in-law. Her expression carried a mix of pride and affection, and her presence exuded a sense of familial love and support.

Helaena all but skipped over to Maera, embracing her tightly with a smile on her face as she gently stated, "I thought it would be wonderful to share your morning on this special day, my dear sister." Alicent nodded in agreement, her smile as sweet as her daughter's. It was a heartwarming moment, and Maera felt a sense of belonging and support from her future family.

Settling at the dining table, Maera picked at her food, the fluttering butterflies in her stomach making it difficult for her to contemplate eating. Despite the tempting aroma of the food, her anxiety seemed to suppress her hunger, and her mind was consumed with thoughts of the upcoming ceremony.

Across from her, Queen Helaena enjoyed her apple fingers and sips of ginger tea, her enthusiasm for the wedding apparent in her eagerness to eat. Alicent, on the other hand, savored a bowl of salted porridge, finding comfort in the simplicity of the dish.

As Maera gazed at the women, memories of Lady Gael continued to flood her mind. She remembered how her mother would often speak to her about historical Targaryen weddings and how, when the time came, she would help Maera prepare for her own. Lady Gael promised she would be there to fasten Maera into her wedding gown, adorn her with heirloom jewelry, and weave braids into her hair.

She couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow, knowing that her mother wouldn't be there to share in this momentous occasion. It was a bittersweet realization, as she had been only four years old when Lady Gael had passed away, leaving her with a longing for the motherly guidance she could never receive.

“You’re crying,” a soft voice observed. Maera looked up to see Helaena’s concerned violet eyes locked on her. Bewildered, Maera reached up to touch her damp cheeks, startled by her own tears. "I do apologise ," she stammered, her voice trembling. "I hope I did not cause offence, my Queen."

Alicent, displaying maternal warmth, extended her hand and touched Maera's reassuringly. She spoke softly, "It is entirely normal to feel this way on your wedding day, my dear. But rest assured, Aemond will treat you with the utmost respect and be a dutiful husband to you.”

“It is not that, your Grace,” Maera reassured the dowager Queen with a gentle smile. She let out a sigh and continued, "I know it is silly, but today…I cannot help but miss my mother terribly. It has been so long, but the ache seems somewhat amplified by the wedding."

Alicent tightened her grip on Maera's hand, as if Maera’s words had somehow stung the her like and unwelcome insect. She shared her own emotions, saying, "I shared your sentiment on my own wedding day. My mother had passed not long before, and it made the burden of entering into marriage without her support exceptionally challenging."

Maera, somewhat surprised, looked at Queen Alicent with new eyes. The queen had always exuded strength and determination as the matriarch of their family. While Maera had often found the dowager Queen’s methods of motherhood somewhat questionable, it was enlightening to realize that even the formidable queen had once been a young girl, forced into a political marriage without the motherly guidance and support she'd needed.

However, her attention was soon captured by Helaena, who held a teaspoon up to the sunlight streaming through the window, muttering cryptically to herself, "Two dragon eggs are laid. One in the rivers, one in the maelstrom."

Maera remembered Helaena’s nerves on her own wedding day and also how she faced the event with a stiff lip, all in the name of duty to House Targaryen. Helaena did not need to be separated from her family as Maera had to, but it was doubtful that that would bring solace when it came to marrying her own brother.

Maera turned her gaze back to Alicent, her expression pensive and curious. She needed to know how this strong woman had managed without her own mother during the pivotal moments in her life.

Alicent smiled sadly, understanding the weight of Maera's question. "In the beginning, I did not cope," she admitted. "But, with time, I forged alliances within the court, and my children became my source of companionship. You see, loneliness can be cured by the laughter and love of your offspring." She glanced fondly at Helaena and then turned her gaze back to Maera. "While your children will undoubtedly provide you with the same solace, know that, until then, you are never alone."

Maera graced Alicent with a gentle smile, a small wave of calm washing over her. Before she could reply with heartfelt appreciation, the doors to her room opened once more and Ser Arryk Cargyll announced the arrival of Lady Wylde and Sabine.

Maera’s stepmother entered first, her blonde hair elegantly braided high on her head. She wore a modest high-necked dress in the colors of House Wylde, turquoise and gold. Her expression was one of adoration as she gazed upon Maera, her eyes filled with warmth and motherly affection.

Sabine followed Lady Wylde into the room, her long black hair cascading down her back in a beautifully intricate braid. She was dressed in a deep blue gown adorned with silver embroidery, her youthful face bearing an excited and joyful smile. Both women demonstrated their respect and reverence for the Queens by executing deep and graceful curtsies upon entering the room.

Alicent, with a hint of apology, remarked, "Do forgive our appearances, Lady Wylde, Lady Sabine. We are not properly attired as I was unaware Maera would have visitors this early."

Lady Wylde, gracious and understanding, assured Queen Alicent, "No need to apologize, your Grace, this is your home after all. But the time seems to be moving quickly this morning, hence our arrival to help Maera get ready."

Alicent seemed surprised at the time and quickly rose from her seat, voicing that she and Queen Helaena would take their leave to also begin their preparations for the ceremony. Turning to Maera, she affirmed they would meet her at the Sept. Maera expressed her gratitude to the Queens, and with a parting wave from Helaena, the two Queens made their exit, leaving Maera in the company of Lady Wylde and Sabine.

Lady Wylde smiled warmly at Maera, her eyes filled with a motherly tenderness as she stated, "It is time to get ready, my dear." Maera returned the smile, though it was laced with nervous anticipation, and rose from the breakfast table. With a discreet ring of a bell, Thena summoned the servants who promptly cleared away the remnants of their morning meal.

Maera moved to the small wooden step positioned in front of her full-length mirror. With a mixture of trepidation and excitement, she gracefully shed her robe and nightclothes until she stood in her smallclothes and stockings, her reflection staring back at her. Lady Wylde, Thena, and Sabine approached, holding the delicate wedding gown. They gently lifted the gown over Maera's head, the fabric cascading down to envelop her in its luxurious folds.

The structured bodice, in vibrant turquoise and gold with a dragon-scale pattern, accentuated Maera's curves, adding an air of regal elegance. Sabine, with a smile, meticulously laced up the back of the gown, her fingers nimble as they worked, the reflection in the mirror capturing their shared moments of joy and camaraderie. Meanwhile, Lady Wylde busied herself smoothing out the layers of Maera's skirts, ensuring the white underskirt and the golden outer skirts with black swirls fell gracefully to the floor, framing the bride-to-be in a sea of luxurious fabric.

Sabine continued deftly lacing up the intricate back of her wedding dress. The ribbon pulled the fine fabric together, creating an exquisite fit for the gown. As she worked, Sabine couldn't help but smile at her sister. "How are you feeling, Maera?"

Maera's response was honest, if somewhat anxious. "Like I am going to vomit." Her tone was tinged with vulnerability.

Sabine chuckled softly, her fingers deftly working on the gown's intricate laces. "That is how I felt too," she remarked. "But do not worry, it will pass once the ceremony is over.”

Maera sighed, the mix of emotions still churning within her. "I know people keep saying that, but it does not make me feel any better."

Sabine, her voice gentle yet tinged with a hint of seriousness, looked into Maera's eyes and said, "You are most fortunate to have your family here to help you with all these wedding preparations, sister. "

Maera, overwhelmed by a wave of gratitude, felt a pang of guilt wash over her. She offered a sincere apology to her sister. "I am so sorry, Sabine, for not being there on your own wedding day. And for not being able to prepare you for marriage." Her voice was filled with regret, but Sabine's smile reassured her.

Sabine's response was warm and filled with sisterly affection. "It was the way it had to be," she said. "We are together now, and that's what matters."

Maera's brow furrowed as she pondered something that had been bothering her. She turned to Lady Wylde and Sabine and asked with a touch of concern in her voice, "Have either of you heard from Wynni recently? Since her marriage to Lord Tarly, I mean."

Lady Wylde paused for a moment from her task of smoothing out Maera's skirts. She looked up and responded, "Your sister sent a brief letter about two moons ago, but that's been the only contact we've had from her since." Her expression mirrored Maera's concern as they both hoped that her little sister was doing well.

With the dress in place, Maera glided over to her dressing table, where Thena began weaving her hair into an intricate bun, accentuating the striking silver streak that ran through the center of her otherwise brown hair. Lady Wylde carefully assisted Maera in slipping into a pair of elegant turquoise pumps, while Sabine adorned her sister with a stunning golden choker necklace, adorned with a dragon pattern, and a matching large dragon forearm bracelet.

Maera's face still bore the traces of her earlier concern stemming from the conversation about Wynni. It was Lady Wylde who finally broke the silence, her tone serious yet gentle. “Perhaps it is now time that we discuss what you will encounter on your wedding night, stepdaughter.”

Maera put her head in her hands and blushed at the suggestion, but her sister Sabine wiggled her eyebrows and cheekily grinned. “I assume you know the dynamics, sister?”

“Yes I do, thank you Sabine,” Maera replied firmly, with smirk on her face.

“You must not be alarmed, Maera, but there will be some blood and discomfort,” her Stepmother said, her gentle tone attempting to alleviate any nerves. But the mention of blood surprised Maera, and even though she bled every moon, she knew this type of bleeding would be different.

She attempted to hide her shock, distracting herself by fidgeted nervously with the delicate satin of her skirts, cheeks tinged with a mix of embarrassment and excitement as she absorbed the advice given by her stepmother and younger sister.

“Gods willing the first time will be over quickly,” Sabine chuckled with a wink, her expressions reflecting a mix of love and mischief

“Oh yes,” Lady Wylde interjected, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “I remember my first time with Lord Jasper and how it…”

“Stepmother, spare me!” Maera cried, body shuddering as she cringed at the thought of her father and stepmother consummating their marriag.

As they talked, chuckles occasionally filled the room, lightening the mood. By the end of their heart-to-heart conversation, Maera couldn't help but feel a deep appreciation for the womanly connection she had with her stepmother and sister. Their shared laughter and their open, candid advice made her realize the strength and support she had from the women in her life.

With Sabine and Lady Wylde stepping away, Thena was able to carefully place a delicate chain of gold and sapphires on Maera’s head, adding the final touch to her regal appearance. Maera, reflected in the mirror's surface, displayed a mix of emotions on her face. There was a blend of excitement and nervousness in her eyes, along with a curious smile, wondering what Aemond would think of her appearance.

Their chatter was interrupted as Ser Arryk made another entrance, his voice carrying a hint of urgency, "The carriage awaits, my Lady."

Maera's heart raced with excitement as the reality of the upcoming ceremony washed over her. It was time. With a final glance in the mirror, she was ready to face the grand event that awaited her.

Notes: some feelings here taken from my own wedding day. I remember retching in the toilets of our venue before I had to walk down the aisle I was so nervous 🤣 next chapter is the ceremony and part one of the celebrations 😎

Tags: @manipulatixe @marvelescvpe @grungegrrrl @shesjustanothergeek @blue-serendipity @watercolorskyy

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

#maera wylde #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #chapters #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #hotd helaena #house targaryen #house wylde

[theluckywizard]

In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 54: The Dead Outnumber the Living

Chapter Summary: Rose and her companions continue to settle into camp in Crestwood and make contact with the village. On their way there, they quickly begin to grasp the scope of the undead problem they're faced with.

Fic Summary: Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke.

This week I have two companion fics for this chapter:

Into her Hands (Hawke POV) The Gift (Cullen POV)

Excerpt below the jump ⏬

Hawke and Blackwall bear lanterns as we make our way along the road to the village in long silent strides, mouths sealed and ears sharpened for shamblers finding their way up from the lake. Twilight barely registers through the heaviness of the clouds and the mist that drifts in from the lake. The four of us are a colorless muddle where the orange firelight doesn’t hit. It doesn’t take long for the corpses to find us, or one of them anyway, the unmistakable thwip of an arrow narrowly missing us revealing the mode of attack. “For Maker’s sake,” I scoff, tugging my helmet lower. At least it’s not bloody hungry. Hawke slips silently around to my right, sliding his shield onto his arm and holding it up high enough to block any arrows that might strike us as he tugs me to cover behind a large boulder. Varric and Blackwall duck behind rocks closer to the perceived direction of the corpse. Behind Hawke’s shield we hold our breath, waiting for a rustle or a hiss. When it doesn’t immediately come I become keenly aware of his utter nearness, his arm scooping me close to his angular cuirass, his helmet leaning against mine. He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned with it, his eyes focused on nothing in particular as he listens for threats. “I got eyes on it,” hisses Varric. “Your eleven o’clock.” Bianca would barely slow the creature but Blackwall could take care of it. Heavy steps through the underbrush indicate he’s chased after it. “What if he attracts more?” I ask Hawke, whose eyes flick to mine finally. He smiles gently. “We’ll take care of them,” he says softly, patting my back where his hand holds me. We hear the guttural groan of the corpse and shing of steel as contact is made. In another moment the rustle of leaves. “Looked like it was just one,” says Blackwall, his voice muffled by shrubbery as he trudges back toward the road. “Thank you,” I say to Hawke. “And they say chivalry is dead.” “It is dead. We’re all sunk without you,” he says with a smirk. I give him a light shove against his breastplate which only intensifies his smile. “Besides who else would help me prank Varric?” “I can think of a few people.” “But none of them so beautifully,” he answers. I drop my head forward, the force of his brazen mouth provoking another ridiculous blush. “That wasn’t a flirt,” he adds hastily. “Really, Hawke,” I scold him. “I was merely stating the objective truth.” “For Maker’s sake!”

Read the rest here Start the fic here

DAFF Tag List:

@warpedlegacy | @rakshadow | @rosella-writes | @effelants | @bluewren | @breninarthur | @ar-lath-ma-cully | @dreadfutures | @ir0n-angel | @inquisimer | @crackinglamb | @nirikeehan | @oxygenforthewicked | @mogwaei | @exalted-dawn-drabbles | @melisusthewee | @blarrghe | @agentkatie

#Crestwood #Devouring Corpses #Flirting but not #Nosy Companions #cullen x trevelyan #slow burn #hawke x trevelyan #fast burn #Blue-Purple Hawke #multiple ships #dragon age inquisition #in the shattering of things

[words-uncollected]

22.12.01 (November Dump)

:Formal

it was calculated, we thought. precise like the moon exactly where it was meant to be, & the ocean swinging.

your hands clasped on the sunburn of my neck, the red skin turning white.

we settle down we exist.

:division

split in one swing & splayed on either side of the chopping block, the wood soaks in the dew of the starchy grass - the sun only half above the rim of mountains & sailing through the pines.

there is, of course, a time before this, but it is hard to know when that was.

:Master

the first thousand steps through a blurry morning the concrete glistening with trash juice & each foot strike after another

the garbage trucks pulse slow through the streets passing slowly, wafting so much that was left to rot, & another breath, breathe it in, keep the pace

:Hear

the dog’s nails clack on the wood before she settles at your feet, licking the carpet for something you can’t see, either.

:Breathe

it is early autumn & we’re standing in a circle watching our breath mix & dissipate

& i like to imagine it stirring the heavens, talking to rain clouds, waiting in the blue open sky

to come back down & become breath again. this air we’ve carried our whole life

like a chain pulling from our teeth.

:Reptile

i’ve always been a reptile. the eczema that itched on my elbows & behind my knees, like the skin sloughed off of my brother’s bearded dragon - ignored except to feed, the shed along the sides of the fifty-six gallon tank. a self completely surrounded by a self.

:Disaster

there was a fender bender in front of the bar where we met -

the recently divorced dad in tears, so the other driver’s kids were crying, too. it was

hard to take the man’s insurance & she said it’s fine & left. so the crying man

waited for the cops & thought of how incredible it was to still see

someone that looked just like his daughter. we ordered beers.

:Violation

wondering if there can be forgiveness-

the earth spinning the sun into view & waiting for the first rays of light to hit the ground

:Fisherman

the salt on your neck & in your lungs -

hands rubbed raw by ropes, & skin thick from the sun.

it is easy to forget alone on top of the ocean

how much lives in the deep

covered & breathing the same salty water

:Litter (A Sonnet)

carry me home. the night sky rising slow & dark, the paper trash swirled with dead leaves across the sidewalks & streets. pull your sleeves over your gloves, & feel me settle low

against your hips. I’m heavy no, i’m no small child, you think. the rats run on the eaves of quiet houses, no lights inside. trees rattle their brittle branches bare, alone.

your breath quicker now - grows panicked, grows uneven; sputtering, short, harsh. your lungs thieve the air i drink. carry me home, my knees dragging on pavement, turning down a through-

way. for the first time you realize the lights in the city make everything too bright.

:Oral

i’m never looking at your mouth when you’re talking -but i know what it looks like

:Classroom

there was a last time i walked into a classroom & sat bored & half-awake. & i realize

there are countless lessons I’ve been taught & learned so little

there is a last time i sat in a classroom & if i think long enough i can almost remember it.

:Business

the sun isn’t risen & you are in the bathroom - sweat from your pre-dawn run mixed with shower water on the lumpy rug, moldy & in need of replacement

you zone out, imagining the drive ahead - a merging car merging into a lane of merging cars & merging still as the sun sets.

the last rays of the sun cutting under the overpass & in your eyes. you can only partially see the road.

:Attic

piercing - the debris of bat droppings & dust, the attic of any house only grows chaos.

in the blaze or freeze of the seasons, detrius accumulates & morphs, old pictures curl & stick, the memories changed by neglect, so

when you climb the rickety steps to remember - it is not you alone who’s different.

:Rest

one breath & then another. there is so much in watching a chest rise & fall.

:Claim

the palm on your chest - ragged, chafed, leathered skin split at the cuticle of the thumb,

it is a flagpole held upright by an A-frame floating on the surface, blowing in the wind

it has nothing to do with the earth below.

:Extend

the always open mouth attached to an arm, stretched & retracting, dragging chattering teeth, no eyes, no nose, no, no, no. long grasping, pulling itself on unknowable lines - un stopping - tugging as at a tight collar forever.

:Regret

there is a space between the door opening & closing where it is still

at the furthest point of its arc ready to swing.

but it hasn’t, & that is exactly when you see the entire world in & out of the room.

:Captain

the good ones go down swinging - proud chested - the dark water

drinking them in, resolute though the cold shivers their core.

of course, it’s not really the good ones that go down with the ship. they keep sailing.

:Line

the space between me & my morning coffee is a straight line

on the map - it curves around a river & past an outdoor market

where a man

without his left pinky will drop a carton of heirloom tomatoes, & one will roll directly into my path -

two ducks will stand on a submerged ridge, the water roiling by & they are unmoved.

so i will walk towards my coffee in a world that can be anything.

:Clear

the sun rises for only a short time. it is winter, & it is cold,

& the clouds overhead are gray & glowing.

i had wanted to rip my heart from my chest - to be distinct & joyous, & to know what I want to say. but it’s snowing, & the sun is only risen

such a short time.

:Novel

new ways to get lost. new medicines when you’re green phlegmed & hacking through the night. new adventures to sleep through - restless, tossing, awake but not alert. new people thronging frozen on busy thoroughfares, homeless & alone in the nearly always night. the stain of human misery latched onto the brightness of being. all is destroyed to be created.

:Squeeze

i know only one thing

we woke up to the dull sun, a haze of misty snow rain, & a trek to the airport. our circadian rhythms fucked by darkness & artificial light. we pressed on, landing in below freezing temperatures, taking awful shits in public bathrooms, driving through dark night black at four pm here at the top of the world - further - further - further north than anyone else I’ve ever met, & they have streets, too.

I only know one thing, when you’re squeezed what’s inside comes out.

:Arrangement

it was the last house on the street, but the road continued anyway. some days we would walk it to it’s end - a dock filled with crab boats. not even noon, & most returned from a night on the sea.

you carried a bucket, & your old friend would watch us approach for a long while. there were always a few good ones saved for you, & we would take turns carrying the full bucket home.

:Write

it is hard to write

:Recycle (A Cento)

like the moon split in one swing &

the concrete at your feet, licking this air we carried alone the sides just like his daughter

the earth spinning in the deep your breath quicker no - grows panicked, grows at your mouth & learned so little

the last rays of the sun it is not you alone in watching a chest the palm on your chest - attached to an arm, stretched ready to swing proud chested - the dark water is a straight line

i had wanted night. the stain of freezing temperatures, taking awful to it’s end - a dock filled it is hard to write

:Video

it is a life packed away in plastic, placed upon a shelf & stored. the dust that collects just the same as the dust in the frame - somehow alive outside of time. this is how

you remember it - the life framed, set aside for the long nights when fires smell like water & teeth dance like horse hair in the snow. a reminder is needed -  everything out of the shot a suggestion. you pull it down, pop it in, & go to work on forgetting.

:Sink

dirt dried against the edges of your boots - you stepped so much today, you think

the prints uneven & soft behind you, stepped in by faceless commuters, treads of countless boots digging deeper in a shallow earth.

seagulls swim in garbage, bares kick up the latest refuse for the birds to pick through, & you are certain of nothing -

a candle burning against a cave wall, the carcasses of unknown animals, strewn & defanged.

:Satisfied

the sun rises slowly when you watch it.

an orange voice along the horizon singing into the open air,

filling the breeze, moving the skinny birth trees

against the waves of the glowing day.

:Center

nothing, at the core shifts eternal. nothing at the center but more center. an egg in an egg, cracked into another egg. i’m getting to it - nothing like the puff of air from frozen lungs - wispy & nothing. do you let the darkness hold you - can it, if you breath it deep enough to touch where nothing does? the first thing the newborn does is reach out into nothing & hold on.

[djarinsbeskar]

Counterstrike - Boxer!Din AU

Definition -  a strike that retaliates against an earlier strike.

A/N: Finally back with a long awaited instalment for Boxer!Din. I’m floored by the response he has received since I posted him first and I just wanted to thank you all so much for showing him (and me) so much love (and lust). In particular, I’d like to dedicate this instalment to @bestinbeskar @honestly-shite @3frontier and @pedro4ever for the gorgeous art of Boxer!Din they each made! Links can be found on the Boxer!Din masterlist below.

Word Count: 3.5k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: SMUT! Unprotected sex (do as I say, not as I write), semi-public sex, rough dom!Din, dirty talking, no beta.

Main Masterlist | Boxer Materlist

Ever since he first fucked you in the middle of his boxing ring, Din had developed a bit of a bad habit. A habit that involved finding some way to bury his cock inside you ever time he saw you; an inconvenience since you mostly came across each other in less than private settings. His gym, the sports clinic, or the massage studio you worked at.

It was sweltering, the city falling under the hold of a heatwave that no number of cold showers would help cool. Din ran hot by nature, and the heat only served to make him two things: irritable and horny.

That might explain the near instant reaction he had to the tempting little sundress you wore to combat the suffocating heat when you popped your head around the main doors of the gym. Your day off if the lack of uniform was anything to go by. A vision in coral pink and flushed skin, you beamed against the metal and muted, dark tones of the boxing area.

Sweat dropped down his temple from where he lay on the bench press, bare chest glistening and muscles taut as he lowered the barbell down slowly to his chest. Trained, expert eyes – honed instinct to notice every miniscule move of an opponent – picked up the flash of color and immediately flickered over to where you were approaching him.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

His jaw clenched as he turned his attention resolutely back up to stare at the ceiling, focus Djarin. With a measured exhale, his muscles bunched to press the heavy weight back up away from his body, held it for a beat, and let it lower once more on a slow inhale.

Three more.

His head turned towards you to admire your form as you traced your hand over the dumbbell stand, skilled fingers walking along the progressively heavier weights while your eyes met his in the wall of mirrors behind the stand. You smiled. And it lit your face up.

Jesus fucking Christ.

His eyes dropped from yours down your body indulgently, content to hold the weight of the barbell a beat longer. The way that dress clung to every damned curve he wanted to sink his fingers and teeth into, the swish of the skirt barely reaching the middle of supple thighs that looked better thrown over his shoulders. The fucking nerve you had to not bother concealing the faded mark on the top of your breast where it peeked out from over your neckline where he left it several days ago.

His mouth twisted into a snarl, his mark. Damn fucking right.

You were teasing him, crossing one ankle over the other to turn towards him with a dainty twirl of your skirt. Don’t get distracted on the bench, he growled to himself internally, and with a grunt, he pushed the barbell back up, the lines of muscles that cut across his triceps flexing taut and his pectorals pulsed from the strain of exercising them.

The pulse of his cock in his gym shorts on the other hand, that wasn’t a muscle that was supposed to be engaged for this particular exercise.

Two more.

“Miss me already, sweetheart?”

He ground out, voice rough and strained—keenly aware of the sway of your hips as you walked back towards the bench, his eyes at perfect eye level to thighs he wanted to wrap around his waist. You passed his head – fuck, he could smell you from here – to stand by his hips. He brought the barbell back down slowly towards his chest, breathing more labored than it should be and his jaw clenched in frustration. You were getting to him.

His grip on the metal bar almost slipped entirely when you hiked up the skirt of your dress to kick one leg over the bench and straddle his hips, the sudden weight and heat making him grunt in surprise.

You were soaked—he realized at the same time it dawned on him that you weren’t wearing any underwear.

“Does this answer your question?”

Voice as light and airy as the lavender scent that suffused the room you gave massages in—making his teeth grind and his hips struggle to remain still when memories of that same voice breathless and gasping with moans he elicited rose in his memory.

You rubbed yourself over the thick outline of him through his gym shorts – you little fucking tease – and sweat wasn’t the only thing dampening them anymore.

“Finish your workout, Din,” you sighed breathily, hooded eyes scanning the empty gym floor appreciatively—basking in the ability to rock so openly and languidly over his throbbing cock. It was a sunny day. It was the end of the week. No one was in the gym—and that was precisely why Din chose to work out now.

His eyes never left yours, molten pools filling with dark promise clashed with yours as your small hands found the planes of his tight abdomen, the muscles clenching sensitively under your touch,

“Keep your back straight… don’t want to injure yourself again—” you purred and received a warning growl in response when he pushed the weight back up, a ripple of heated arousal gathering low at his spine and tightening to a coil beneath your hands that indulgently ran over toned muscles and tawny, inked skin.

One more.

Fuck… but you felt so good. Grinding on him like that.

Din’s hips rocked up against you despite himself, his heels pressing into the grate metal flooring to push his clothed cock against your dripping cunt, your soft gasp when he caught your clit music to his ears and the last bit of motivation he needed to drop the barbell back to his chest. You focused your ruts on the tip of his bulge, the fucking audacity you had to use him to get yourself off—grinding your clit over his soaked shorts and digging short nails into his stomach while soft, gentle eyes darkened with lust bore into his.

He lowered his hips again, smirking at the soft whine of annoyance you couldn’t mask in order to adjust his posture correctly. With one last exhale, a panted curse as corded muscles tensed and released with a final burst of energy, his arms straightened once more above him.

Finally.

He had a hand tangled in the length of your hair before the clatter of the metal barbell hitting the hooks of the stand above him died out, yanking you down until your breasts were flush with his heaving chest. His other hand – calloused and rough – grabbed a fistful of your ass, the soft material of your dress bunching effortlessly in his hand,

“Didn’t get enough last week, baby?” he growled against your mouth, guiding your hips over his cock harder now that he could thrust shallowly against you, grinning darkly at your keen of frustration when his mouth glanced yours, avoiding kissing you, “fuck, you’re soaked for me already—”

Teeth grazing your jaw, you arched your neck back in blind submission, the hand caught against his stomach shifting down to tug at his shorts, succeeding in getting them only halfway down. You both groaned at the contact when wet, slick heat burned around the leaking head of his cock, making the heatwave outside feel like nothing more than a warm breeze.

“Din…” you moaned when a perfectly timed grind of his hips knocked the blunt tip against your hooded bundle of nerves, “a week is too long…” you admitted to the boxer’s delight. Finally. He wasn’t the only one going stir crazy only seeing you sporadically.

“Yeah?” he rasped, tightening his hold in your hair so he could keep your head pulled back while he licked a small trickle of sweat that was slowly making its way down to the hollow of your throat, “thinking about my cock all this time?”

Feral pride filled him at your immediate nod, his chest swelling with a primal snarl – why the fuck did you have to agree so easily, he’d never stop thinking about it now – and captured your lips heatedly with his own. Growling your name, he plundered your mouth—lapping along your tongue and groaning at your taste, swallowing your soft sighs and mewls of satisfaction at finally having his lips on yours again.

His hand dropped from your hair to drag down your spine, down the thin fabric that clung to your heated skin until he was dipping two thick digits between exposed cheeks to swipe through your drenched folds. Circling, spreading, coaxing whines and groans of his name with every press of his fingers. Music more beautiful than even the most skilled pianist could create, and all from the fingers of a fighter.

Conversation from elsewhere in the vicinity carried through empty corridors and with a dip of his fingers into your quivering entrance – chestnut eyes sharpened to dark amber watching doe eyes flutter shut in pleasure – his words breathed into your mouth when your lips parted against his,

“Locker room. Now.”

What followed was a heated scramble, a need to be close—to remain in this transcendent bubble of scorching touches and burning attraction. He practically dragged you with him across the gym floor, weaving between machines with his hand wrapped firmly around your wrist. You already looked wrecked, thoroughly corrupted with mused hair, and crooked clothing. Your legs wobbled as you followed his menacing frame, eyes glued to the shifting muscles in his back, an apex predator dragging his prey back to devour in rapture. You went willingly.

The tiles of the shower cubicle were cold when he shoved you against them – the only place remotely private in the locker room when he tugged the thin curtain closed behind you – his hands flexing around your jaw when he turned your face up for him to kiss. Free hand pressing into the small of your back, he made you arch against him, and you mewled at the solid length of him throbbing against your stomach.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he rumbled, hand snaking around to disappear beneath the skirt of your dress again as he rocked his hips against you slowly—cupping your cunt and his teeth leaving a trail of bites down your throat as his words whispered across the tiles.

You blushed.

He saw it—even above the flush of arousal, he saw your cheeks darken and your eyes flicker to the side at his words. Avoiding his gaze, expecting a hunter’s response of claws and teeth to your doe-like display of weakness—and his eyes softened minutely. Some of the aggressive tightness bled from his gaze which he hid in a nip to your jaw, the heel of his hand rubbing in tempting circles over your swollen clit while his fingers split along your entrance, smearing your slick over puffy lips.

You rocked your hips over his hand needily, fingers scratching down the sides of his neck, scoring passion into the tanned skin and whispers against his lips – please Din, please – along with the pleasurable pain rippling from your nails compelled him to shove two fingers knuckle deep into your tight cunt.

He covered your mouth quickly with his palm when an unadulterated moan ricocheted off the tiles, echoing louder – “fuck baby, quiet” – was hissed against your cheek even as his fingers picked up a merciless pace of pump pump pump, his thumb swiping across your clit, his speed building—making it harder for you to stay quiet as you whimpered against his hand.

Nails digging into his shoulders, you buried your face into his sweat slick neck when he dropped his hand from your mouth to hike your leg up over his arm, spread you wider for him to thrust soaked fingers into your sopping core.

When you came the first time, you bit his neck—his teeth baring from the sting while his fingers scissored against your convulsing walls, dragging you through contractions of pleasure that sent spikes of electricity to cloud your brain in a muffled babble of yes yes yes sobbed into his neck.

Condensation misted the tiles by your head as heat lifted from sweltering bodies. Din growled praise, rough rasps of “good girl, that’s it…” into your ear as you relaxed around fingers that were lazily curling up inside you, your mouth working lazily over the sensitive point where his jaw met his neck, nipping—licking, begging him to fuck you.

His brain short circuited.

His large body caging you against the wall, you preened and arched and tempted him into you with soft sighs of his name and your hands tracing down to the hem of his shorts. Heavy, lust-pooled eyed followed your hands, watching you pull him from his shorts and stroke him with expert fingers that never failed to make him fall apart—on your table, in your bed… you bewitched him with touch since first he met you. He was a slave to it.

“Fuck, baby—” he groaned, his head falling back before he swiped your hands away from his swollen length, giving it a few hard strokes as he ran the head between your exposed folds. He filled you with on thrust, a filthy squelch as your pussy accepted him – unable to be gentle, unable to take his time when all he could think of was claiming you over and again, of meeting your counterstrike with a knockout and hearing your surrender in cries of his name.

He was big—so big that every time he filled you, it felt like he was splitting you apart. The smallest hint of pain, the breach of his cock melting into a delicious fire that licked and coated your nerves as the fat head knocked against soft tissue inside you. He found his pace with a slow rut that dragged his cock along tight walls where you could feel every single vein throb enticingly against you.

His facial hair sanded across your cheek as he panted how good you felt, how tight—how addicted he was to the feel of you, how he wanted to fuck you for hours. Your nails curved down over the muscles of his shoulder blades, along his waist—basking in his size, his strength—his head lowering to scrape his teeth over the swell of your breast, sucking over the ghost of his previous mark and drawing blood back to the surface as he snapped his hips back into you.

And then the door to the locker room opened, and conversation filled it.

Din didn’t even think before slamming his fist onto the water pressure, drenching the two of you in seconds with cool water and drowning the sounds of his cock slamming into you with the hiss of water falling in rivulets down your bodies.

You moaned, too far gone to know – or care – that you weren’t alone, and his hand came back up to cover your mouth with a warning growl into your ear, “Shut up, unless you want to give them a show.”

Even as he said it, his pace grew harder—punching gasps and sounds of surprised pleasure from parted lips that were only mitigated by the calloused palm he folded over them. Your nipples pebbled through soaked fabric, drawing his eager mouth down to suck it raw through the dress, whimpers for more echoed in the tight clench of your cunt around his glistening length.

Steam filled the shower, bleeding out into the locker room where laughter and conversation blended to mask the wet slaps of his skin against yours, the sodden movement of clothes and his guttural groans around your nipple as you clawed at his undulating back.

“Din—” you whispered, panting as strands of your hair fell into your face—fucked out and divine when his mouth slanted over yours again, your chest heaving while one hand lifted to cup his jaw, keeping his mouth on yours. He snapped into the dripping grasp of your pussy hard, shoving you up the wall onto your toes, the graze of the short coarse hairs at the base of his cock tickling over your sensitive clit.

“So fucking loud…” he growled on a whip of anger, the sound cracking down the feral possessiveness of his tone and making you moan. He would spank that pretty ass red, your pussy pink if there wasn’t the risk of the sound carrying to the other athletes getting changed for their workout.

Oh well.

That just meant he would have to take you again later.

His balls tightened and his stomach clenched at the thought, fuck. He wanted you again and he hadn’t even cum yet—your tight little cunt already quivering and tightening around him with your oncoming orgasm as he lost himself in eyes flooded with open desire— disarming him with the candor he saw reflected in them. He swallowed thickly.

“Gonna ruin you, sweetheart,” was his immediate reaction, the only way he could think to reciprocate. A gush of wetness pushed around his cock drilling into you, your walls getting impossibly tighter, and he smirked darkly—his nose pressing into your cheek, teeth bared and feral, “you’d like that, huh?”

Delirious nods were all you were capable of as silent gasps kept your lips parted, eyes rolling back when his thumb dropped to draw tight, fixated little circles on your clit—forcing you over the edge with a final blow that sucked the breath right out of you, the boxer taking and taking and taking everything he wanted from you with wet thrusts and brutal bites to your already marked neck.

He swallowed your orgasm with his mouth, the wet strands of his hair dripping water onto your pretty face as he sucked your tongue into his mouth, dropping his free hand to slide down the length of your side as his thrust turned erratic, chasing his high—chasing that bliss he could only find buried deep inside you.

“Cum, Din—cum,” you breathed, cupping his face as you smiled—exhaustion written plain on your face and his brows pinched in concentration, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with a gasp of your name, breathless as he pulled out—his hand moving frantically over the swollen length of him until he coated your mound and dress with his release. It washed away in streaks of milky white down your body, a subtle pang of fatigued frustration to see it disappear so quickly flashing though him.

The locker room was silent when he turned the water pressure off.

Apart from your labored breathing, the locker room was silent—the prior occupants leaving none the wiser or – if they had heard anything – wisely leaving.

Din dropped your leg from where it remained hooked over his arm, his hands fisting in the skirt of your dress to drag the sodden material up and over your head with a shiver at the uncomfortable feeling of wet clothes.

The sight of your naked body made his softening cock twitch, dammit. You were all gentle curves and soft skin, clothed in the marks of his mouth and bruises of his grip.

He wanted you again.

And caged within his arms, trapped with his hands pressed either side of your head, his shaggy head of soaked waves falling into dark, guarded eyes—you could admit you wanted him again too.

“I’ll wash your dress,” he rasped gruffly, taking a step back from you and kicking off his shorts to wring out and toss into his gym bag. He left the shower with effortless calm, as if he wasn’t stark naked but returned with a towel for you to wrap yourself in.

You flashed him a grateful smile that stuttered when he tossed another – smaller – towel on your head, rubbing it quickly over your soaked locks despite your complaints, a crooked smirk your only indication that he was playing.

“You don’t have t—”

“You can wait for it to dry at my place.”

His words brokered no argument as you padded after him into the empty locker room, the boxer rummaging through his own locker to pull out a simple white t-shirt—long enough to cover you… just about. The hem fell shorter than your dress and you were distinctly aware of your lack of underwear when you pulled it on.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he rumbled as he tugged a tight black muscle shirt over his head, looking down at you with a devastating smirk and sinfully half-lidded eyes, “I don’t share. No one will see you.”

Taglist:

@sarahjkl82-blog @gracie7209 @nova646 @theflightytemptressadventure @wantingtobekorra @computeringturtle @slayerette26 @kesskirata @greatcircle79 @boxdyeblonde @fangirl-316 @niiight-dreamerrrr @tanzthompson @theamuz @the-scandalorian @gallowsjoker @helmet-comes-off @jesfreedark @amyk-37 @altarsw @feminist-violinist @spideysimpossiblegirl @lazybeeches @shameless-h @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @mamacitapascal @the-ginger-hedge-witch @disgruntledspacedad @asta-lily @aesnawan @frannyzooey @gaiuswrites @beskarboobs @sherala007 @cats-are-a-girls-bestfriend @missminkylove @pedros-mustache @krissology @headinthestarz @leannawithacapitala @sharkbait77 @radiowallet @librariantothejedi   @day-off-inkyoto @mandocrasis

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin smut #boxer!din #din djarin #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fic #mando x reader #the mandalorian smut #mando x you #mando smut #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfic #the mandalorian fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Impasse - A Vaderdala Oneshot

“You forget something, Lord Vader.”

Vader flinched, the voice as clear as a bell yet as foreign as the icy vacuum of space. He found himself frozen in place, the bulk of his hefty frame suddenly unbearable. Inside his chest, he felt the searing fingers of remorse and the scalding flames of rage warring for control. 

Against better judgment, he shifted to turn around. Against better judgment, he let down his guard and ignored unclipping his lightsaber. He knew the face he would find before he saw it, but he was still not prepared for the wave of emotion that spilled forth as he came face to face with his own ghosts. This one, he had expected long dead and buried.

“Padmé,” he gasped, but the voice that came out was blunt and deep and void of affection.

Still, the shock bled through. Padmé was as beautiful as the day he’d last seen her. Eyes fierce and determined, dark hair coming loose from her neatly tied bun. Her face was set in a scowl, blaster drawn and aiming straight for the chest panel on Vader’s chest as if it were a marked target meant for practice and precision fire. The air had shifted, the tension thick and heavy and oppressive as they stared each other down. No, more accurately Padmé’s intense, fiery glare was bearing down on Vader. Vader felt his anger dissipate the moment he met that stare; the ice cold regret and guilt crippling him inside out as it won the impasse.

“You said you had come to destroy the Rebellion. I am the last leader standing here. I alone. Will you destroy me now?” Padmé hissed through a clenched jaw, cheeks flushed but her hands steady.

Vader was familiar with the vow he had made, but now it seemed an impossible lie. Before his mind’s eye, he had envisioned old men and snot nosed kids. Politicians and traitors and cowards, incapable of accepting the Emperor’s grand design and his expert vision. The future was bright, the Sith had reclaimed their natural state in the circle of life - atop the ladder. Only fools and children would oppose such an evident supply of unlimited power. Yet, Padmé seemed to care for none of these things. Time had not slowed her down, it had not thawed the ice built in her heart - the ice Vader himself had put there.

“Well?” she pressed, voice tight, calm and collected.

The words escaped before Vader had any chance to rein himself in. Perhaps he never intended to.

“No.”

“No?” she repeated, as if mocking him but her expression revealed surprise and disbelief.

“Aren’t you here to execute your Rebel traitors?”

Vader said nothing, instead he reached for the saber strapped to his belt. He watched Padmé tense, watched her shoulder come up and the finger on the trigger twitch. In what might have been a gesture of surrender, he simply tossed his weapon between them. The gesture was barely a flick of his wrist, but it sent the hilt skidding across the smooth floors until it came to an premeditated gentle stop at Padmé’s feet. She glanced down to regard the token, an unreadable tinge of something somber gleaming in her eyes for a split second. When she looked back up, Vader had not moved. He stood with his hands at his sides, the bombardment outside the underground bunker shaking its hull; straining the already flickering lights.

“I will not fight you,” said Vader finally, as if that would be enough to soothe the woman’s stubborn spirits.

She furrowed her brow, the corner of her lips curling into a half sneer of disgust. It stung, and Vader might have recoiled from that alone had he not been the man he was. Changed, remolded and retooled. His heart had been ripped out once, and still Padmé’s presence willed its withered carcass to beat and blossom. At the same time, she tore it to shreds once more with the disdain her face held for him. He sensed it inside her, swirling and expanding into a palpable loathing. It cloaked her, surrounded her like a cloud. It reeked of pain, sorrow, and betrayal.

“You don’t know me. If you won’t fight, I will,” she said, every word calculated and sincere.

“‘Aggressive negotiations’.”

It was merely a statement, but its meaning rang true. Padmé straightened up, eyes suddenly wide as a ghost of horrified recognition filtered past her defenses. it was gone in the blink of an eye, but the colour that had drained from her already pale face was harder to conceal.

“Who told you?” she snarled, shifting the aim of her blaster towards Vader’s heart - knowing it would do no harm, but the gesture hit him like a slap across the face either way.

She was questioning how he had learned about her and The Jedi. Anakin Skywalker, her husband. Perhaps she had her sneaking suspicions, she must. But her aura betrayed none of it, it remained outraged and unsettled and adamant in her quest.

“You did.”

Padmé opened her mouth to deliver another scathing retort, but she snapped it close again. A tremor passed her slight frame, and it did not go unnoticed. Her resolve was faltering and waning, the lie she had convinced herself to believe no less a stretch of the imagination than the mental gymnastics Vader himself had been performing for the past four years. Ever since Mustafar, ever since he lost everything. Now, that very everything lost stood before him. Now, she was once more within his reach.

“I’m sorry. I tried,” he heard himself say, a feeble apology not nearly sufficient to excuse the heinous acts he had committed.

The voice was still not his own, but the words were earnest. Padmé lowered her blaster in slow, jerky motions but her eyes were transfixed on his. At the very least, Vader felt their gaze burn straight into his soul; into the furnace of his heart that had frozen over a million times. 

“You’re safe.”

It was a ridiculous profession, Padmé’s very existence as part of the Rebellion was a death sentence. But she was alive, she was well and healthy and stable and here. She had not died. He had failed her, but she had lived. He took one step towards her, feeling just as wary and insecure as she looked. She blinked rapidly, shaking her head in a tiny micromovement. She mouthed something, but there was no sound accompanying the motion. Vader understood her fear, yet it pained him to no end. He was unrecognizable, locked within this jettblack prison of durasteel, cybernetics and synth flesh. There was so little left of his physical body, and even less of the man Padmé had once loved.

“It can’t be…” she whispered, hoarse as the tendons at the sides of her neck strained.

Vader felt the urge to cry, an urge so overpowering. An urge that had not found him since Mustafar, since the fall of the Jedi and the Republic. He had no tears to cry, no measure to shed tears by. His retinas, his tear ducts were long since eaten away by flames and embers. Still, his eyes stung. A warmth pressed behind them, a heaviness bearing down on his chest like a fist squeezing the air out of his lungs. Lungs he no longer had.

“Do what you must. I am not afraid to die.”

Padmé’s eyes widened, mouth falling open as realization dawned upon her. She understood. Vader expected her to back away, expected her to cry, to yell, to fire. Anything. Instead, she stood stone faced. As frail as porcelain, yet as sturdy as the brightest star in the Galaxy. Now, she took a step towards him. Then another. Closing the gap, inch by inch, foot by foot. She tipped her head back, never once drawing her eyes from the opaque crimson lenses of Vader’s eyes that substituted eyes. They served for the damaged, half blind eyes hidden behind.

“What have they done to you?” Padmé’s resolute voice murmured; full of compassion and love, emotions that seemed to have sprung out of the ether.

Yet, what she really meant was; what have you done to yourself?

Vader did not falter as she stopped but a breath away. Her trembling, slender fingers reached for his face plate. Her tiny hand brushed over the mouthpiece, running over the sharp angles and the netted grill. A breath was forced through it, with a loud hiss and the smell of sanitizer and bacta fluids followed it. Padmé’s eyes were round, warm, and mournful. They were glassy, her cheeks flushed but it was Vader who wished more than ever that he might shed a tear. If she were to strike him down, he deserved it. He would allow it. He would let her.

“Anakin.”

It was not a question. She knew, it was evident in the pitiful, feeble smile of shock and relief alike that grazed her lips. It was gone in an instant, but it had said enough. So used to denouncing his name, denouncing himself and all he was and had been - Vader found himself unable to deflect her. She was right. He had been wrong for so long, choosing to live in darkness and denial. No more.

“Yes.”

Anakin meant it.

****

Have a short Vaderdala AU.

#anakin skywalker #darth vader #padmé amidala #star wars #sw #padmé lives #suited vader #anakin #skywalker #vader #lord vader #padmé #amidala #naberrie #padme #padmé naberrie #padmé skywalker #padme naberrie #padme amidala #padme skywalker #anidala #vaderdala #au #prequels #pt #prequel trilogy #tcw #the clone wars #swr #rebels

[amiedala]

Something More (the mandalorian x reader)

CHAPTER 1: INTO THE STARS

Rated: Explicit (not this chapter, but future chapters will be)

Warnings: light descriptions of violence

Summary: Meeting the Mandalorian was like colliding into the rest of your life at a moment’s notice. Like oh, there you are. It was both jarring and familiar at the same time, like stepping into a minute with no intentions and stepping out of it in deja-vu. You had always been told you made too much out of everything, that you blew up every circumstance to fit some kind of grand destiny, some huge significance. If anyone asked, you’d swear up and down this was different. It was different. The Mandalorian sweeping you off your feet and out of your back alley haunts and narrow escapes was something kismet. Something cosmic. Something more.

Or, a slow burn love story across the stars featuring you, Din, and your little green baby. With love, angst, lust, and everything in between following you across the galaxy.*this deviates from canon for the most part, the plot begins at the very end of season 1 and will deviate for about half of season 2! there is LOTS planned for this (i already have 19k words written & will be posting regularly) so i hope you all enjoy!! <3 muah*

this is 1000000% completely inspired by the incredible behemoth SUPREME Mandalorian fic Rough Day by our lord & savior @no-droids but it will have its entire own plot & more of a slowburn in both love & smut, specifically for suffering long haul romance lovers like myself!

i already have 19k words written & will be ATTEMPTING to post updates regularly (and if i get excited about getting new chapters up, they might come early. i'm gonna try to post Saturday evenings every week, extenuating circumstances notwithstanding <3

hope you enjoy!!! more to come VERY SOON!!!

Meeting the Mandalorian was like colliding into the rest of your life at a moment’s notice. Like oh, there you are. It was both jarring and familiar at the same time, like stepping into a minute with no intentions and stepping out of it in deja-vu. You had always been told you made too much out of everything, that you blew up every circumstance to fit some kind of grand destiny, some huge significance. If anyone asked, you’d swear up and down this was different. It was different. The Mandalorian sweeping you off your feet and out of your back alley haunts and narrow escapes was something kismet. Something cosmic. Something more.

You met him on Nevarro. You weren’t even supposed to be there. You were supposed to be back in the Mid Rim by that point, long gone from your last mission gone sour. Your ship had broken down and you narrowly escaped a crash landing, and you’d hiked for hours through the unyielding lava fields for the closest town, with nothing but a handful of credits and the clothes on your back. Somehow, miraculously, you were able to grab the last of your water and your mother’s necklace from where it was hanging on the dashboard before the magma had bubbled up and claimed the better half of the old X-wing before you could go back in for more.

“Dank ferrik,” you seethed, and the curse felt alien under your tongue. There was no one out here to hear it but yourself, the lava, and the sulfuric air, anyways, so you grumbled out a few more before the ship fully sank into the magma in front of you.

The ship itself wasn’t a big loss—you’d only gotten it because it was the cheapest after you lost your own to that smuggler, but being stranded on a planet that was so aggressive towards any sort of survival wasn’t the best circumstance in the galaxy. But here you were, stuck, unmoored, anchorless, on a planet not known for anything except its rivers of lava and a bounty hunters’ guild you’d heard about and tried your best to stay away from. That town was the only landmark you had, though, so you begrudgingly trekked across Nevarro’s molten surface in search for any form of civilization.

The sky had started to slip off into darkness, and the small flecks of the other Outer Rim planets glistened lightyears away from where you were hiking when you stumbled over something and nearly fell into what you assumed was a dormant vat of lava. It was only when you scrambled away from the hot pocket of ground that you realized it was a stormtrooper helmet. A stormtrooper helmet with a head still in it. You gasped and skittered away, pushing off the heels of your hands to get upward as fast as you can, not even registering the heat eating through the skin of your palms. You didn’t have a weapon—the old blaster you’d carried for the last few years had been eaten up with the X-Wing—and as your eyes adjusted to a collection of white armor and bodies on the ground, you kicked yourself from not prioritizing the gun over getting out unscathed.

You didn’t scare easy. You grew up on a slowly abandoned Rebel base back on Yavin, and even after your parents’ deaths, you were surrounded by a legion of people who took care of you and taught you how to fight. Really, you were good at getting out of sticky situations that looked too dire to survive—take the crash landing an hour back for example—but you had a giant blind spot of earnestness to believe the people you went into business with were being sincere. That’s how the ship had crashed in the first place, you exchanged a repair of your original starship with providing Alderaanian liquor to a smuggler and his droid back on Dantooine who had both cut and run with it before fully repairing the vitally broken control panel. It was a rookie mistake, which you definitely weren’t, but he had just seemed so earnest in his need for the alcohol, and your fatal flaw was that you always trusted people who needed help. Even to your own detriment.

It had been your downfall back home, and at least twice when you were adventuring through the Outer Rim, and when you narrowly escaped a Deveronian when you had first started out on your own, because you were too close to a scumbag in friend’s clothing who fumbled the bag and left you for dead. He even stole your ship, then, and you had to make a series of sordid deals to get off Polis Massa, let alone find a place where you could crash safely for weeks before you could work up enough credits to get the X-Wing, which was, quite ceremoniously, dead now.

You shivered with the realization that you might be in danger, too. There were so many bodies scattered across this ridge and the next, and a handful of crashed TIE fighters. The sight of them didn’t strike fear into you—they never really had, you were raised in the Alliance and you could outfly the Empire since you were six years old—but they made you feel uneasy. Nevarro didn’t have a Rebel base, and you had never met someone in the Alliance who was from the planet. With the obvious show of Imperial affiliation and the bounty hunters’ guild, Nevarro was seedy enough that it kept you on edge as you walked, hopefully towards a town with people who didn’t want anything more from you than an easy job.

It must have been near dawn when you finally made it to the edge of the town. It was at best shot to all hell and at worst absolutely obliterated. Your heart sank. There were more dead suits of white armor scattered across the dirt and sand. There were helmets on pikes that looked far too fresh. Your hand twitched near your thigh where your blaster was usually strapped. All of this was a bad idea. You shouldn’t have left the blaster in the ship. If you were really playing the game of regrets, though, you never should have helped the smuggler. You should have paid the fifteen more credits to get the X-Wing fixed on Tatooine instead. You should have stayed on Yavin after your parents died and shouldn’t have been so earnest to make it on your own and—

“Hey.” The voice came from behind you, and you whipped around so fast your hair fell from where the clasp had been hanging on to nothing but a prayer since your crash landing. You shook it away from your face, eyes squinted at the figure that seemed to materialize behind you. “Where are you from, pretty thing?”

“Coruscant,” you lied through your teeth. The name of the planet you’ve been trying to avoid for years burns a hole through your belly.

“You don’t belong in a place like this.” He stepped into the light, and he wasn’t human. You didn’t know what he was, exactly, but his tone made your skin crawl. You held your ground.

“You’re right. I don’t. I’m looking for a mechanic.”

“I’m a mechanic.” Like hell he was. You clenched your jaw, trying to look menacing. The grease and sweat from the hike there was smeared on your face, your pants had gotten ripped while climbing out of the crash. You didn’t like how his eyes fixated hungrily on the flesh of your exposed thigh, and you had to shake the thought away while you walked into a voice much more brazen than your own.

“Do you know how to fix an X-Wing?” You stepped forward, and the Rebel insignia on your necklace glinted in the low light. Around these parts, after the fall of the Empire, you’ve heard Rebels strike fear into the local folk. Suddenly, the guy took a step backward, and you reveled in your menace for a split second before you realized someone was standing behind you.

He didn’t speak again before he took off. You stuttered, the sudden appearance of the figure behind you catching in your chest, and it rose to a cut off yelp when a red blast knocked the one who had hit on you off his feet, spiraling over a stormtrooper body, falling to the rocky floor. Dead. He was dead. You spun, praying that your heart hammering in your chest was just leftover adrenaline and not a signifier of a new threat.

Standing behind you, outfitted entirely in silver reflective armor, was a Mandalorian. “Nevarro doesn��t have mechanics.”

You squinted. You were completely taken aback by his presence, his hulking realness, but suddenly his statement overpowered your revelry. “I find that hard to believe.”

“That X-Wing crashed out there is yours.” It isn’t a question. His voice is deep, a baritone that spreads warmth even blocked by the modulator in his helmet. You’d only heard of Mandalorians in stories, legends, around the campfires growing up. You didn’t expect one to ever materialize in anything other than myth, let alone stand in front of you, electric.

You nod. Did he follow you all the way to town?

“You aren’t looking for a mechanic.” His voice is so sure, so big. Your world spins on its axis, the feeling foreign and familiar all at once. He had spoken three sentences to you, and already, you felt that dizzy, magnetic pull that you tried to convince yourself was there much more often than it was.

“I…” You trail off, staring up at his visor. He seems larger than life, much larger than you, at least, and for some reason, the hugeness is cutting off all of your words before they can fully form. “No. I need a way off this planet, though.”

“Can you fly?”

You balk at his question, annoyed—obviously, you could fly—and then remember the only track record you have in the Mandalorian’s eyes is your ship, crash landed and then immediately swallowed by lava. “I’m a pilot. A runner. I’ve been flying since I was six years old.”

He takes a minute, completely silent. The noise of the scattered stormtrooper bodies around you suddenly seems deafening. You aren’t scared of him. You think. Your heart is still hammering, but it’s nothing like the fear that rushed through you when the alien talked to you a few minutes ago. It’s different—not adrenaline, exactly, and not fear. You place the feeling when it washes over you again, warm and unexpected—Excitement.

“Okay.” He moves, and you startle. You didn’t realize the conversation was over.

“Uh,” you stammer, “Do you… do you need a pilot?”

“No,” he says, over his shoulder. His strides are long. You step forward, almost pulled after him, then stuttered to a stop. “But I might be your only ride out of here.”

“Oh,” you manage, and then follow him. The dim light spreads over the horizon as you walk, stunned into silence by his own, trying to mimic his step, his quiet. It doesn’t happen. You’re clunking along beside him, the noise made even louder by the silence in his gait. “I’m not picky, where we go, you know—I was heading away from the Outer Rim, so I’m in no rush to get back there, but—I mean, I’m thankful that you’re taking me anywhere—”

“I can’t pay you. But you don’t have to pay me, either.”

You blink, feet stuttering to a near stop, buffering before you remember to keep following him. “I’m sorry?”

“You can fly, right?”

You blink, eyes darting up to the back of his helmet. It might just be the modulator, but there’s no air in his voice, no struggle to cross the hard, hot terrain. It’s impressive. “I can, but you thought you didn’t need a pilot—?”

“You were a rebel.” His voice is curt. Quick.

Your eyebrows furrow, looking down at the insignia on your necklace and then back up at him. There’s a dry breeze over the molten moors, and his cape catches in the wind. It flutters. It’s the first sign of something gentle about him. It’s the memory you take with you for months later, savoring it for when he’s leaving you on the ship while he goes and catches his bounties, one by one. You cling to it in the long lapses of time where he doesn’t offer you anything but silence. You’ll hold onto it, a butterfly of a memory, for weeks—until he offers you something softer, something warmer. Something real.

You don’t know that in the moment, though. Right now, he’s asked a question, and you’re struggling to answer it honestly. “I was.”

“You don’t scare easily.”

It’s like he’s putting together these impossible puzzle pieces of your life. How is he guessing this? He’s known you for maybe ten whole minutes. It swells in your chest, a thunderbird of a thing, and you don’t know why.

“I’d like to think so,” you manage, as he tilts his helmet back to search you for your answer. Your breath hitches in your throat at the thought of his eyes on you, and you wonder what color they are. Maker. Where did that come from?

“Good.”

A ship seems to materialize out of nowhere, but it seems more likely that you were so caught up in the mystery of the Mandalorian and keeping your gaze locked on him that his ship was in the periphery of your vision. You follow him, still confused, up the descended gangplank. Sitting in the middle of the ship is a tiny green baby, with eyes ten times the size of its nose, with peach fuzz lazily dusting the top of its head. It’s holding a tiny silver ball in its three-fingered hands, looking up at the Mandalorian with outstretched arms.

You watch, in stunned silence, as the giant hulking silver figure crouches down to pick up the baby, meeting its little coos with soft words right back. It’s as soft as his cape fluttering in the wind, an unexpected, fleeting feeling of warmth. You don’t know what to do with yourself. The warm breeze buffets the small of your back, ruffles your loose hair. You just stand there, entirely enamored with this tiny green baby in the Mandalorian’s arms, speechless.

“You don’t scare easily,” the Mandalorian repeats.

You shake your head. “Nope.”

He holds the baby up to you. “How about now?”

You blink, confused. “Am I supposed to be scared of it?”

“Him.”

You take a tentative step forward, gaze flickering between the two of them, wondering what would have happened if you had crash landed literally anywhere else, at literally any other time. Something big and ceremonious swells somewhere deep in your chest.

“I’m not scared,” you finally say, and when your eyes find his visor again, you hope he knows you mean you’re not scared of either of them. You could be—most people with common sense are struck with fear at the sight of meeting a Mandalorian, especially one associated with such a widespread bounty hunters’ guild—but fear just keeps getting pushed away as the seconds pass. A small voice in the back of your head whispers that this is another mistake of being too trustful, but the larger half of you knows how to handle yourself if you find trouble. Besides, he has a tiny alien kid, and something tells you the Mandalorian wouldn’t put the baby in a situation that he deemed unsafe. As the door zips shut behind you, you step forward into the ship—into the place you’ll eventually make your home—heart still hammering on and on, thrumming as the three of you lift off of Nevarro’s surface and into the stars.

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars #fanfiction #i hope y'all enjoy!!!!! #something more

[fanmoose12]

on the coastline of memories

a second part to this!

“You shouldn’t do it,” Armin says gently, his eyes an endless sea of sorrow.

“The commander is gone, Captain,” Jean tells him, his voice quiet and bitter. “There is nothing left of her.”

“It would only make the pain so much worse,” Mikasa adds, weary and heartbroken.

“Hange-san wouldn't have wanted you to suffer,” Connie agrees with a faraway look. “None of them would.”  

And, maybe, they’re right, Levi thinks, looking at their worn-out faces. Maybe, it’s better this way. Maybe, he should just let go.

He can’t.

So he packs a few changes of clothes, takes a few things from the office, from her office, and boards the first ship, headed towards Odiha.

A journey by plane would take a lot less time, but after all he has been through, after her sacrifice — Levi doesn’t trust planes that much.

***

He gets off the ship and someone immediately approaches him. He turns his head to the side – damn his lost eye – and sees a Cart Titan, Pieck, standing beside him.

“Captain,” she greets. “May we have a talk?”

Levi doesn’t understand the reason for it, what could they possibly talk about it? But he nods and follows after Pieck, as she leads him to a more secluded area.

“I’m not sure if that’s true,” she fidgets, wriggling her fingers and looking slightly above his shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze. Watching her behave so awkwardly around him, Levi is hit with a realization – she is still so young. How old is she? Twenty? A bit more? She’s not much older than the brats from his own squad. So young and already she’s seen so much, lost too much, but— Levi muses, he was all the same. All of them – Erwin, Mike, Nanaba, Moblit - they were young. Too young for this war. Too young to die.

Hange— Hange was too young to die too.

Levi shakes his head, chases those thoughts away. They’re pointless, they bring nothing but pain. Instead he focuses on Pieck.

“There are reports about… someone living in the abandoned cabin near the port. I went to check, albeit from afar, but it seems…” she pauses then, and looks at Levi, tilting her head. “Maybe, you should sit down?”

“I’m not an old man,” Levi grunts, despite feeling very much like one. “What were you saying?”

Truthfully, Levi doesn’t pay much attention to what Pieck is saying. Something about an abandoned cabin, about someone occupying it… what relation does it have to him?

“I was saying,” Pieck looks straight into his eyes, her gaze unwavering. “I think Commander Hange is alive.”

Levi blinks – once, twice, thrice, but he doesn’t understand. What Pieck is saying… it can’t possibly be true. And if that’s not the truth, then it can only be—

“Is this a joke?” he says in a low voice, an almost forgotten feeling of cold fury washing over him. He clenches his hands into fists and they tremble from barely restrained anger, as he glowers at Pieck. “Do you think that’s funny?”

“No!” Pieck cries out, and the distress on her face looks fairly genuine. It chases some of his anger away. “I couldn’t believe it myself, and I’m not one hundred percent sure yet, Commander’s face isn’t the same as it was, but—”

“Show me then,” Levi demands, cutting off her ramblings with a surprising desperation. He can’t believe Pieck, won’t believe her until he sees a living, breathing proof. But he gives her words the benefit of a doubt. It’s not hope, he persuades himself, he can’t afford to hope. He doesn’t think he’d be able to recover when it inevitably gets shattered.

“Of course,” Pieck easily agrees. “But before we go, I have to warn you – Commander isn’t the same as she was.”

“So you’ve told me.”

It’s natural, he thinks. If Hange was able to survive – which he still doesn’t believe in – of course, she wouldn’t be left unscarred. His face isn’t the same as it was too, after all.

“No,” Pieck shakes her head. “You don’t understand. I think she lost her memories. I’ve tried approaching her once, when she was visiting a nearby town, but— Commander didn’t even recognize me.”

Levi reflects on her words. He knows Pieck is sure that she had seen Hange, she wouldn’t have approached him or gone through all the trouble of finding him if she wasn’t. He doesn’t know her that well, but former Cart Titan doesn’t strike him as a cruel or imprudent person.

Pieck is sure that Hange is alive.

Levi doesn’t know how to feel about it. On the battlefield, he trusted Pieck with his life. But it’s not his life that is at stake right now, it’s his heart. And if it breaks one more time, Levi is sure – he will break too.

“Lead the way,” he asks in a quiet, faint murmur.

He doesn’t dare to hope. But as he follows after Pieck, he’s filled with nervous anticipation.

***

“Here,” Pieck raises a hand, pointing her finger at a small cabin at the coastline, hidden between two large trees. “Commander lives here.”

Levi looks at it, waits for something to happen. And then— something happens.

A person walks out of the cabin, oblivious to the company that watches them.

Levi squints his one remaining eye, gets a better look at that person— and feels his knees buckle.

It’s her, it’s Hange, there is no doubt about it. She’s standing far away from him, and Pieck was right, she doesn’t look like she used to – with burns adorning her face and half of her hair missing, but Levi recognizes her right away. It’s the way she holds herself, the way her shoulders are slightly slumped and her head is held high, as she stares at the horizon.

It’s Hange, she’s alive, Levi realizes, and sinks down to his knees.

“Hey, hey!” Pieck looks down at him, alarmed. “Are you alright?”

Levi glances at Hange once again, and he almost smiles. “I’m good.”

***

Once the initial shock washes over him, leaving him only slightly dazed and breathless, Levi gets back to his feet. He wants to go to Hange. He needs to go to Hange, needs to look into her eyes and hold her in his arms. Needs to tell her everything he kept unspoken.

He takes the first step with the intent to do exactly that. Nothing is going to stop him, them, this time, but then— then he remembers.

I think she lost her memories

He remembers Pieck’s words. He remembers Hange’s last years too - the weary look in her eyes, the absence of that loud laughter and bright smile. Remembers how easy it was for her to sacrifice her own life.

Maybe, Hange truly forgot about everything. It’s a blessing then and should be treated as such.

He doesn’t take another step forward. Instead, he turns around and leaves.

It’s better this way, he thinks.

The distance between him and Hange grows bigger and bigger. His heart grows heavier with every step.

***

In the end, despite his best efforts, he just can’t stay away. He knows he should, knows he has to let Hange go, but he can’t.

He’s just an old, broken man, who is too weak to resist.

He never shows his face, afraid that it could trigger Hange’s memories, afraid of what it would do to her, but he visits her cabin frequently.

Hange is isolated from the others, but there are things that she needs. He’s just helping her, Levi persuades himself, as he leaves small packages at Hange’s doorstep again and again.

And if sometimes, he stands in the distance, watching her - on the isolated coastline, no one is a witness to it.

***

Hange gets curious about him, of course. Levi isn’t surprised, she is the definition of that word, after all. She tries to catch him, runs out of the house every time he visits. Luckily, even old and beaten, Levi remains faster than her.

It is tempting, though. It is so tempting to just let Hange see him, to slow his step, to turn around and face her.

But then Levi remembers a quiet, broken whisper.

So just let me go, will you?

And he hurries to walk away, to leave Hange behind, persuading himself that it’s better this way.

***

One morning, he visits Hange at the very break of dawn. The sun is barely up in the sky, the world painted in a gentle pink light. The air is chilly and the cold wind ruffles his hair. The spring has just began, and so Levi wraps the coat tighter, shielding himself from the cold.

He approaches the cabin, his eyes trained at the sea. At the mornings like this, it looks particularly splendid.

Levi tears his gaze away from the mesmerizing view and turns to the cabin. He freezes, as he sees Hange sitting on a porch. He panics and means to flee that instant, but then he looks closer - Hange doesn’t react to him at all.

She’s asleep, he realizes with immense relief.

He realizes another thing then – it’s the first time he’s so close to Hange.

Slowly, he takes another step. She looks a bit ridiculous, with blanket wrapped all over her and only head sticking out, but she’s just like the sea, the sight of her so splendid, it’s hard for Levi to look away.

He climbs up to a porch and softly puts the package down. The sharp, familiar aroma fills his nostrils and the permanent scowl on his face softens, as he notices two cups of tea, standing on the table.

He takes one in his hands, inhales the scent deeper and takes the first sip. The tea is bitter and strong – just as he likes it.

“Thank you,” he whispers, as he puts the empty cup down.

Hange can wake up at any moment, he knows that. He should leave soon, he knows that too. But he stays behind, just for a couple of minutes. He watches Hange snore quietly, marvels at the way her chest moves up and down, at the small puffs of air that escape her mouth. The sight is warming him more than the hot tea. He leans in then, unable to resist. He leaves a soft kiss on forehead.

He gazes at her for another short moment, his chest filling with so much love and longing, it feels like it’s going to explode.

He doesn’t want to leave her, more than anything he just wants to stay with Hange. He wants to start a life with her, a life she promised to him, a life that became impossible when she decided that humanity is more important than their happiness.

But Hange is still alive, she can still find some happiness. In the meantime, he’ll be keeping watch over her.

It’s better this way, he remembers and forces himself to walk away.

***

Hange gets more vigilant after that, and Levi’s annoyance grows stronger. Is that so hard to simply accept his kindness? Why must she always stick her long nose where it doesn’t belong?

It takes him four days of almost constantly watching the damn cabin to catch the time where Hange isn’t waiting on a porch for him. He traveled to another town to get her those damn journals, and that’s how she repays him?  

What an insufferable, irritating douche.

What a pair they make.

***

Same as the amount of steps that led to the lab and the amount of turns he took to get to the Commander’s office, the trail to the cabin becomes so familiar that Levi can get to it with his eye closed. He knows every tree that stands along the way, every stone and bump on the road.

And as he walks it one day, Levi notices a new, strange smell. He follows it and finds a plate with pie on it and a cup of tea. A note lies next to it all, and Levi snatches it in his hands.

Since you don't let me thank you any other way, it reads. Levi rolls his eyes. Someone is a little passive aggressive, he muses, taking a bite of the pie.

It’s a little too sweet for his taste, but not awful. He likes it actually. Of course, there is no way in hell he’ll tell Hange about it. Teasing her became a second nature, and so, as he grabs a second piece of pie, he takes out a quill and sits down to write a reply.

A smirk pulls at his lips as he finishes his note. It’s a little rude, he knows, but it’s meant for Hange, the only person who was always able to see through the stern façade. He wonders if she still possesses this ability, or it was lost among with her memories. He hopes it was not.

He puts the note down, takes another piece of pie and leaves.

Work on your cooking skills, four-eyes. The pie was awful. Try adding less sugar next time. I think just a piece of this shitty pie could give someone cavities. Tea was good, though.

***

With the taste of pie still lingering in his mouth, Levi returns to a room he’s renting at a small motel not far from the ruined port.

Someone is standing next to his room, obviously waiting for him. Levi curses softly, recognizing Jean’s long face.

“Captain!” he raises his hand in greeting. “I was waiting for you.”

Dressed in a long coat, three-piece suit and with black hat on his head, Jean is the epitome of a charming young man.

“The kids have surely grown,” the voice in his head murmurs. It sounds suspiciously like Hange.

Jean looks at him, staring Levi in the eye, unflinching. A man in front of him is a far cry from the unruly teenager Levi was so used to.

He’s not much of a brat anymore, he thinks with a mixture of annoyance and pride. Jean grew into a good, noble man.

The beard is still ridiculous in Levi’s opinion.

“Come in,” he sighs, unlocking the door to his room and letting Jean go in first. “What brings you here?”

How were you able to find me, he wants to ask, but he can guess the answer himself. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one Pieck was watching over. Levi wonders how much she told to Jean and the others.

“I came here because of you,” Jean says, taking off his hat.

“Me?” Levi raises an eyebrow. “What do you need me for? Is there some trouble on the island?”

“No,” Jean shakes his head. “But… we’re worried about you. What are you still doing here, Captain? Why don’t you go home?”

Because it’s not my home anymore, Levi wants to say. The home is where the heart is, or so his mother used to say. His heart is living in the abandoned cabin on the coastline. And he won’t leave her this time.

He can’t say all of it to Jean, though. Obviously, he doesn’t know about Hange, he wouldn’t be asking the obvious question otherwise. And Levi can’t tell about her survival to the kids. He wants, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to compromise the safety of that secret. He doesn’t want to sabotage Hange’s chance at finding peace and happiness. Not again.

“It’s not any of your business, Kirstein,” he retorts, his voice harsher than Jean deserves.

Jean sighs, fiddling with his hat. “I saw you coming back from the beach this morning. Are you… still visiting that place?”

The way Jean looks at him – sad and weary – tugs at Levi’s heart. He can’t hold this gaze, and so he turns away, squeezing his hands into fists. He knows how he must look to the others, knows that they probably think that he’s an old, broken man who is going mad with grief.

He’s not mad, though. He is not. Pieck had seen her too.

“Thanks for the concern, Jean,” he says, and he means it. The kids’ worry and care warms his heart. “But I’m fine.”

“You won’t be going home with me then?”

“No,” Levi softly refuses. “I’ll stay here.”

Jean looks like he wants to argue, but Levi sends him a look, silencing him. Jean sighs again. Levi raises his hand to pat Jean on a shoulder, but then he realizes – Jean is too damn tall for him to do that. He tsks in annoyance, awkwardly lowering his hand.

“We’ve all grown so damn big, eh?” Jean teases with a small grin.

Levi scowls at him. Jean’s grin grows bigger.

“C’mon,” Levi says, leading Jean further into the room. “You didn’t just come here to persuade me to go back, right?”

“Well, actually…”

“So tall and still so stupid,” Levi remarks, making Jean chuckle. “Sit down, let me make you some tea. You can tell me how the others are you doing.”

“Thank you,” Jean nods, as Levi puts a cup with steaming tea in front of him. “The others are good, they’ve asked to pass on their best wishes to you. Connie wanted to visit you with me, but he broke his arm just a few days ago.”

“Broke his arm?” Levi asks, sipping his tea. “How did that happen?”

“Ah,” Jean chuckles. “The Marleyans showed us a new mean of transportation, called bicycle,” he frowns slightly, making sure to pronounce all the syllables correctly. “It’s like a horse, but a bit faster. Long story short, Connie tried to master that bicycle. He failed spectacularly, though.”

Levi hums, hiding a smile. “What about the others?”

“Armin is getting used to his new role bit by bit. Mikasa and Annie help him a lot. Historia’s baby is getting even more adorable, if you can believe it.”

Historia showed him her kid, while Levi was still on the island. She even let him carry him around, and Levi still remembers a knot in his stomach that appeared, when he took the kid from Historia’s hands. Jean is right, though, the baby is adorable. Just like his mother.

Jean continues talking after that, telling him a story of how Connie fell asleep during the government’s meeting and how Annie tried to bake a birthday cake for Armin, but Levi doesn’t listen to him anymore. Instead, he imagines a person, who would be sitting at his right. A person who would get worried after hearing about Connie’s broken arm and who would coo over Historia’s baby.

Hange would have loved to hear the news about kids. She would have loved to be a part of their lives.

As he absentmindedly listens to Jean, Levi has to remind himself of the truth that is bitterer than tea:

It’s better this way.

***

Jean returns to the island after spending a few days with Levi, and his life goes back to the already familiar routine. He visits Hange, brings a small gift or essentials, gets annoyed at the seemingly endless stream of questions she writes down in the small notes, curses her curiosity and answers her with sarcastic comments and crude jokes.

The life goes on, and Levi feels at peace.

***

He strolls through a town one day, passing by a flower stall. It’s amazing how quickly the world has recovered. Despite all these deaths, despite ruin and tragedy, people are trying to heal, desperate to get things back to the way they were. This kind of perseverance is admiring, Levi can’t help but think, as he watches an old woman selling a bouquet of daffodils to a shy-looking man.

Suddenly a splash of vivid purple color attracts his attention, and Levi subconsciously takes a step closer.

Hange told him once – when she was pissed drunk after a celebration of Mike’s birthday – that her favorite color is purple. Apparently, it reminded her of lavenders that grew on a field behind her childhood house.

“It always makes me think of warm, sunny days,” Hange said then, a big, happy grin on her face. “Those are my favorite kind. Just remembering them makes me feel so good.”

Before he can stop himself, Levi approaches an old woman and buys a pot of hyacinths. It’s not lavender from the fields behind her house, but hyacinths are very pretty too.

Hange always loved flowers, whenever they walked through town, she always stopped by a flower stall, admiring the bright, beautiful colors. As he takes a pot in his hands, Levi wonders if she would like those flowers too. Would they be enough to make her smile?

She isn't at home when he brings the flowers. It's the first time it happens, and Levi guesses that she probably went to explore what lies beyond her little cabin. Her absence does make him a tiny bit worried, but Levi isn't all that surprised by it. Hange is curiosity personified, after all, and he is glad that this side of hers has returned.

He leaves the flowers on the porch and walks away, wondering when Hange will come back.

***

He checks on her the next day, and finds that his flowers are now standing at the windowsill inside the cabin. There is also a note she left for him. He picks it up, his expression softening when he reads the beginning of the note.

His face changes, though, turning into a frown, when Levi sees a name Onyakopon written at the end. He crumbles the note in his fist and hurriedly leaves, his shoulders slumped.

He comes back to the motel and the sight of Onyakopon waiting for him in the foyer doesn’t surprise him at all.

"Captain!" the man quickly catches up with Levi, falling into step with him.

"I'm not Captain anymore," Levi grumbles, thrusting hands into the pockets of his pants. "I'm retired, if you didn't know."

Onyankopon nods, absentmindedly, and before he even opens his mouth, Levi knows what question he is going to ask him.

“Commander Hange? You knew that she’s alive?”

"None of your business," Levi quickens his step, and Onyakopon grabs the sleeve of his jacket, turning him around.

Levi wants to snap at him, to tell him to fuck off and leave him and Hange alone, but words die in his throat, as he sees the distress and concern etched on Onyakopon's face.

"I don't know why are you keeping all of this away from her, sir, but... She's suffering. She's hurting and she doesn't even know why."

"Did you tell her anything?" Levi asks, turning his face to the side, uncomfortable with the weight of Onyakopon's gaze.

"No," he shakes head, his voice defeated. "I didn't."

"Good," Levi nods. "It's better this way, believe me," he adds and walks away, leaving Onyakopon behind.

***

Despite his best attempts to ignore them, Onyakopon's words strike a cord inside him. They make Levi think, they make him question if—

She's suffering. She's hurting and she doesn't even know why.

If his course of action really is the best one.

It all crashes down on him when he finds a letter from Hange. In it, she asks him to reveal the truth. She begs him to tell her about her old life. He reads the letter again and again, doubt and uncertainty clouding his mind.

Does he have any right? Does he have any right to decide what's best for Hange? Shouldn't it be her own decision?

Maybe, Levi thinks, but then he remembers - a quiet, defeated voice, the dull, lifeless look and he thinks no, Hange deserves a second chance, she deserves a chance to live, to lead a life without pain and regrets.

Forgive me, he writes in response to her letter. But it's better this way.

***

 Hange doesn't write another note or letter for him after that.  It looks like she's ready to let go of her old life. It's a good thing, Levi knows that. But a part of him is disappointed. A part of him hasn't let go of Hange yet. A part of him hasn't stopped wanting to get her back at his side, right where she belongs.

A part of him regrets leaving that forest.

***

He still visits her, of course. Hange doesn't speak - or, well, write to him - but he continues to help her in what little ways he can.

He finds her journal during one of his visits. He shouldn't pry, he knows, but he takes it in his hands, opening it at a random page. A rough sketch of a bird - seagull, his mind supplies after a moment - is staring at him. The drawing is surrounded by short notes that detail various observations.

Levi flips over a page and sees another drawing - this one of a hyacinth's flower, leaf and root. Underneath Hange wrote more comments and remarks about the flower's characteristics - how it responds to sun deprivation and how many days it can survive without water before it starts wilting.

Levi smiles as he traces Hange's scribbles with his fingertips. Her passion and curiosity has returned, or so it seems. It warms his heart, makes him remember the good old days, when Hange was allowed to be Hange, when she was just a weird, eccentric scientist with an insatiable hunger for knowledge.

It brings back a particular memory, before the world has gone completely to shit, before it wasn't just them against the world, when the others - Erwin, Mike, Nanaba, Moblit - were still alive. When everything was so much easier.

He tears out a page out of the journal and writes down a short message.

Are your hobbies so boring that watching the birds is somehow fun for you?

***

Last time he said that, he didn't receive an answer, not really. This time, he does.

***

They start talking again, and their conversations – however short they are – never fail in brightening his day. Every word, every doodle Hange makes for him bring a smile to his face. They make him feel like Hange always made him feel during all those years they knew each other.

They make him feel alive.

Of course, Hange is still annoyingly noisy, she still asks him tons of questions, but this time Levi doesn’t ignore them. He doubts that his favorite color or a fact that he prefers to sleep on his left side would trigger some kind of painful memories.

So he continues talking to Hange, and Hange— Hange continues making him happy.

***

He doesn't believe in fate, destiny, providence or some other shit. He never did. He used to scoff at the madmen and drunkards from Underground who cursed God and fate for their misfortunes and he rolled his eyes every time he heard the cultists preaching about tragedies and sorrows that were destined to befall on people who dared to doubt their teachings.

But he does not know how else to call it, how else to explain the universe's apparent disinclination to keep Hange and him apart.

Is it fate, a miracle, or a mere coincidence? Levi isn’t a poet or philosopher, he’s a retired soldier. He doesn’t understand what force constantly brings them together.

But he’s thankful for it.

***

He is descending from the cabin's porch. Hange is bird watching and he knows from experience that it could take hours, if not more. That's why he allows his steps to be slower and more careful than usual. His wounds have healed but they don't let him forget, inconveniencing him at the most unfortunate of times.

He watches his step, grunting softly as he lowers one leg and then the other. It is only when he gets from under the roof, Levi notices that it's raining. The first droplet falls down on his head and he looks up.

And the time stops, because Hange is standing just a few steps away and she stares right at him and the look in her eyes, the one that was always reserved only for him, it tells Levi - she remembers.

"Levi," she calls him, again and again, and Levi realizes - no one had called him by his name for a long, long time. Ever since that fateful day when he thought that he had lost his heart forever.

But his heart is still with him, his heart is still alive. His heart is standing right in front of him and calls out his name.

His hands tremble with the desire to touch her, to feel her, and he clenches them into fists, stopping himself.

He has to make sure first. He has to be certain, so, taking a deep breath, he asks.

"So your memories returned?”

"They did," Hange answers, and, oh god, the sound of her voice. He missed it so much.

"And you..." his knees feel weak, and he shifts his weight from one foot to another. "And you aren't freaked by this?"

Aren't you angry with me, he wants to ask. What do you feel, he needs to know. He doesn't ask any of it, though.

He's afraid to hear the answer.

"I'm still processing," a tentative smile curls at her lips, as if answering Levi's unasked question. "Would you like to… help me with it?”

Would he like to? There is nothing more he ever wished for.

“I know I’ve talked about living in the forest," Hange adds. "but… will the coastline be good enough for you?”

The forest, coastline, city, what difference does it hold?

Home is where the heart is. And he's tired of contradicting that statement.

“You’re more than enough," he replies.

They start walking at the same time, as always perfectly in sync. And as they hold each other tightly, ignoring the rain, forgetting the pain, Levi thinks—

We are together - and it's so much better this way.

#it's basically the same thing but from levi's pov this time! #hope you guys enjoy #levihan #levihan fanfiction

[lightdancer1]

A scene from the Azula's House of Wonders AU:

Today was a big day, Azula mused. After years of work, the braces on her arms and legs were off. Her Firebending, which had never been caged, was deeply rusty. She had mastered what you could do with Firebreathing beyond anyone else because that was all that she could do for a long time. The rest of it?

She rose with the dawn and as she'd done before when she'd learned how to set her braces herself, she walked down to the turtleduck pond, letting Agni's light hit her. The power of the Sun was life, it was soul.

"In victory my chains are broken," she quoted the old line from the poem Ozai had made her recite with certain types of Katas, a wicked smile crossing her face at the rebellion in intention.

"Well," she spoke alone in open air, "here goes nothing."

She let herself focus on the warm-ups first. To do this after so long of never thinking she'd gotten this far was a gift without measure, one that drew her full devotion. She remembered all the basics she'd rehearsed and let herself savor being able to move and act of her own will.

And then she let herself work through each of the forms, from the basic to the most advanced. With punches, strikes, and kicks blue fire blazed out as if it were never lost. To any outside observer save those who had seen her childhood self at her peak there would have been no visible sign of loss, something that would have led them to look breathlessly. Azula knew her motions were slower, sloppier.

Ozai would have burned her mercilessly for the ways she missed minor and some major aspects. She could have fueled fire in the old ways, but she let herself think on what Zuko and Iroh had told her. "Fire is life," they said. Perhaps. Or perhaps......

As she moved from the beginning forms to the intermediate ones, she was blind to the sight of an audience growing. Not like the old days when a tyrant had demanded the court applaud elders transforming the younger generation into their terrible swift swords, sincere. Unforced.

Both her old enemies and her old friends were there, watching. Some mused on how years ago they would have looked in horror and dread at the sight, and now it was a reminder that nothing lasted forever. That mistakes could be overcome, that even the gravest wounds could heal. For Mai and Ty Lee it was a bittersweet thing, flashes of old glory and new realities intertwining.

When she moved to the advanced forms she let herself yield to one of Hoelun's words of advice.

"Fire is our soul and it is our light. It is a gift that we are all given, so let us laugh when we use it."

A lesson used in a more horrid context at first and then repurposed as her own life brought its own changes. And so Azula laughed as she moved and called forth the flames of her very being, and the light of the Sun and of her fires seemed to dance in response to the new sources, to the warmth of the hearthfire instead of the cold terror and self-loathing that had animated it.

She was not the perfectionist warlord in the making. The Comet and the Asylum had destroyed that version of her for all time. Now she was a woman who had regained her abilities to walk, who let her fires fly freely. For just a moment she let herself experiment with a thought and redirected her chi and her flames to her feet in a kick and others watched astonished as she finished the last set of kicks in the air, nearly at the height of the roof, and then with a deep gulp focused on slowing her descent, landing in a three point landing.

Then she rose, panting slightly, the burn of her limbs a measure of triumph. Her eyes were wide when she realized just who had watched things. Her brother stepped forward and for a moment she tensed (and did not see that others did, too).

And then Zuko bowed deeply, at the waist, the bow of a student to a teacher, and the gesture was followed by the others from the Fire Nation. Those who were not simply gave her a nod, and a smile. Azula looked at her right hand and for a moment called the flames into being, and then closed it, moving her arm freely.

Zuko and the others from the Fire Nation who watched rose to his full height.

It would not be in them to speak to each other, then, but after years of bitterness and anger, the first steps to the future were made not in words or in dramatic speeches, but in a simple gesture and in silence.

#atla aus #azula's house of wonders au

[littlekatleaf]

The Dreams in Which I'm Dying

Well wtf, it's a new fandom for me. Unexpected! I started watching D/imension20 RPGs and fell in love with F/abian Seacaster and G/arthy O'Brien from F/antasy H/igh and P/irates of L/eviathan. This takes place 20 years after the events of the games.

And I find it kind of funny I find it kind of sad The dreams in which I’m dying Are the best I’ve ever had. ~ Tears for Fears, Mad World

It begins with nightmares - dark, heavy things Fabian doesn’t remember on waking. At least, not the first few nights. He’s left with nothing more than vague shadows and a lingering sense of unease. Everything seems wrong - his apartment simultaneously too big and claustrophobically small. He’s suffused with restlessness. He knows something’s coming, like a squall brewing just beyond the horizon. He might not be able to see the gathering clouds, but feels the barometric pressure plummeting.

At first he attempts to dance out of the way - to dodge and evade - but the dread wraps around him like his own battle sheet, tangling him tight. He tries to ignore the tension singing along his shoulders, the constant twist in his gut. It’s nothing, he tells himself, less than nothing. There’s no time for it to be something. Rumor has it the ship carrying one of the last pirates of the Crimson Claw will reach the mouth of Leviathan in mere days. If he’s going to meet it, he needs to pull together a party. Barely enough time remains to cement plans once he knows the group’s strengths and weaknesses.

As he paces his living room, trying to outrun the apprehension, Fabian’s eye is caught by a piece of red string, like Riz always used in his conspiracy boards. In that instant he longs for them. The Bad Kids. No matter how many years passed since any of them were kids, it’s still at the heart of who they are. (Isn’t it?) They fit together in their roles. Like that movie Kristen made them all watch once - a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess and a criminal. The others had bickered good naturedly over roles that night - specifically who was the basket case. Kristen joked it was Gilear. Ragh said it was her. Fabian didn't need to argue because he knew the truth - Riz was the brain, Gorgug the athlete, Adaine the princess, Fig the criminal, Kristen the saint. Himself the basket case. Even in all the intervening years, he’s never found a group that connects as well as they had, before they all went their separate ways. Even if they hadn’t lost touch, none of the others adventure anymore. In their absence he needs to choose alternatives, like he always does, attempting to fill the holes they left behind - and failing.

He picks up his crystal, turning it over in his hands. The group chat is saved, they are all still members, but no one has used it in years. Maybe he’s wrong; maybe he needs to let them go.

He knows there’s no time for self-indulgence. But he still stalls, the trepidation casting a fog of doubt over every option. He cannot decide on even one person to trust. Perhaps this time he should go alone. He can defeat one single pirate himself. The rest - crew and spoils alike - is irrelevant. The Maelstrom’s Maw will likely bring in the boat and then he can attack. He rubs his forehead against a growing headache and puts the decision off again.

Two nights pass, with only the lightest veil of sleep and even that torn by disquiet. The intervening days feel equally foggy with a mix of exhaustion and dread. Fabian drags himself through the necessary tasks by his fingernails until he’s done everything he can without a crew. A crew on which he still has not managed to settle. In the midst of circling the problem for the five hundredth, or five thousandth, time his crystal flashes an alert. The ship’s been sighted just a few nautical miles off Harroway Bay and will reach Leviathan before dawn. He’s waited too long, he realizes. It will be a solo adventure, then. Nothing else for it.

Fabian knows, almost from the moment he engages, that he’s made a deep mistake attempting the attack this way. Though he comes upon the pirate in the dead of night, alone as planned, he hadn’t considered that the pirate’s shipmates might still be within earshot. His blade only crosses the pirate’s once before he hears heavy boots closing fast.

The pirate thrusts and he manages to parry, but only just. His body feels strange and disconnected, as though he’s a half-beat behind in the dance, perpetually off-step. The pirate presses his advantage; Fabian retreats. Suddenly there’s a flash of light on another drawn sword and several more pirates surround him. At his best he can handle eight, maybe ten. He is not at his best, and light from the streetlamp falls on fifteen.

The pirate grins. “Yer goin’ down, boy.”

“Not a boy anymore.” At least he’ll die in battle, and if he’s very lucky he’ll take this scourge to hell with him. Make his papa proud.

“That remains to be seen,” another says.

The battle is fierce. Swords clash, lunge and dodge, strike-parry-riposte, movements Fabian knows in his sleep, but something is wrong. His body won’t obey. His lungs ache and he can’t catch his breath. Sweat drips into his eye, burning. And then - an opening - the pirate attacking leaves his flank unguarded and Fabian darts in fast - too fast to pull back when he realizes it’s a feint.

I’m fucked, he has time to think, as the pirate whirls. A sharp blow cracks across his elbow, his fingers go numb and his sword falls, clattering to the cobblestone. One of the crew kicks the back of his knees and he stumbles forward and drops. He grabs for his sword, but just as his hand closes around it, the point of the pirate’s sword is at his throat. Should have known it would end this way. Alone. On Leviathan. Fitting for it to be here, tonight - on the anniversary. The way it should have ended if he hadn’t run like a coward, abandoning Alistair to Captain James. Fabian fumbles in his pocket for his crystal, wishing for just enough time to send a last message to the Bad Kids. “Do it,” he says from between gritted teeth.

The pirate barks a laugh, but shakes his head. “Ain’t worth the world o’ hurt that would bring down on me head, boy. Chungledown Bim’s a right devil and yer marked as his. Can’t let ya follow for another go at me, though this has been a delight.”

A brilliant flash of pain blinds him. The crystal slides through his fingers. He falls… and falls… and falls…

through ropes that burn his skin and do nothing to slow his speed and his body hits water that closes over his head like he’s been swallowed whole and still he falls through freezing darkness until the ocean parts and he falls through fire and the flames crackle and whisper - What will you tell the Captain when you meet him in Hell? Have you written your name on the face of the world, Fabian? No, you have written nothing. Nothing to be remembered by. Even your friends have forgotten you. How does it feel to be a failure of a pirate and a failure of a friend? the whisper turns to choking smoke and

Fabian coughs himself awake, lungs aching like he’s been breathing water and smoke, but he still lays where he’d fallen, in some Four Castles back alley. His body’s not been hijacked. Not dropped here by imps. He blinks up at the sky for a long moment, struggling to orient himself. The sky is heavy with clouds, hiding even a sliver of moon. Fat drops of rain pelt down, edged with ice. He blinks the water from his eye and pushes himself to his feet. Once again he staggers through the streets of Leviathan, shivering hard enough to rattle teeth. This time, however, there’s no Cathilda to wrap him in a blanket, no Hangvan to disappear into. No Kristen to slap sense back into him. He wraps his arms around himself, but the rain soaks his shirt and finds no warmth.

Those he passes take no notice of him, perhaps assuming he’s nothing more than another drunken pirate. Even so, he needs to find a place to lay low. Given enough time someone will roll him just to see if he has any coin. Or simply for the fun of it. He’s not even sure, at this moment, that he could defend himself against a single assailant. His head aches where the pirate hit him and his throat is unaccountably raw. Then, as if to add insult to injury, he sneezes. Once, twice, thrice, smothered in the sleeve of his shirt. He always sneezes in threes. Riz teased him mercilessly about it.

“If you’d just sneeze like a normal person, instead of those pinchy things, you’d be done in one, Fabiahn,” Riz would say, drawing his name out like his elvish grandfather did.

“It’s called being polite, The Ball,” he’d reply. “And what do you know about normal?”

“About as much as you.”

They’d laugh together and Fabian’s embarrassment would ease. He would give anything for Riz to be laughing with him now.

Suddenly a door slams open and a wash of warm yellow light spills over the ground in front of him. He glances up. Maybe Kristen sent Cassandra to watch over him, because his meandering path has brought him to the Gold Gardens. The exiting patron brushes past with a muttered curse, but Fabian barely notices. As the doors swing shut, Bob’s voice slips through, full of dream and promise. Fabian checks his pockets and breathes a sigh of relief at the comforting feel of coin.

He stands straighter, raises his chin, allowing the light to fall on his face, scars and eyepatch and all, as the Goliath guard regards him suspiciously. Though it has been some time since he’s been on Leviathan and longer since he’s sought refuge at the Gold Gardens, he trusts the reputation he’s built in the intervening years yet holds. “Good evening. I find myself in need of a room for the night,” he says. “I have payment.”

The other guard, a half-orc he vaguely recognizes from previous visits, turns to him. Her face betrays no reaction to his disheveled state. It’s likely that she’s seen worse. “Ah, Master Seacaster. Garthy O’Brien has made it known there is always room for you here. Please, enter.”

Fabian sketches a small bow. The doors swing wide and the heat that flows out and envelops him is nearly as heavenly as Bob’s voice. But the change in temperature makes his nose run. He sniffs, presses the back of his wrist against the tickling itch, but can’t stop the inevitable. He’s barely inside before he’s sneezing again and wishing for something other than his sleeve to cover with. “H’tchsh! Chh! H’tsh!” He hopes the music and general merriment of the patrons is enough to hide the slight sound, but of course he is noticed.

“Blessings, Fabian, darling. Are you ill?” Garthy touches his shoulder gently and before he can stop himself, Fabian flinches away. His skin feels too tight, even the light pressure too much sensation. They take a step back, one hand raised in a calming gesture.

“I beg your pardon, Garthy,” Fabian says, attempting his usual charming smile. He’s not sure he pulls it off, because a small frown of concern still lingers between their brows. Somehow the expression does nothing to mar their beauty; the proprietor of the Gold Gardens is exquisite as always, the few silver threads in their black dreads the only indicator of years passing. “I’m fine. Just a little chilled from the rain. And you, my friend, are a sight for sore eyes. Eye.” His mouth quirks. “Might there be a room for a traveler seeking shelter from the storm?”

Garthy considers him for a long moment, gaze intent. Fabian resists the urge to look away, to avoid scrutiny. It’ll only make them more suspicious. He concentrates on keeping his expression vaguely flirtatious, his stance loose and easy. At last Garthy gives the smallest nod, allowing him his ruse. “I have told you before, lovey, you are always welcome here. You and yours. Come.” They turn down a hallway and Fabian follows.

Bob’s voice, the rattle of dice, the din of too much conversation fade and Fabian releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The Bad Kids always stayed in a room just off the main parlor, right in the midst of the action. Fig and Gorgug would take over for the house band and practically blow the roof off. Kristen would try to outdrink that biggest pirate she could find, and usually ended up drunk-best-friends with everyone. If Tracker had to pull her out of a fight or two, well, that just kept things interesting. Ragh and Fabian would drink too much mead and take too much snuff and Ragh would challenge the wrong people to wrestling matches and Fabian would beat the wrong people at dice and sometimes fists would be thrown. Good naturedly, of course. Adaine would watch them all over the spine of a book from the Compass Points and shake her head. Sometimes she had to heal one or another of them, but she never seemed to mind. Riz would disappear into the crowd for indeterminate amounts of time, only to suddenly appear at their table with a sharp-toothed grin and clues to whatever mystery they were trying to solve that he’d gleaned from overheard conversations. Fig and Kristen, especially, never wanted the nights to end. Sometime around dawn, though, Kristen and Tracker would peel off, followed by Fig and Ayda. The rest of them shared a room, Fabian, Riz, Gorgug, and Ragh all sprawled on a huge bed while Adaine tranced on a chaise nearby. Somehow Fabian slept better those nights than before or since, even though the room was never peaceful, or silent. Ragh and Gorgug snored. Adaine muttered to herself in her trance. Riz, when he slept, was restless, taking up more room than a three and a half foot tall goblin should. When he didn’t, his pen would scratch across his notebook for hours. None of it ever bothered Fabian.

A door creaks open, startling Fabian out of his thoughts. The room Garthy offers is a small and simply furnished space, just a bed, desk, and fireplace. Fabian crosses the room to a large window and looks out over the edge of the city to the black ocean beyond. It’s still raining, drops pattering against the pane. He should say something to Garthy. Thank them for the room, make a joke about another Leviathan brawl gone badly. He can’t find the words. Any words.

“Would you like something to eat? Or perhaps a warm drink?” Garthy’s voice is quiet, as though they might be intruding.

“No, thank you,” he says. Kippers, Master Fabian? Cathilda’s voice in his head. I don’t deserve kippers. He didn’t. Doesn’t. Twenty men dead. Twenty innocent men. Worst of all, Alistair Ash. Still a child. Dead because he needed to prove that he was a true pirate, heir to his father’s fame. That he is worthy. Instead he left Alistair to the fate that should have been his. He rubs his hand over his eye as though he could rub away the ache. The failure.

Garthy whispers something Fabian doesn’t catch, and flames rise in the hearth, hot and bright, crackling cheerfully. “At least let me take your wet things,” they say. “You’re shaking.”

He hadn’t realized how cold he still feels, despite being out of the wind and rain, until Garthy points it out. He takes a breath to declare, again, that he’s fine, but a chill cascades over him, followed by several sneezes, instantly proving him wrong. “H’ngxt! Fuck. H’Ntch! Ngxt!” He straightens and Garthy offers a handkerchief. Abashed, he takes it, blows his nose. “Pardon me.” Before he can gather himself, he’s overtaken again. At least this time he has a handkerchief to mute the sound. The sneezes shiver through him hard enough to send drops of rain spattering from his hair.

“Bless you, darling.” Garthy draws him closer to the fire. With deft fingers they undress him, peeling sodden clothes from his body, then wrap him in a thick robe. He doesn’t resist, suddenly beyond exhausted. Everything feels like it’s happening at a distance. Or maybe through a pane of glass. “Come, have a lay down. Things’ll look better in the morning.”

Fabian nods, even though he’s certain things will look just the same. He barely slides between the sheets when his eye drifts closed. He feels the bed dip slightly as Garthy sits beside him and, seeking warmth, he curls close. They smell spicy and sweet, like cinnamon and sandalwood and orange blossoms. Garthy curves a hand over his forehead. It’s strangely comforting and he wants to bury his face in Garthy’s hair, but instead he drifts out and out and…

floats in a strange grey emptiness. He can only identify his surroundings by absence. No color. No sound. No touch. He thinks he lifts his hands, or tries to lift his hands, or what should be his hands, but there’s nothing. He tries to look down, what he might assume is down, only to find no body. Nothing. It’s like the Nightmare Forest, but worse because they defeated the Nightmare King. They defeated Kalina. Which means this must be real. This nought. Of course no one reaches out… you don’t exist.You never existed. You are not even memory. You are a nonentity. A nullity. He opens his mouth to argue, but there’s no mouth, no vocal cords, no lungs, no breath. No words. No thoughts. Just deep, endless cold. Bone aching cold, if he had bones.

“...safe…You’re all right. Wake up, Fabian, love.” Garthy’s voice coalesces from the cold, at first sounding sharp as ice breaking. But they know his name, beckon him back into form by shaping the word. “Come on, darling. You’re dreaming.”

“Should’ve left me; felt better there. Nothing hurts when you don’t have a body,” he mumbles, and even though he has vocal cords again, he sounds nothing like himself. He clears his throat, sniffs.

Garthy laughs, low and kind. “Let me help you feel better, here in your body.” They cup his cheek gently, then urge him up and through a door to a bathing chamber.

A large bathtub stands in the center of the room, steam rising in soft curls. It is surrounded with dozens of candles and in their light Garthy glows, irises and tattoos molten gold. Fabian reaches for them, hesitantly. As if touching them might dim their shine. They smile tenderly, allowing him to trace the Zajiri script, the flowers and leaves with one tentative finger. He wonders what the writing might mean. Their skin is soft under Fabian’s own calloused hands. He longs for Garthy to wrap their arms around him, to hold him close until his shivering stops, until he’s finally warm. He doesn’t know how to ask.

Instead he moves back, putting a bit of distance between them. “I’m not w…” he starts to say, but an unexpected set of sneezes interrupts and he only just manages to pull the handkerchief from his robe pocket. “Ht’ngxt! Heh...ihh… Nxgt! H’tchh!”

“Not well?” Garthy suggests, steadying him. “Blessings.”

Heat rises in Fabian’s cheeks and he coughs a laugh. “That either. But no.” He gestures broadly, including the room, the bath, Garthy themself. “Not worth this.”

Garthy tilts their head with a puzzled frown. “Oh, lovey, of course you are.” They press one finger to Fabian’s lips before he can continue arguing. “Shh. It’s all right.” They take Fabian’s elbow, guiding him into the bath.

Fabian sinks into the heat with a deep sigh as his muscles begin to relax. He slides down, submerging himself completely in warm darkness. The water closes over his face; he rests his head on the bottom of the tub, and the only thing he hears is the thump of his own heart in his ears, still beating, beating, beating. At last his breath runs out and he surfaces with a gasp.

Gathy’s pulled a stool up beside the bath and as Fabian wipes water out of his eye, they wet a cloth and begin to wash his back, humming quietly. The soap smells of eucalyptus and peppermint, cool and clean. Fabian shivers once, and only slowly eases into the touch, closing his eye as Garthy washes his hair, gently working his fingers over his scalp. A memory rises, unbidden - himself, in the bath, he can’t be more than five and he’s sobbing. His papa is away, his mama asleep in her room even though it’s not even dark outside and he’s sick and scared. But then Cathilda’s there, as she always is, and she’s cleaning him up and humming a lullaby. Tears rise now, before he can stop them, dripping into the water.

“What’s distressing you, love?” Garthy asks.

It takes him several minutes to gather his thoughts; they feel ephemeral as clouds floating through his mind. “It’s been twenty years, Garthy. Shouldn’t it have faded?” He coughs, trying to clear the lump in his throat. “I still see them, you know. My father’s warlocks.” He presses the heels of his palms against his eye sockets. Breathe, he tells himself.

Garthy hums a listening noise.

“I shouldn’t have gone alone that night. I just wanted a moment in Crow’s Keep - we’d gone there together, my papa and I. When I was little. It was the one time Mama got angry at him, for bringing me to Leviathan, when he wasn’t supposed to be interacting with pirates. But he’d taken me up to watch the sun rise. He said he’d bring me to the top of the world, that we could touch the clouds. If I was lucky, I might even bring some home in my pockets…

“He gave me cotton candy, told me it was one he’d harvested himself. I’d never imagined clouds tasted so sweet…” he licks his lips, remembering how the candy had melted on his tongue, just like a rain cloud.

“I thought, maybe… somehow… if I spoke to him from the top of the world, he might hear me.” Fabian laughs at himself, coughs on a sob but manages to swallow it back. “Of course, Papa wasn’t listening. He was busy taking over Hell and selling spells to pirates. Always on to a bigger adventure, even in death.

“When the warlocks came, I let myself get swept up. Figuratively, as well as literally. I told them about Papa. About what I’d done… and it wasn’t enough. I killed him and it wasn’t enough.” He takes a ragged breath and Garthy rubs his back in slow circles. “I thought we could take Captain James. I thought I could take Captain James. It would make up for… everything.” He sucks in another breath, on the edge of desperation. He can’t get enough air. When he blinks, he feels Whitclaw’s tentacles on his face, cold fingers gripping him tight, raw hatred pulsing in the air between them.

“It went so fast. So fast. If I didn’t run… if I didn’t… he would have killed me… with the others. I didn’t stop to think, I didn’t even grab Alistair and he was fighting for me. I abandoned him… and I didn’t die, but he did. Because I fucked up.” Fabian sits in silence for several minutes, jaw clenched, struggling to breathe and not cry.

“I thought the guilt would fade,” he finally says, voice rough and not much above a whisper. “I thought the good I’ve done since would make up for it. I thought the adventures I had with the Bad Kids would make up for it. But it hasn’t. It doesn’t. And they’re gone… I thought killing the last of Whitclaw’s men would be penance. But I fucked that up, too.”

The only sound for a long moment is the rain on the roof, thunder rolling in the distance. Then Fabian takes a breath like he’s about to dive into the ocean and turns to face Garthy. “Am I forgivable?”

“Oh my darling Fabian. Of course you are. You are already forgiven.” They lean forward and brush the lightest kiss across his lips. “Yes, dire mistakes were made. And you have repented of those mistakes, and made reparations. You did not follow in your father’s footsteps; you found your own way. You have made a good man of yourself. You help those who are in need. You do not take advantage of anyone. You are generous, kind, thoughtful. Tales of your deeds are not spoken of as widely as Captain Bill Seacaster, but I have heard them nonetheless. Be proud of who you have become, Fabian Aramais Seacaster. And you should know that Alistair Ash lives again.”

A warm breeze whirls through the room and the candles suddenly go out. It’s as though the light has been transmuted into a seed of hope in Fabian, gold as the irises of Garthy’s eyes. Back in bed, Fabian curls into Garthy and they wrap their arms around him, holding tight until his trembling passes.

#snezfic

[ezrasarm]

Surrender

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader

Word count: 1.7K

Summary: Din collects his final bounty without even knowing it.

Warnings: Angst, 10 ply fluff, lack of proofreading

A/N: This is my love letter to @starryeyedstories “All Of Me” because I couldn’t stop imagining what that day he collects his final bounty would look like (Please forgive me, I couldn’t resist). Also, if you haven’t read it yet please do because it’s amazing! It’s about damn time I wrote for Din!

(Gif by @lucy-sky)

“Are you okay?” The mandalorian asked, coming to place his gloved hands on your upper arms after finally managing to get the bounty into carbonite. This job had been a particularly wearing one for both of you, you hadn’t even realized you were shaking until his grip on you attempted to resist your trembling.

“You could have died!” You just about cried, your whole jaw quivering as you reel back from him, your eyes red with the sting of forming tears.

You’d been in enough life threatening situations with him before over the years but this one struck you differently. You were convinced he wasn’t going to make it out of this alive and it terrified you to your very core. You know if he were to say something it would be a cold and detached “That’s the job.” or “This is the way.” You had toughened to these responses over time, you could take them now. You could understand them. But instead he remained steadfast, back rigid and visor trained on you without so much of a head tilt in acknowledgment. You’d never felt so closed out or blind to his emotions as you did in this moment, staring into the frigid barrier of callous, indifferent steel you had come to recognize as his face.

“I know you’re doing this for us- for our future- but there won’t be a future for us if you’re dead!” You gasp out, your voice quaking when you recoil from him as he takes a step closer to you, hand extended but posture still stoic and indecipherable. You couldn’t fall into this again. You couldn’t bottle up your nightmares in the firm grasp of a leather-and-beskar-clad embrace. You couldn’t take it anymore.

“I know this is your livelihood, your religion, your identity and you know I’d never ask to undermine that. This isn’t an ultimatum...” You trail off for a moment allowing yourself to realize what it was you were trying to say. “But I can’t sit back and watch you kill yourself.” You feel your voice break in your chest as the weight of your words fell over you like an anvil in a cartoon. You’d lost enough loved ones in your lifetime, you couldn’t bare to lose another one. Not him.

“(Y/n),” he spoke softly, his voice enviably even and collected as he took a cautious step towards you only for you to match it by stepping back. You hadn’t realized how unprepared you were for him to reply. You were in no mood to be talked down right now. You couldn’t live with the burden of fearing for his life every waking moment of every day any longer. It was breaking you.

“Din, you can’t change my mind about this.” You croaked. How was he so calm? You could actually feel anger boiling up inside you at how unfazed he seemed to be. As though all the love and affection you’d given him so unconditionally over the years had meant absolutely nothing to him. You’d have handed him your very soul on a platter, you were so pathetically in love with him and here he was without so much as a waver to his voice at the threat of you leaving for good.

You were just about ready to open your mouth again. To argue with him. To shove him. To give him a piece of your mind. Anything that would get him to give you a reaction. A real reaction. But before you could do any of that he was gently reaching up and nonchalantly unfastening his pauldron, dropping it unceremoniously to the ground before going for the other, leaving your mouth hanging open in bewilderment.

“W-what are you doing?” You stammered out as he came to unstrap his chest plate and let it fall with a deafening clang.

In all your years of travelling together you’d never seen this much of him unconcealed by beskar, you’d never laid eyes on even an inch of his skin. It was a dizzying sense of perplexity that confounded in you as your eyes consumed the way the material of his tunic rippled over his muscles and you got to watch how he moved uninhibited by the metal that made him eerily droid-like in his actions for the first time.

It dawned on you now how little had stood between you and him that somehow made you feel like you were a million miles apart all this time. His cuisses and vembrances had now joined the other hunks of the hermetic metal alloy on the Razor Crests floor. You were too dumbfounded to even realize you’d been cautiously retreating from him as he attempted to take slow, careful steps towards you with each piece of shed armour, until your back collided softly with the wall behind you causing a sharp gasp to fall from your mouth.

It was now, standing close enough that he towered over you, his gaze unflinching, you could feel your heart beat rattling through you chest as you attempted fruitlessly to put the pieces together, to figure out what was happening. “I- I don’t understa-“ you couldn’t even finish your words before he was dropping to his knees in front of you with a soft thud, his head bowed as he tugged gently at each of the orange fingertips of his glove before sliding it off his hand, exposing the soft, gold-tinged beige of his skin. “Din,” you tried to say in protest but your plea fell on deaf ears as he reached for the other and dropped them both gently at your feet before tilting his visor up to you again.

“(Y/n),” he sighed, his breath heavy as it fell through the fire-like crackle of his modulator. “Cyare,” He said warmly, the monicker striking a new chord as it plucked softly at your heart strings. “I’m done.” He said, making your heart stop as his hands came up to his helmet.

“Din, don’t do this because of what I said-” You tried to argue but he shook his head.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time now,” he said quietly, but it carried force. “I’m tired.” He spoke again and this time the crack in his voice wasn’t just from the modulator. “It’s time.” He resolved and it took everything in you to resist clamping your hands down on his and holding his helmet in place.

You weren’t ready to be blamed for forcing him to give everything he knew of himself up. You couldn’t carry the resentment that came with knowing you were the one that stopped him from doing all he’d ever known, that caused him to break his creed. But you didn’t do any of that. Instead, you stood there, tears brimming your eyes as he slowly unveiled himself, stomach churning with anticipation as the light finally illuminated his features enough for you to see.

He looked nothing like you’d imagined and yet exactly as you had all at the same time. His jaw was softer than you had thought and his nose was crooked like it had been broken once or twice before. His skin was adorned with scars old and new and it pained you to think of how many of those he had suffered alone without complaint. His upper lip and chin were littered with light stubble and his lips, with a slight pink hue looked delicate as silk as they quirked upwards ever so slightly at the corners in a bittersweet, awestricken smile that made your breath lodge somewhere in your throat.

But the most cathartic of the experience was finally looking into the eyes of the one you had longed for for so long, their colour a dark, black coffee brown and just as warm. They were pin pricked with tears and so full of emotion. You wondered how even the mask could have shielded it from you. He looked so human, so vulnerable and exposed.

He looked like the man you loved.

You couldn’t even think of words to say as you absorbed every feature you could, memorizing them as though you’d never see them again, you almost jumped when his bare finger tips came to graze yours, scooping your hands into his and rubbing gentle circles with his thumbs on your palms as though he were studying every crease and line.

A pang of grief hit you as you considered how long it had been since he had felt the warmth of real skin on skin contact, something you took for granted with every handshake shared so casually between you and another, he probably couldn’t even remember it. He gently brought your finger tips to his cheeks, letting you graze his cheekbones, his jawline and the ridge of his nose, leaning into the touch of your fingers as they tangled in his wild tufts of chestnut curls and gladly accepting your thumbs as they gently outlined the shape of his lips all the while he traced his hands up and down the length of your forearms in any form of motion that would give him contact with you.

“I’m all yours now, Cyar’ika.” He murmured against your thumbs, relishing in the taste of your skin on his mouth before gently catching your hand and bringing his lips to your inner wrist, his hot breath fanning over your pulse point as he pressed the most gentle of kisses there before he tugged himself up to his feet.

With his face now inches from yours you swore you could see every fleck of gold in his irises even in the dim light of the Crest. “I’m sorry it took so long.” He hummed as his hands absentmindedly tangled in your hair like it was second nature.

You were so overcome with emotion you couldn’t even argue. You couldn’t tell him all that mattered was that you had each other now, or that the wait was what gave it meaning. The most you could manage was a shake of your head and a watery grin as your hands instinctually found the nape of his neck and you brought your lips to his in what you could have sworn was the worlds longest awaited kiss.

Masterlist

Taglist:

@ezraslittleblondestreak @agirllovespasta @chaoticspaceidiot @engineeredfiction @pedropascalito @dreamgirl-67 @wickedfrsgrl @hillarymurray4 @din-damn-djarin

#10 ply super soft fluff #din djarin x reader #fanfiction #oneshot #imagine #drabble #the mandalorian #mando x reader #the mandolorian x reader #pedro pascal #star wars #angst #fluff

[hxseok-honee]

peripeteia | part 20

a/n : AHHHH I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THIS PLS LMK WHAT YOU THINK also this is the longest thing ive ever written ever im so tired it took all week so i hope its good!

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tag list !!

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______________________________

Y/n is sitting down by the Black Lake when she feels herself becoming faint. A cold sweat breaks on her skin just as her brain starts to feel foggy, and she knows it’s time. It was normal for students to skip class and find a comfortable place to wait on their Clock Day -- Hoseok had told her that it feels a lot like a dream, one that leaves you unable to move or do much of anything until the process is complete, and it was only after a few unlucky souls had fainted in class or on the stairs that professors started allowing students to take the day off in order to ensure everyone’s safety. Of course, lots of students still had the unfortunate experience of being caught off guard in corridors or on the stairs while trying to find a safe place to sit until it passed, so Y/n had traveled in an especially hurried manner while she was coming down to the lake. Luckily she’d picked a great time to settle down because not even ten minutes had passed since she’d arrived. She had been trying not to think of Namjoon on a day like this, but she can’t help that her only thought when she starts to feel sick is that she wished he were there with her.

The cold sweat turns to extreme warmth suddenly and almost violently, and she has to steady herself by putting a hand in the grass and breathing deeply until the world stops spinning. She can tell the edges of her vision are leaving her, the impending blackout looming dangerously close. Overcome by the heat sticking to her like a thousand burning hot knives, she starts to crawl over to the edge of the lake, desperate for something to cool her skin. She makes it there, but not quite with enough time to do anything else. The last thing she sees is her own reflection in the water beneath her. The sight of her eyes clouding over completely -- reminding her not coincidentally of the murky color her divination professor’s eyes turn when overtaken by a vision -- is all that’s left before her eyesight is completely lost and she’s forced to surrender to fate’s will.

-- 

The darkness in Y/n’s mind stirs, and she’s filled with the sensation of free-falling. As she drops through space with no end in sight, a small gray dot appears from below. It grows as she approaches it, transforming into a cloud of smoke very rapidly and enveloping her completely as she passes through it. She can feel that this cloud is meant to steady her, slowing her movement until she’s no longer falling, instead floating -- where she’s headed, she has no idea, but as long as she’s no longer falling to her death, she’s happy. 

The smoke around Y/n begins to clear, and she notes that her feet are placed gently on hard ground, not far from where she’d been floating for those few moments. The rest of the smoke fades away, the last wisps of it sticking to her surroundings in order to solidify the world she’s landed in. She realizes immediately that she’s standing in the Hospital Wing, only noticing that everything around her is gray and colorless, much like a memory, as an afterthought.

Glancing around, she finds that all of the beds are unoccupied except for the last one on the left side. The curtains are drawn, and Y/n can hear Madame Pomfrey rustling around inside, the matron’s voice carrying over to Y/n. The student inside, a young male student by the sound of it, is whimpering slightly. As Y/n approaches the curtain, she notes that in between noises, he’s breathing heavily, almost sighing in pain.

“It’s alright dear, it’ll pass in no time, I swear it -- oh, there’s no use. Poor boy can’t even hear me.” Pomfrey pushes the curtain out of her way as she exits, carrying a small tub. Y/n watches her walk across the room to a sink, where she pulls a wet towel from the tub and wrings it out, dumping what looks like ice water down the drain when she’s done. Humming softly, Y/n glances back at the curtain and sees it’s been left slightly open, allowing her access to the student inside. 

When she peers in, she’s met with the sight of Namjoon -- more specifically, an 11-year-old Namjoon -- lying in the bed, looking much too small and much too ill. 

No, he’s not sick. He just looks sick.

The thought crosses Y/n’s mind when she takes him in fully -- when she takes in his eyes. Clouded over completely, staring up at the ceiling as if lost in time, Namjoon is drenched in sweat and is letting out small, periodic whimpers of pain, but he has no idea. He’s experiencing his Clock Day, and there’s no way for him to know how he looks until it’s passed. 

Approaching him slowly, Y/n tries to process the information alongside everything she’d believed about Namjoon’s soulmate experience up until this moment. If he’d always known who his soulmate was -- if he’d known since first year -- why hadn’t he said anything? Why had he let everyone believe he was only just having his Clock Day? Why was he hiding his soulmate from them? 

Standing over him, observing the emptiness in his gaze and wondering if that’s how she looked right now, somewhere outside of all of this, she can’t help but bring the back of her hand up to the side of his face -- he was just a kid. He had no idea of the man he’d become. 

The moment her fingers graze over his cheek, sticky with sweat and unbearable heat, his whimpering stops and his shoulders start to fall, all the tension in them leaving. His eyes shut slowly, and a long sigh leaves him. A chill runs down Y/n’s spine, and she feels a deep panic forming in her chest -- had she hurt him? Was she not supposed to touch him? Did she just affect something and change the future in some way? 

Just as she’s starting to truly fall into a pit of despair, Namjoon’s eyes are opening, his eyelashes flickering as he readjusts to the light of the room. His eyes are no longer clouded, but he’s still staring off into distance, trying to process what he’d just discovered. Y/n sits in the armchair beside his bed, watching intently as he blinks a few times before sighing. He looks too serious for a first year.

Hobi was right. No child should ever have to go through this.

The sound of the Hospital Wing doors slamming open shatters the moment of contemplation, prompting Namjoon to crane his neck to try to see past the curtain. Y/n finds herself doing the same. She can hear Pomfrey’s stern reminder for quiet, followed by footsteps -- only one pair, but they’re very hurried, almost a full run. The curtain flies open, and all of the breath in Y/n’s lungs leaves her in an instant.

She’s staring at herself -- a smaller, cuter version of herself. A version of herself that remembers this day with striking clarity. Hearing from Hoseok that Namjoon had felt sick that morning and gone to the Hospital Wing just as dawn had broken, 11-year-old Y/n had raced down to see him, skipping first hour, completely unconcerned with anything that wasn’t the boy lying in bed before her. 17-year-old Y/n remembers the fear that had taken her younger self, her head filled with thoughts of only Kim Namjoon, the smart but troublesome boy she’d met on the train just a few months prior. Y/n remembers the pain that had filled her that day, wanting nothing but to be next to him, and she’s hit with a sudden realization.

Whipping her gaze around to watch Namjoon, she sees that he has yet to say anything to her younger self, simply gazing at her with an unreadable expression on his face. It’s one of immense turmoil, but there’s a glimpse of something else just underneath his pain -- something that looks a lot like hope.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” Y/n’s watches the girl with her own face make her way slowly over to Namjoon, setting her bag on the ground before standing beside him. Namjoon remains silent, just watching her -- taking her in with eyes that first year Y/n had never seen before. Taking her in with eyes that she would continue to see over the years but never understand -- eyes that could only start to make sense to 17-year-old Y/n in this moment.

She watches -- the pieces of Kim Namjoon starting to fit together in her mind -- as her younger self becomes uncomfortable under her friend’s gaze and breaks it by reaching out and taking his small hand in her equally tiny one. Y/n watches -- her memories of Kim Namjoon finally forming one coherent vision in her mind -- as young Namjoon stares down at their interlocked hands, her palm sitting perfectly in his, before looking up at her, a smile lingering on the edges of his mouth.

Y/n watches as one of her most prominent memories of Namjoon takes form before her eyes, finally making sense after six years. Staring down into her lap, she tries to make sense of every other memory of him the stands out, but she realizes fairly quickly that there’s no use. Every memory of Namjoon stands out to her. Every single one. Closing her eyes, she lets out a deep sigh, her brain an endless mess of smoke and confusion. 

--

When she opens her eyes, she’s no longer in the Hospital Wing. Everything is still gray, but it’s too dark to tell exactly where she is. She can, however tell that she’s sitting on the edge of something soft -- something that reminds her of her bed. It takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust, but she’s able to see eventually that she’s sitting in a bedroom. However, it isn’t her own.

Skimming her fingers along the blanket around her, it takes no less than ten seconds to find him. Namjoon is sleeping beside her, looking much taller but not much older.

Third year. He grew a foot over summer holiday but still had the face of a kid. 

Glancing over at the bed across from her, she confirms that she has the right time when she sees a blond Hoseok -- an experiment they had all regretted participating in -- fast asleep, his mouth hanging open and his limbs all over the place. 

Returning her gaze to a 13-year-old Namjoon, Y/n notices with concern that he’s frowning deeply in his sleep, small sighs reaching her ears every few seconds. Leaning in to see him more clearly, she has to hold back a scream -- even knowing full well that he can’t see or hear her -- when his eyes open suddenly. He looks a bit shocked, but more obvious is the expression of sadness on his face. He blinks a few times before sitting up, staring down at the blanket while he thinks. Eventually, he wraps his arms around his knees and hides his face as he curls up. Y/n is overcome with a feeling of immense sadness. 

After a few minutes, Namjoon lifts his head, and it pains Y/n to no end to see that he’s been crying. He sniffles once, drying his face with his shirt, before reaching over to his bedside table for his phone. Squinting when the light of his screen tries to blind him, he opens his text thread with 13-year-old Y/n and starts to type a new message. Present Y/n peers over the top of his phone and reads the words upside down, knowing that she probably doesn’t even need to.

NJ : you okay?

Y/N : how did you know i was awake? 

NJ : you’re always awake

Y/N : okay well how did you know that im not okay

NJ : i had a bad dream

Y/N : you sound like my grandmother

NJ : got the bones of a grandmother, too 

Y/N : you do crackle a lot when you move

NJ : are you going to tell me what’s going on 

Y/N : ,,, diana’s sick,, like really sick 

Y/N : pomfrey’s trying to treat her

NJ : omw

Y/N : ???

Namjoon throws the blanket off of himself and, scooping up a sweatshirt from on top of his trunk, slides his feet into his slippers and heads out of the dorm as quietly as he can. Y/n follows, knowing exactly where he’s headed. Watching these memories from his point of view, however, is filling in all the gaps in her own, so she can’t help but be intrigued by every moment -- every step Namjoon takes, every time he speeds up a little bit as he covers the distance between himself and the Hospital Wing, every time he slows down as he’s turning corners, still careful of the prefects roaming the corridors. When he finally turns the last corner, Y/n watches as he stops in his tracks, staring down the corridor at a younger Y/n, one who’s been sobbing for hours as she paces in front of the Hospital Wing doors, one who’s already encountered three prefects who have all given her a free pass because of how distraught she is. It’s two in the morning, and Namjoon is staring down the corridor at a Y/n who’s been here since ten and hasn’t said anything to any of them. 

Sighing, Namjoon shoves his hands in the pockets of his pajama pants, making his way down to her. She notices him when he’s about halfway there, offering him a weak greeting before resuming her endless pacing. He stops right beside her, watching as his friend passes him once, twice, and then twice more. He finally puts his hand out, latching onto her arm and gripping tightly when she tries to pull away. Wordlessly, he pulls her toward him, bringing her into his arms and securing her in his hold when she finally falls into him, losing all of her strength. 

Throwing her arms around Namjoon, she cries into his neck, needing him much more than he could ever know. All he does know is that he’d been woken from his sleep, filled with an impossible sadness that made him want to run to her, wherever she would have been. He would have run to her even if she’d been in the forest, or off the grounds entirely. He’d needed to find her because he feared his chest would cave in from the amount of pain he felt when he didn’t have her next to him. He’d wanted to take all of her sorrow away, but in the process of finding her he realized that he could breathe again once he had her.

Walking them slowly over to the wall just outside of the Hospital Wing, Namjoon pulls away from Y/n just for the time it takes for them to sit down together, and then she’s back in his arms, leaning against him heavily as he whispers words of comfort to her. They stay like that until just before breakfast, when Pomfrey comes out and sees that they’ve fallen asleep, clinging to each other tightly. Unbeknownst to anyone, 17-year-old Y/n is sleeping not too far away, having drifted off while watching them talk throughout the night.

--

When she wakes, it’s still dark, but she’s sitting in a well-lit corridor. More importantly, she’s sitting across from an even older Namjoon, who’s perched on a windowsill scrolling through his phone even though it’s well past curfew. Rubbing her eyes as she stands, Y/n makes her way over to him, leaning in to see what he’s up to. There on his screen is a picture of the prefect schedule, and he keeps zooming in and out of the section with Y/n’s name on it. She chuckles, shaking her head as she takes a seat next to him and waits for whatever’s to come. 

Only a few minutes pass before footsteps can be heard echoing nearby. Namjoon perks up, putting his phone away and looking toward the end of the corridor expectantly -- Y/n can’t help but smile at how cute he is. Following his gaze, she watches as her younger self turns the corner, wand well-lit despite the castle lighting being phenomenal in this area. She’s showing off her freshly polished prefect’s badge and smiling as she does her patrol. Y/n looks at this younger version of herself and has to hold back a laugh.

Oh, to be fifteen and a total dork. 

Y/n watches as her younger self looks straight ahead, completely focused on her duties, and she’s fond of this annoying rule-follower she used to be. She remembers clearly how happy she’d been to be named prefect, and she’d wanted to do her best. So she’d polished her badge and kept her notepad ready and gone on her first patrol in a dweeby kind of excitement. Not even an hour in, she’d found Namjoon. 

“Joon? What are you doing?” Namjoon smiles, waving her over excitedly. With a cautious look on her face, she approaches her friend, who she is well aware had become a bit of a troublemaker over the years but still finds him adorable and harmless. He pulls his bag off his shoulder and starts to open it, talking as he does.

“Well, I didn’t know if patrol would be boring or lame, so I brought you a book just in case!” An enormous smile fills her face, and she laughs softly as he pulls out a stack of reading materials. “Okay, actually I brought a lot because I didn’t know what you’d like… hopefully you like books on various niche topics and magical research.” He lifts his gaze, beaming up at her as he holds out the stack of books, waiting for her to choose. Y/n puts her wand away, stepping up him and glancing through the titles. She pulls one out that has magical creatures on the cover and nods decisively as she flips through it.

“This one looks cool.” She stops leafing through the pages to watch Namjoon as he puts the rest back and begins to ramble.

“Oh, that’s a great choice! They have this awesome chapter on veelas and the genetic traits that get passed down to their children, which is super cool when you think about half-veelas or quarter-veelas or even one-eighth-veelas, which are kinda rare, but-” He cuts himself off, realizing that he’s gone on for far too long and taking a sheepish glance at Y/n. She’s smiling at him so sweetly he swears his heartbeat actually stutters for a moment, but he clears his throat and points at the book in her hand. “I should stop talking… don’t want to spoil it for you.” Y/n tucks the book under her arm, aiming her smile down at her feet as she responds.

“Thanks, Joon, I’ll make sure to tell you what I think of it when I’m done… by the way, you do realize you’re out after curfew, right?” Namjoon hums awkwardly, lifting his bag onto his shoulder as he stands.

“I’m only out if you say I am.” 

“What does that even mean?” Namjoon laughs at her confusion, reaching out and locating a piece of hair that’s fallen into her face. He runs it back until it’s tucked safely behind her ear, at that point letting his arm fall to his side and taking a couple steps back.

“You suddenly have no recollection of seeing me tonight… that book is yours now. Have a good first patrol, Y/n. I’m proud of you.” Not giving her enough time to respond, Namjoon turns on his heel and disappears down another corridor, one leading to Ravenclaw Tower. Y/n just stands there staring after him, only remembering the book in her arms when it just about falls to the ground. 

The older Y/n watches her younger self look back through the book for a bit before lifting her gaze to the spot where Namjoon disappeared, a small smile gracing her features and she starts to wander down her route for the night, almost no attention paid to anything outside of her new book. Y/n knows well that she’d return to her room that night and place it on her bedside table, picking it up every night to read just a bit more, as it was an admittedly difficult book deserving only of Ravenclaw eyes. She would eventually get through it, and then she’d read it again to really feel like she got it all. It still sits on her bedside table, always unpacked at the beginning of the year and put in its own spot next to her. 

Y/n waits as the scene fades around her, and the space fills up with new setting -- soon she’s surrounded by the castle staircases.

--

She knows this scene well -- it’s the day that she’d fallen down the stairs from Tae and Jimin’s prank. She can tell by the crowd of people that’s gathering. 6th year Y/n hasn’t made it there yet, still in a meeting with Dumbledore about prefect matters that was running a little late at the moment.

This was supposed to be the ultimate prank of the year -- and it certainly was memorable, but not entirely for that reason. Jimin had just had his Clock Day not even a week prior, and he and Tae were celebrating their newfound love the only way they knew how. The entire school knew about it, and the professors had long given up trying to stop the two Slytherin troublemakers. Someone steps up beside 7th year Y/n, busy scrolling through their phone. She looks up and is met with the sight of 6th year Namjoon, smiling down at his screen as he bombards Y/n with annoying texts, complaining that she was late. Yoongi’s standing with Jin, Jungkook, and Hoseok not even five feet away, and he calls out to Namjoon excitedly when he spots the Ravenclaw.

“Joon! Over here, over here! We got some great spots to watch the show!” Jungkook bites his lip and looks away, hiding his extremely fond smile. Jin and Hoseok make amused eye contact, and Y/n can see now by Jin’s lingering gaze and their small grins that they’d been dating for a while and that the rest of them were all just blind to their very obvious love. 

Yoongi makes his way over to the tall boy beside her, striking up a conversation about his new plant and some fun caretaking methods he’d found online the other day. Namjoon nods along, still slightly distracted as he glances around the massive crowd for his favorite person. He has his back just turned enough to not be able to see that 6th year Y/n has emerged not too far away and is searching for her friends. Y/n watches her younger self make her way along the side of the banister in their general direction, and she’s very aware of what’s to come in the next few moments. 

Jimin and Tae had bewitched the staircases to move on their command, shifting them out of their normal rotation pattern in order to lock them firmly into the sides of the walls they’re attached to, effectively creating a cavern more than 10 stories high, giving them room to set off the insane amount of fireworks they’d made all the way from the Slytherin dungeons. The fireworks were supposed to go to the very top of the castle, exploding just before they crashed into the ceiling. They were never set off. 

As Y/n was looking for her friend group, knowing they’d be somewhere close to the stair banisters, but having no idea what the plan was, she’d stepped out onto one of the staircases to get a better angle to find her friends. Since her meeting had run late, she’d missed the very aggressive announcement from Tae that no one should step onto the stairs for at least ten minutes before the show started, and the chaotic soulmates were down in the dungeons, just about to execute their plan. They never saw her. 

Y/n can’t bring herself to watch what she already has painfully etched into her memory, choosing instead to watch Namjoon converse with Yoongi in the moments before her tragic staircase accident. She’s extremely lucky she’d been watching him. 

She knows that the staircases have started moving when she hears people cheering, but she actually knows almost half a second before that. A painful, ice cold chill runs down the length of her spine -- it’s like nothing she’s ever felt before, and she’s felt the fear of falling 20 feet off of a staircase.

She realizes that the feeling is coming from Namjoon -- he’s the one feeling that ice cold pain coursing through his veins. It’s as if the world stops -- one second, he’s listening to Yoongi explain how to pick the right terrarium, and the next, he can’t hear anything at all. Y/n also can’t hear a thing -- everything’s muffled, and all she can hear is a heartbeat, thumping so loudly, so quickly that it could only belong to the girl who’s currently tumbling down a set of stairs into a free fall.

Namjoon turns, and Y/n can see that he knows exactly where her younger self is without having ever seen her. With a strength that she didn’t even know he possessed, he shoves past every person between him and the banister, literally knocking some poor Hufflepuff boy to the ground as he rushes to the stairs.

Throwing himself against the side of the wall when he gets there, Namjoon finds Y/n’s eyes almost instantly -- she’s staring up at him as she falls, still in shock at what’s happening. Y/n won’t remember until this very moment, when she’s standing in her own memory, but she’d seen Namjoon take action as she was falling. He hadn’t been quite fast enough -- she’d still hit the second set of stairs and pass out right there -- but he had managed to slow her down before she’d landed. 

Namjoon pulls his wand out of his pocket so fast that the older Y/n hadn’t even seen him do it. Pointing it straight down at her, he calls after her, a silent spell manifesting from nothing but the force of his own will -- the force of his complete and total terror that something would happen to her. It’s the first time he’d ever been able to successfully cast a silent spell, having complained for weeks that he wasn’t able to get it no matter how much he practiced. Y/n feels it all in that moment, all of the soul-shattering fear Namjoon was carrying, and she has to lean heavily on the wall to steady herself, wondering how he’d managed to push past that and cast the spell successfully.

The spell hits Y/n squarely in the chest, instantly slowing her fall. It isn’t enough to prevent her arm from breaking, and it isn’t enough to stop her from complaining for the next full week about a backache, but it is enough to soften the landing and keep her safe from something much worse. They’d been lucky, really -- the stairs she’d landed on just happened to be passing beneath her on its way to its formation. If another second had gone by, she’d still be falling into the dungeons. 

Y/n watches everything from above, and she can hear everyone jumping into action. She can hear everyone’s cheers turn into gasps of terror, and she can hear her friends all calling for her, all rushing to the nearest staircase to get down to her. She can even see down into the dungeons, where Tae is holding a firework and a flame, where Jimin is calling out to him frantically to stop. But most clearly, she can see that Namjoon is already at her side, having scaled over the top of the wall and essentially taken his chances at getting down to her as quickly as possible without falling. He’s shaking her furiously, grabbing her face and yelling for someone to alert Pomfrey when she doesn’t respond, already out cold. Jin is yelling down at Jimin and Tae, instructing them to move the staircases carefully so Namjoon can get her to the Hospital Wing. 

Namjoon holds tightly onto the side of staircase as Tae brings it around to the corridor leading straight to the Hospital Wing, gripping Y/n tightly in his other arm as they go. He doesn’t even wait for the stairs to stop moving -- as soon as they’re close enough, he’s scooping her up in his arms and running full speed into the passageway, disappearing from view completely. 

Y/n watches the rest of the room devolve into chaos -- Jimin and Tae fly up from the depths of the dungeon on Jimin’s broomstick, gesturing wildly at their friends as they all barrel down the nearest staircase together in an attempt to follow after Namjoon. Jin is pulling Hoseok along by his hand as they race to the front of the group, Jin trying to get Hoseok to his best friend as fast as possible. Yoongi is clinging to Jungkook’s side, eyes wet, and she can see him whispering mantras of positivity to himself as they go. She can see he doesn’t believe them even as he says them, and Jungkook is the one to take over and reinforce the words as they run together. Jimin is guiding himself and Tae up the cavern and back around as Tae shouts for the crowd to disperse, threatening to set the fireworks off in a dangerous way if they don’t all get lost. He looks very much like the Slytherin he is but never shows to the world. 

Everyone leaves just as Dumbledore is running into the space, commanding the attention of the two Slytherins. Jimin looks back at Tae and, knowing full well how much trouble they’d be in if they got caught, they head straight for the headmaster. Landing beside him, they don’t even give him a chance to start reprimanding them -- they both start yelling at the same time, pointing desperately in the direction of the Hospital Wing and begging him to come with them to see if he can do anything. The old wizard is so thrown by the display that all he can do is follow after them as they run to join their friends. 

Y/n watches everything from the top of the stairs. She sees everything -- all of the chaos, all of the fear -- and she thinks about the fact that she’d had absolutely no idea any of this had happened. She’d passed out and woken up a day later, in a world of pain but thankfully not seriously hurt. She’d watched her friends come and go every day, and she’d noted that Namjoon only ever left her side to eat and shower when he was sure she was sleeping. It was the only thing she knew about the entire accident, and it wasn’t even close to what actually had happened. She doesn’t even notice when the scene changes, too caught up in her own thoughts to register the smoke filling her vision and flowing into something new. 

--

The smoke clears, leaving her shrouded in trees and darkness. She’s standing at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the moon full and bright above her. She can’t see Namjoon anywhere, so she starts heading in the direction of the castle, its silhouette visible in the distance. She’s about halfway there when she hears it.

“Namjoon likes me, Namjoon likes me!”

“How did they make you Head Girl? You’re a child!” Unable to mask her smile, Y/n hurries out past the treeline and in the direction of the voices, this memory much more recent. Just there past a grove of trees sits a cluster of rocks, outlining the edge of the lake well. Namjoon is heading over to them now, hopping carefully until he gets to a spot that he likes. Y/n can barely make out her younger self, herself from not even a few months ago, crouched by the lake, running her fingers through the water lightly. Y/n heads toward Namjoon just as her other self is yelling back to him.

“This water’s cold as fuck!” Y/n remembers the feeling that comes next, but it’s a different experience in Namjoon’s perspective. That feeling of adoration she’d felt all those weeks ago down by the lake -- the feeling that had left her wondering what her soulmate was up to at the time -- makes sense now. It makes complete sense to her, just as everything about Namjoon is finally starting to make sense. Every glance, every smile. He’d always known. He’d just been waiting for her to notice him -- he’d been waiting for her to love him.

A quiet yelp followed by a bit of rustling catches Y/n’s attention, and she’s not surprised to find Namjoon has already caught her from wiping out on the rocks and is holding her gently, just a few feet away. Feeling strangely intrusive, Y/n averts her eyes, settling down on the rocks and staring out at the lake while her younger self shares her first intimate moment with Namjoon. 

A few moments later, the sound of mumbling, followed soon by paper being slapped on skin, alerts Y/n of her own exit from an awkward moment. Turning back to the scene, she catches herself running away in the distance -- truly a humorous sight indeed -- but her attention is on Namjoon. He’s staring down at the detention slip that had been stuck to his face, chuckling slightly to himself. Y/n’s heart warms at the fondness in his expression, thankful that he hadn’t been discouraged by her behavior.

“This girl, I swear…” He starts to head back into the castle, and Y/n can tell she’s meant to follow. They make their way slowly through the castle, Y/n watching as Namjoon gets lost in his thoughts. They make it all the way up to Ravenclaw Tower, where Namjoon stops suddenly just before the entrance to his common room. He’s still lost in his thoughts, but there’s a smile spreading slowly across his face. It finally reaches his eyes, and suddenly he’s spinning around in the corridor, punching the air and literally bouncing in place as quietly as he can. 

“She almost kissed me!” Running up to the door to his common room, he completely ignores the riddle that the eagle knocker asks him.

“Did you hear what I said? She almost kissed me! Can you believe it?” The eagle knocker remains silent while Namjoon parades around in front of the door, eventually opening its mouth.

“How lovely. Please answer the question.” Halting his excited bouncing to glare at the knocker, Namjoon answers the riddle with an impatient wave of his hand. The door slides open, allowing Namjoon to rush into the common room and up the stairs to his room, Y/n following behind in a shocked daze at Namjoon’s display. Throwing the door open and barely managing to get his shoes off, Namjoon hops on top of his bed, chanting happily.

“Hobi, wake up, wake up! She almost kissed me tonight -- wake up, bitch! I’m having a moment here!” Y/n watches from the door as Hoseok rolls over in his bed and reaches for something she can’t see. Their third roommate, a kind but rather quiet boy named Roger, starts to whine loudly, begging Namjoon to quiet down. She feels bad for him -- he’s been put through a lot with them as roommates -- but she forgets about him completely when she sees Hoseok’s shoe fly across the room with shocking speed and accuracy. It hits Namjoon in the face, sending him tumbling to the ground instantly.

“Shut it, you overgrown kindergartner! If I sleep through first hour tomorrow, I’m ripping every single one of your hairs out of your head with my bare hands!” Despite the pout that forms on Namjoon’s face as he sits on the ground holding Hoseok’s shoe, Y/n can’t help but laugh at the interaction, very typical of her two Ravenclaw boys. He sits there for a few more seconds, enough time for Y/n to cross the room and take a seat on the trunk at the foot of his bed. Watching him carefully, she’s pleased to see that his frown soon becomes a smile once again as he recalls the events of that night. 

Climbing onto his bed, he reaches into his pocket for his phone, sending Y/n what she remembers to be a very sweet goodnight text. Once that’s done, he tosses the phone onto his bedside table before taking it upon himself to flop back onto his mattress dramatically, smiling dreamily up at the ceiling. The last thing Y/n sees before the smoke pulls her away is Namjoon placing a hand on his chest and scrunching up the material of his shirt -- the material that lies just above his heart -- and closing his eyes, the smile lingering on his lips. 

--

The moment the smoke places her in her next memory, Y/n realizes it isn’t a memory at all. She’s standing in a massive group of people -- her entire class. They all have smiles on their faces, and they’re all hugging one another and taking photos. But this isn’t what she notices - it’s their outfits. All the same, all identical. The cap and gown.

Graduation? But this is months away… 

Her own laughter reaches her ears, and it doesn’t take much longer to find herself. She -- her older self? -- is standing with the rest of their friends, laughing as Diana tries to chew on Jungkook’s dress pants. Only five of them are wearing gowns, the Slytherins and Jungkook still stuck at Hogwarts for another year. Hoseok is taking photos of Jin, who looks like he’s suffering not only from the heat, but also from his boyfriend’s scrutiny. 

“Come on, Jin! Just one smile for the camera, and I will let this go -- my mom wants a photo!” 

“Why does it have to be of just me? She’s your mom!” 

“Because she says you’re the most handsome person she’s ever seen, and I completely agree.” Jin waves Hoseok off, unwilling to take the photo. That is, until he makes eye contact with Yoongi, who’s standing just a little ways away. At the sight of his roommate pulling a mini magical cactus from within his robe and brandishing it at Jin menacingly, Jin turns to Hoseok with a wide smile.

“I love photos, let’s take ten!” Confused but pleasantly surprised, Hoseok lets Jin lead him off toward the lake for their photoshoot. Y/n starts to laugh uncontrollably as she watches Yoongi tuck the cactus back into his robes innocently, and it unnerves her to see that her older self has also witnessed the exchange and is laughing alongside her. 

Turning back to the larger friend group, almost desperate to avoid another coincidence with herself, she finds Namjoon bent at Jungkook’s feet, trying to keep his cap on his head as he wrestles Diana from Jungkook’s leg. Jungkook is crying out in pain at the claws that have been buried in his ankle -- no one sees that Jimin and Tae are enjoying the show immensely, even going so far as to start recording the entire thing.

When he finally manages to remove the cat from the poor Gryffindor’s limb, Namjoon stands and turns to Y/n, narrowly avoiding a claw to his face in the process. 

“Please tell your demon cat that scratching people’s ankles off is rude as fuck.” Y/n laughs, reaching for Diana and cooing at her once she’s safely in Y/n’s arms.

“It’s not her fault Jungkook is such a thicc boy and attracts the attention of anything that wants a bite -- isn’t that right, Diana?” Diana curls up and purrs in response, sending everyone into a fit of laughter and comments about Jungkook’s thiccness as the Gryffindor scowls at the cat. The younger Y/n almost joins their laughter, but something catches her eye before she has time to look away from her older self.

Just there on her left hand -- the same hand that is cradling Diana -- sits a ring, one she’d never seen before. Ignoring the discomfort of being so close to a version of herself that didn’t exist yet, she approaches the girl in front of her, taking the ring in fully. A small diamond is nested in the band of it, shining brightly despite its size. She can’t stop herself from looking up at Namjoon, who stands beside her older self. He’s staring down at her, the smile on his face one of humor from the current situation, but also one of love and adoration, known only to them. 

Y/n watches the moment and knows she’s the only one who can see it, despite being the only one who isn’t physically there. She can see how much Namjoon loves her and how happy he is to be able to show it. As the scene fades, she can’t help but wonder if what she’s seeing is really the future -- the image of a Namjoon who hasn’t acknowledged her in weeks comes back to her, only serving to bring pain into her heart. She doesn’t bother to try to see where the smoke is taking her.

--

She’s staring down at a wooden floor, in a house she doesn’t recognize. Lifting her gaze and glancing around, however, she finds that it’s quite a nice home. The smoke had left her standing in the middle of the kitchen, and she can’t help but run her fingers along the counter top as she makes her way through the room. It’s spotless, but it looks lived in. 

Comfortable. Beautiful. 

Passing under an archway that opens into the main room, she can see stairs leading up to the second floor, the front door just past them. Taking in everything as she moves through the room -- the sofa draped in various warm blankets, the tattered book sitting open on the coffee table, the array of house plants sitting on the windowsill -- she can’t help but feel like this home is perfect for her. Just as she makes it to the stairs and is putting a foot on the first step, the sound of rustling in a room off to the right calls her attention. 

Approaching the room, she peeks her head around the doorway and finds herself looking into an office, lit with the warmth of a fireplace crackling softly in the corner. She doesn’t even see the person sitting at the desk until they lift their head, clearly awakening from an unexpected nap.

Namjoon stretches in his seat, arms reaching high above his head as he lets out a tired groan. He looks older, maybe by 4 or 5 years. There’s a stack of files next to where he’d been napping on the desk, and there’s a smear of ink across his right cheek from his quill. Looking around his immediate area, he swears softly under his breath.

“Where did I put them?” He’s just about to stick his head under the desk to search for his missing item when a quiet meow rings through the room. Y/n looks down just in time to see a very familiar cat entering the room, a pair of round specs dangling from her mouth. She hops up onto the desk once she reaches it, taking a seat on top of whatever Namjoon had been working on before dropping his glasses into his outstretched hand. With a fond smile, he places the glasses on his face before scratching the back of the cat’s ear.

“Thanks, Diana. I knew you’d like me one day.” Y/n watches the exchange, filled with a mixture of disbelief and joy. Never once in the seven years she’d known Namjoon had Diana expressed anything other than complete disdain for the Ravenclaw, and yet here it seems they’ve been friends for ages. 

The front door opens behind her, followed by the soft call of a voice that sounds much like hers but more mature.

“I’m home! Joon?” She watches Namjoon smile as he peers through her into the other room. 

“In here!” An older Y/n -- 4 or 5 years older -- steps up beside her younger, shocked self in the doorway. She’s wearing business attire, and she’s carrying a bag of takeaway, which she holds up for Namjoon to see. She looks poised, impressive -- but she still looks like herself. She doesn’t look like a stuck-up adult. She just looks… older.

She looks pretty freaking cool.

“I saw you still had a lot of assignments to grade when I was leaving this morning, so I got your favorite.” Namjoon cheers, moving to stand from his seat but taking the time to point cutely at Diana, still seated peacefully on his work. 

“Diana brought me my glasses! I think she finally likes me.” He looks very proud of this fact, even reaching out to pet her one last time. She swipes at his hand in anger, scratching his palm slightly. They glare at each other for a moment before Namjoon gets up, shaking his head. “One day she’ll love me.” 

“Namjoon, we’ve been married for five years and she only just today did one nice thing for you. You’ve still got a way to go with her.” Rolling his eyes, he approaches Y/n and leans forward, planting a kiss on her lips. Younger Y/n has to look away, slightly shaken by the unexpected display. Only when he’s pulled away does she feel comfortable enough to look again, attributing the warmth in her face the fireplace not too far away.

“How was work?” Y/n sighs, reaching out with her free hand to wipe at the ink on his face, giving away that he’d been napping just before she arrived.

“It was fine. The Minister’s been on us to meet fiscal year deadlines as if we’re not drowning in his debt. I’m just happy to be home.” The tired look in her eyes fades once she starts smiling up at Namjoon, who’s taken her free hand in his own and started leaning against the door frame while he was listening to her. It puts him in the perfect position to bring his lips to the top of her head in a comforting kiss, which only serves to widen her smile. 

“Well, Mrs. Kim, you are doing a fine job over there at the Ministry. Meanwhile, I was so confused about the fact that one of my students doesn’t know the difference between transformation and switching that I took a stress nap instead of writing feedback for him.” He laughs lightly when Y/n puts her index finger against his forehead and pushes him away from her. Diana following closely behind, she heads into the kitchen, calling back to him.

“Not everyone is good at transfiguration, Joon -- remember how I was? I would have failed my N.E.W.T without you.” 

“Yeah, well, maybe if we’d done more studying instead of messing around that night you would have gotten a better score.” Younger Y/n blushes deeply, barely managing to follow behind Namjoon as he heads into the kitchen as well. 

“I passed, didn’t I? And if I remember correctly, I’m the one that actually wanted to study -- you just got bored because you’re a know-it-all.” He barks out a laugh.

“Guilty as charged, but can you blame me? I waited seven years for you to love me, I was obsessed with you once we started dating… I still kind of am obsessed with you.” Younger Y/n watches Namjoon corner her older self between two counter tops, smiling cheekily down at her and laughing when she pushes lightly against his chest. Taking her in his arms, he suddenly becomes serious, his smile dropping. 

“Y/n?” Both of the women in question keep their eyes on Namjoon, entranced by him, just as it had always been -- entranced by his presence from the moment he’d come into her life. 

“Thank you for loving me.”

Y/n can feel herself reaching out to him, disregarding the futility in it, but she doesn’t get the chance to call out to him. The smoke has started to fill her vision -- but it doesn’t transform the room smoothly. This time, something takes hold of the back of her belt, latching onto her and yanking her upwards, out of the smoke entirely. Muffling her scream with her hand, she watches the cloud of smoke shrink below her until it becomes the spec of grey she’d seen when this all started. She screws her eyes shut, dizzy from the climb -- confused beyond belief but finding her resolve in the truth.

-- 

When Y/n opens her eyes, she’s staring at the lake, and it’s gotten much darker. She’s also much farther away from the lake than she remembers being when she first fainted -- she can see more of the shoreline, and she’s fairly certain she’s under a tree. Trying to scan her surroundings, she tilts her head up before coming to a stop, registering that there’s something very soft underneath her cheek.

“You’re awake.” The voice, although familiar and comforting, is a shock all the same, so she jumps in surprise, turning her head to locate it. She finds herself staring up into Namjoon’s eyes, and she realizes belatedly that the soft thing under her is his leg. Lifting herself off of him with her elbow, she takes the time to glance around -- there’s no need to examine the grounds, of course. She just isn’t prepared to face Namjoon. 

“How did you know where I was?” She says this while glancing around herself still, adjusting her positioning until she’s leaning back against the tree. Namjoon shifts next to her, bringing his knees up to his chest and resting his chin while he stares out at the lake.

“I could feel that it was starting… and I just knew where to find you.” Y/n nods, deciding to just be satisfied with his response instead of questioning the mechanics of it. They sit in silence for a few minutes, simply staring out at the lake together as the sun begins to set. She can feel that Namjoon’s waiting for her to say something, so, gathering her courage, she turns to him, holding her tongue until he’s met her eyes, which he does after a brief pause. 

“You knew this entire time?” Namjoon looks away quickly, unable to face her. He nods once, and she takes this as her signal to continue, her frustrations with him over the past few weeks boiling to the surface. “Then why have you been avoiding me? What’s been going on with you?” Groaning deeply, he leans back against the tree, his limbs dropping into a sort of sprawled position beside her. His eyes are shut, brow furrowed. He looks conflicted. 

“I was an idiot --”

“That’s a massive understatement.” His eyes find hers, and he turns fully to face her, his expression earnest and a bit desperate.

“I freaked out, Y/n. When Hobi said it wasn’t guaranteed that we’d end up together, my entire world fell apart. I had always assumed we’d be together and that I just had to wait for you to find out it was me -- I thought it was enough that I loved you. But then he started talking about free will and people without soulmates and losing the emotional connection and -- I lost it, okay? I lost it. Everything I’d believed about us for the last seven years was ripped apart… but I was an asshole.” 

“Yeah. You were.” His eyes drift down until he’s staring at the ground, clearly humbled and apologetic. “But… I understand --” When he whips his head up to look at her, his eyes appear to have become hopeful. “I mean, what you did was fucked up, the boys are really upset--” His head dips again, his frown deepening. “But I understand why you freaked out. I just… wish you had handled it better.” They sit in silence together, Y/n staring down at the top of Namjoon’s head while he waits beside her, looking not unlike a scolded child.

“Did you think I would be mad once I found out you’d known all this time about us?” He glances up at her briefly before returning his gaze to lap, where he finds great interest in picking at his fingernails. Slowly, and only after a small sigh, he nods, still refusing to meet her eyes.

“Even after everything we’ve been through -- all of the flirting and the deep talks and late nights together?” Another nod. “Do you realize how stupid that is?” He stops fidgeting, choosing instead to examine the ground extensively while he thinks. Finally, he nods, pulling his head up to look into her eyes before nodding again, gaze solemn. 

“I know. I’m really sorry. You have no idea how painful it was to know I’d hurt you… I just thought that if you really were going to choose someone else -- or at the very least if you were going to be disappointed in me being your soulmate -- I… just thought I should distance myself beforehand… But I hated every second of it, and I wish I could take it all back... I’m sorry.” He looks like he’s going to continue, but Y/n stops him. Reaching out, she takes one of his hands in hers, intertwining their fingers while nodding.

“Okay. I forgive you -- it’s going to be hard for me to trust you fully again, but I forgive you.” She squeezes his hand, and for the first time since waking up, she smiles at him. Taking her in, Namjoon can’t help but feel overwhelmed with affection, and he knows she can feel it when she starts to snicker at him. Nudging her playfully, he turns back to the lake, sitting beside her as they lean against the tree. Their hands lie clasped in her lap, a slight zap of electricity running through their palms every few seconds. The feeling is new but warm, one of completeness.

“So… what was your Clock Day like?” She doesn’t bother turning to look at him when she asks, knowing he’ll just keep staring out at the water while he ponders.

“It was… a lot to handle as a first year.” She nods, remembering Hobi’s words once again. “There weren’t very many memories, actually. It was mostly visions of the future. We hadn’t known each other that long -- how could I have anything substantial to remember yet? Actually… do you remember coming to visit me in the Hospital Wing?” 

“Yeah, of course. That was my first memory.” He hums, thinking about that day a little longer. 

“I knew you would be coming. It was the first vision that the smoke showed me.” She smiles fondly at that term -- “the smoke” -- because she knew there was no other way to talk about it. The inner workings of fate and magic were too advanced for any one person to understand and talk about eloquently. “It showed me that you were on your way -- when you showed up, I thought ‘Ah, so my future really has been decided’. But then… things kept changing.” Y/n looks up at him, taking in the expression on his face. He looks lost, confused about the truth -- but there’s something resigned about it, as if he’d accepted that the world was much different than he thought.

“What changed?” He looks down at her before dropping his eyes to their intertwined hands.

“The way I’d seen my future wasn’t the way it always turned out. Eventually I figured out at that the visions the smoke shows you aren’t set in stone -- they’re more potentialities than fact. There was something about the way our reality developed that changed things along the way -- sometimes they were just small details, but sometimes entire events were different… like your accident.” With a furrowed brow and concerned interest, Y/n leans in, urging Namjoon silently to continue. He does so only after a sigh.

“You weren’t supposed to become a prefect. In my visions, we were just normal kids who got into equal amounts of trouble and made it through school without anything remarkable happening. But you were always a high achiever, so when you were made prefect, I was surprised, but happy for you all the same… except… if you hadn’t become a prefect, you wouldn’t have been late to the fireworks show. We would have gone together, and you would have heard the announcement about the stairs because you wouldn’t have been in a meeting that had run late. I wasn’t prepared for you to fall because that wasn’t the reality I had seen… I had no idea that day was going to happen.” 

They sit in silence, staring out at the lake together as the words settle in the air above them. It weighs down on them -- the complications of fate and reality, the power of free will in a world ruled by destiny. Things never turn out quite like they’re supposed to, and Y/n can only guess how unimaginably terrifying that would be for someone who’d relied on fate for so long. 

“That’s why you were scared I wouldn’t want to be with you -- you were already nervous that things had turned out differently up to this point, so hearing that not even our future is guaranteed tipped you over the edge.” She can see him nodding out of the corner of her eye, and she finally feels like she understands. “Well, even if you have acted like an idiot for the last few weeks, I still want to be with you. I think I always have.” Namjoon squeezes her hand tightly, a breath of relief leaving him -- one that, frankly, she had no idea he’d been holding. 

“Well that’s good because I already picked out the necklace I was going to give you at graduation, and it would just be plain awkward to return it.” She turns to him in confusion.

“Necklace? In my vision it was an engagement ring… to be honest, I’m not ready to get married yet.” Namjoon looks at her, eyes shining with mirth.

“That’s also good to hear… I don’t have the money to buy you a ring yet.” She pushes him away, laughter ringing through the air. The word “yet” doesn’t go unnoticed, however, and she tries to hide her face from him as redness creeps up her cheeks. If he catches her blush, he doesn’t say anything about it, instead choosing to move onto a different subject. 

“Did you… have a vision about us a few years from now? Living together in a really nice house? I think I was taking a nap?” Y/n smiles and closes her eyes, finding herself leaning against Namjoon as she reminisces on the vision.

“Yeah, you were grading Transfiguration homework, and I was getting home from work… I worked for the Ministry.” He hums, wrapping an arm around her as he reflects on her words.

“In mine you worked at St. Mungo’s -- you were a healer.” There’s a pause, and then he chuckles under his breath. “I think I like you as a healer better. ‘Healer Y/n’ has a sexy ring to it.” With a scoff that sounds a lot more like a laugh than she’d care to admit, Y/n is pushing herself off of him and rising to her feet, leaving him behind as she heads down to the lake. Namjoon’s hand around her wrist a few moments later, pulling her back into his chest, has her laughing openly. Her hands find his waist, where she anchors herself and clings to him, reveling in the fact that she can do this kind of thing now. 

They stand there for a while, watching the sun set over the horizon, thinking about their lives up until that point. When the last of the light disappears below the water, Y/n takes a deep breath and lifts her head from Namjoon’s chest to look up at him. Feeling that she’s moved, he glances down at her, realizing only when their noses touch just how close they are. 

In a rush of courage that can only be the mark of a Gryffindor, Y/n pushes up on her tippy toes, pressing her lips to his as gently as possible. She isn’t ready for the way the world seems to stop all around her -- she isn’t ready for the way her heart stops, a flame finding its spark within the cavern of her chest. It spreads like wildfire to the rest of her body, getting stronger the longer she kisses him. It burns through her and attracts her to him like an addiction all the same. The love she feels for him in that moment -- coupled with the force of Namjoon reciprocating the emotions, completely in time with her -- is enough to set her skin alight, tearing through every nerve in her body. 

Only when it’s too much -- when she feels like she’s going to explode with this burning energy -- does she pull away, breathing embarrassingly hard. She can’t even tell that he’s having the same difficulties as her, having also just experienced the pure collision of forces that had knocked the wind out of her. He barely has time to register that she’s leaning her head against his chest and is whispering something to him in her surge of emotion. What he hears has him lifting her face with his hands as he yearns for another kiss, seven years overdue. 

“Thank you, Namjoon… Thank you for waiting for me.”

#bts texts #bts au #bts smau #bts social media au #bts soulmate au #bts hogwarts au #kim namjoon #namjoon x reader #namjoon texts #namjoon au

[tsuraiwrites]

Welcome to the DADWC! For the pairing of your choice, feed the angst machine: "Don’t cry.” <3

thank you for your prompt! I thought about cutting it off after the first scene but can’t resist happy endings. for @dadrunkwriting

Fic: Keeping Pressure

“Don’t cry, it’ll be okay,” Anders tries to reassure Hawke, doing his best to put on a smile despite the pain of being separated from the Fade and the deep, aching agony radiating from the stab wound in his side – it worsens as Hawke puts more pressure on it, trying to stem the tide of blood with a handful of bandages. 

“‘Don’t cry’? Fuck you, ‘don’t cry,” Hawke snaps, hands glowing with blue light for a moment before it flickers and dies from lack of mana. “Fuck, I don’t have any more lyrium!” 

Anders grimaces, tries to breathe but coughs, his mouth filling with the unpleasantly familiar tang of blood.

It was supposed to be a quiet smuggling job; another part of the Mage Underground had brought the child from the Gallows to Darktown, while he and Hawke took them the rest of the way to the Wounded Coast to a ship waiting for them. They’re lucky the Templars caught them when they did, on the way back from delivering the young mage to freedom. Anders, leading the way across the coast, was caught by a Silence almost immediately. 

The only upside to this Void-damned mess – that their thirteen-year-old charge wasn’t stuck in the cross-fire. But with his connection to the Fade cut, Anders had been forced to fight with his staff in close quarters, quickly going through his health potions as a result. Hawke downed all their lyrium protecting them both with magic, but a Templar still managed to stick a blade in Anders, and here they are. 

Spirit healing can do nothing when neither of them have the mana to power it. 

“One of those Templar bastards has to have lyrium on him,” Hawke mutters, but Anders can barely hear him over the pulse in his ears, his heart trying harder to pump as he loses blood. “Anders!” Hawke shouts, and Anders’ eyes snap open, not remembering when he’d shut them. “Stay with me, sweetheart,” he says when Anders blearily meets his eyes. Hawke sucks in a harsh breath, his broad shoulders tense as tears finally begin falling, disappearing quickly into his beard. 

“I’m with you, love,” he murmurs, and coughs again, his stomach cramping with nausea. This time he can’t swallow down all the blood, and it trickles out the side of his mouth. Even with the blurring corners of his vision he can see his lover go another shade paler, his mouth twisting in a grimace. 

“Good, that’s… good. Now, I need you to help keep pressure on.” He grabs one of Anders’ hands, then the other, pressing them to the bandages at his side. A lance of blistering pain stabs into Anders, nearly worse than when the original wound was inflicted, and he bites back a scream that has Hawke babbling: “Maker’s breath, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you need to endure it, just a few minutes. It’ll be okay, I just need to grab lyrium.” 

All the while his calloused hands firmly arrange Anders’s hands and arms until he’s able to brace against the sandy ground to put more pressure on the wound. Anders groans, but does his best to comply with his shaky, quickly waning strength. As soon as he’s braced, Hawke is scrambling off his knees, taking off at a dead sprint to the nearest Templar corpse. 

Anders waits, staring up into a sky going grey as dawn approaches. Despite this, his vision starts to darken.

Not like this, Anders wants to scream. Wants to rail at how much more he has yet to accomplish – mages are still imprisoned, turned Tranquil for no reason at all, are suffering under countless abuses–

He reaches for Justice, but the Fade is still far out of his grasp, his spirit companion the same.  

He breathes, presses his hands harder when he notices they’ve started to slacken, and waits for Hawke to come back, for his magic to return, or for unconsciousness to take him. He blinks slowly. The breeze is cool on his sweaty brow, but Anders can’t muster the strength to turn into it, and he realizes he’s panting, can’t seem to pull in enough air. 

His head swims, and Anders pulls in another harsh breath, trying to call out, but there’s blood in his mouth and he has run out of time. 

The black blooms across his vision and swallows him whole.

-

When Anders comes to, it’s to the sight of a familiar, deep red canopy hanging above him – he groans the next moment as a headache hits, making him squint with the pain of it. 

“You’re awake!” a voice exclaims, and when Anders finally manages to peek one eye open, he finds Hawke sitting in a chair beside his bed. Anders opens his mouth, but only succeeds in making a dry rasping noise. Hawke takes that as his cue, fetching water from the nightstand. He doesn’t offer it to Anders right away, helping Anders sit up against the headboard first. Anders manages to do so with only a few twinges in his abdomen, and he touches his side, lifting his shirt to reveal mostly-healed skin with only a red, puckered scar where the knife went in. 

Anders takes the proffered cup of water and after nearly draining it in slow sips, asks: 

“We’re back at the estate. How…?” 

Hawke sighs, and for the first time Anders takes in his rumpled appearance, his flyaway hair and red-rimmed eyes. 

“Carried you back, after I healed what I could.” Hawke’s face crumples. “You nearly died on me, Anders,” he says, voice cracking, and it strikes home. In the back of his mind, Justice rumbles, a wash of feeling reiterating the point and making his heart squeeze. 

“I’m sorry, love–” Anders starts, but Hawke reaches out, clasping one of Anders’ hands between both of his own.

“You don’t need to apologize, it’s… working with the Mage Underground is getting more dangerous and I’m worried.” Before Anders can form a response, he continues, “I’m not asking you to stop, just… take me next time, too, and we’ll both stock up on potions.” 

It’s the best Anders can possibly ask for, and he sags against the headboard with a thankful sigh, grateful he’s not about to lose Hawke’s support because of the close call. 

“Sounds like a good plan, love,” he says with a tired smile. 

“Excellent. Now, how about a late breakfast? Orana promised it would be ready whenever you’re able to eat it. No, no, stay in bed!” Hawke orders when Anders moves to swing his legs off the mattress. “Come on, you know not to move around so much after a stomach wound like that.” Flushing with embarrassment and not a little petulance, Anders sinks back into the bed. 

“So the student healer becomes the teacher,” he grouses, but he can already feel the way exhaustion is pulling at his bones. “Any more words of wisdom from our dear Champion?” 

“A kiss a day keeps the healer away?” 

Anders laughs, and turns to meet Hawke’s kiss obligingly.

#fic #dragon age #anders/hawke #handers #cartadwarfwithaheartofgold #dragon age drunk writing circle #not beta read

[themurphyzone]

If I Can’t Love Him Ch 2

AN: Wolf chase scene! Also this Pinky is running for his life while in another universe, Pinky is holding a tea party.

AO3 Link

Ch 2: No Point Anymore

Pinky’s heart pounded out of his chest, the Beast’s roar ringing in his ears. And he did the only thing he could.

He fled.

Papa must be worried. He didn’t know if his son was alive or not. But Pinky would be coming home soon. He’d be at their little cottage by dawn.

And they could put the whole ordeal behind them.

Just him and Papa and Pharfignewton. That was home.  

He tied his mother’s traveling cloak around his neck, nearly tripping over the stairs in his hurry to get to the front door. He almost ran straight into Wakko, who was halfway up the steps. Yakko was just slightly behind his brother, Dot hanging from his brass arm by her handle.

“Where are you going?” Yakko shouted from the stairs. “You never heard my song on Baroque architecture!”

“I wanted to give you a makeover!” Dot added.  

“I haven’t showed you my cobweb collection…” Wakko mumbled.

Any further protests the siblings made were drowned out by the cold wind that blew past Pinky as he squeezed past the ajar front door, which mercifully wasn’t shut all the way. Snow stung his muzzle and eyes, and he lifted the hood of his mother’s cloak, shielding his eyes from the worst of the wintery onslaught.

“I can’t stay,” Pinky whispered. “I’m sorry.”

A pang stabbed at his heart. Yakko, Wakko, and Dot were sweet, energetic kids who’d welcomed him into their home. Chef Flavio had cooked him a feast for a king, and Señora Marita had the loveliest outfits in her wardrobe. He hadn’t gotten the chance to interact with the other servants much, but they all seemed like lovely folks.

But he couldn’t stay. Not when their Master was going to kill him.

It snowed so much in the past few hours. Was Papa okay? Was he lighting a fire right now? Did he make it home safely?

Pharfignewton raced up to him before he put his frozen fingers to his lips and whistled for her. She whinnied upon seeing Pinky’s distress, her hooves frantically clacking against the frozen ground.

“We have to go now, Fig!” Pinky cried, running over to her. His teeth chattered, and he rubbed his hands together in a desperate attempt to keep warm.

His beautiful, trusty horse lowered her head. Pinky latched onto her long muzzle, desperately hugging her white fur.

She started at a brisk trot, allowing Pinky enough time to settle on the base of her neck. Then she poured on the speed until she was galloping faster than she ever had before.

Pinky felt bad for working her so hard when she didn’t have horseshoes to protect her hooves, but Pharfignewton nickered gently and put a stop to that thought.

The wind swirled around them as they fled into the forest, blowing snow into the hood of his cloak. Pinky pressed himself against the gray hairs of Pharfignewton’s mane, but it did little to block out the numbing chill. His fur stood on end, his fingers frozen against the reins.

Pinky spared a glance behind them. Thick fog surrounded the looming castle. The Beast was nowhere in sight.

Unless he came to finish what he started.

Not wanting to find out, Pinky flicked the reins. Pharfignewton was a fast runner, but she could only go so far before she began to tire. And she needed her strength for the entire ride. She plowed through a large pile of snow, scattering flurries everywhere.

Though the trees around them were barren, the gnarled branches blocked out the sky. Pinky gulped, steering Pharfignewton away from a cluster of scary oaks that had screaming faces etched into their bark, their wood-covered hands ready to snatch them up and never let them escape.

The path! Where was the path?

The world was going by too fast. He couldn’t see the path under all the snow. Couldn’t tell if there was a signpost somewhere that would kindly point them in the direction of the village.

He turned Pharfignewton around, hoping to retrace their path. Too late, he realized he could be driving them straight into the claws of the Beast. But hope of finding their way was stronger than his fear.

But there was too much snow. No hoofprints to trace, no landmarks to point them in the right direction. All scary trees and howling wind and dead leaves and a low growl from the darkness…

Suddenly, Pharfignewton reared up in alarm, neighing in panic. Pinky latched onto her mane to avoid getting thrown off.

Then everything was still. Even the wind died down.

The growling became louder.

Pharfignewton’s front legs hit the ground, crunching several fallen twigs under her hooves. Pinky peered at the treeline, unable to see much beyond vague outlines in the darkness.

He lifted the reins, trying to calm himself down enough to spur Pharfignewton away from the Beast. But his breath came out in misty puffs, his heart threatening to leap out from his body.

A gray, ragged wolf stepped out from behind a half-grown elm. There were ribs were visible beneath his pelt, his thin, starving body slinking against the ground as he sized up Pharfignewton. One yellow eye fixed them with a predatory glare, the other was missing entirely. His scarred muzzle was pulled back in a snarl, sharp fangs gleaming.

He was smaller than Pharfignewton, but not as large as some of the wolf pelts Pinky had seen in his village. And from the snatches of conversation he heard from the hunters, wolves in the winter were very, very big and very, very hungry.

They stared each other down.

And Pharfignewton bolted.

The wolf pursued.

Despite his famished appearance, he was keeping pace with Pharfignewton.

Go back to the castle. Go to the village.

Keep running. Find a hiding spot.

Go this way. No, the other way!

“Zort!” Pinky cried. His thoughts were too jumbly, his fingers unable to move the reins. He didn’t know what to do, and Pharfignewton was forced to do most of the legwork.

Pharfignewton swerved to the left sharply, and the wolf crashed into a tree. There wasn’t much room to run on this path, if this was even a path at all.

Pinky cheered, but his joy was short-lived.

The wolf shook himself off and continued the pursuit. Pharfignewton ran straight into a thick snowbank, and though her muscles and legs pumped as hard as they could, she was slowed down enough that the wolf caught up to them quickly.

The wolf snapped at Pharfignewton’s rear legs, and she kicked in his direction. He jumped back, which gave them enough time to break free.

The trees thinned out, the snow not as clumped. No twisted branches threatening to block out the sky.

“We’re almost there!” Pinky shouted. Hope swelled in his chest.

Pharfignewton whinnied in delight, only for the joyous sound to end in a startled cry as the icy ground broke under her hooves, plunging them into freezing water.

The icy river swirled around them, and Pharfignewton struggled to keep herself afloat against the current. Pinky held his breath as cold water surrounded his entire body, his dress and cloak sodden. His head went under, and the chill seeped into his ears. He clung tightly to Pharfignewton’s neck, praying the current wouldn’t sweep his body away.

Then they resurfaced. A cold wind blew, chilling Pinky to the bone. He trembled from head to toe, his voice completely gone.

Pharfignewton soldiered on, but she was tiring fast. They couldn’t keep this up much longer.

The wolf crossed the river and caught up so fast that Pharfignewton didn’t have time to aim a kick in his direction. He howled triumphantly and blocked their path, slinking towards them and ready for the kill.

He sprung.

Pharfignewton whipped around to protect herself. Pinky had no time to prepare for the sudden motion. He was thrown into the mercy of the cold wind, the sky and ground blurring together that Pinky couldn’t tell what was up or down. Then his cloak snagged on something sharp, halting his chaotic tumble.

Disoriented, Pinky looked up. At least, in the direction he thought was up.

His mother’s cloak was caught on a low-hanging branch, a twig protruding from a long tear down the middle of the fabric.

“No!” Pinky screamed, reaching for the tear. If he touched it, would it mend itself?

His numb fingers brushed the hole, which only grew wider with every passing second.

He’d been too careless with one of the few belongings he had left of his mother. The cloak was old and worn, but it was beloved all the same.

Tears pricked the corner of his eyes. If he’d just talked Papa out of going to the fair, gone with him to make sure he took the right route, or never stumbled across the castle and that scary Beast at all, none of this would’ve ever happened!

Although…

The castle wasn’t completely horrible. The servants had put on such a lovely dinner and show to welcome him.

His cloak ripped further. The brittle twig bent further.  

Panicked whinnies and scary growls filled the air. Pharfignewton’s reins were caught around a branch, and she was trying to tug herself free and fend off the wolf at the same time. Her hooves lashed out blindly, and Pinky knew it wasn’t safe to get close to her if she wasn’t careful where her hooves landed. He shouted, trying to let her know that he was okay, but his voice wasn’t working, and not even a narf or poit could escape.

The twig snapped, and Pinky tumbled to the ground. He was cushioned by a layer of snow, so his fall didn’t hurt much. It was very cold though.

Pinky didn’t know if he would ever be warm again.

Pharfignewton kicked out with her front hooves, and a lucky strike caught the wolf on his flank. He stumbled away from her, yelping from pain.

Pinky tried to pull himself up.

Wrong move.

The wolf’s remaining yellow eye fixated on Pinky. Scarred muzzle pulled back, sharp black claws contrasting with the white snow, ragged pelt heaving with desperation…

Pinky had no weapons, no means to defend himself.

Pharfignewton’s reins were still tangled. She neighed for him, begging him to get up and come help so they could escape together.

But if he ran to her, the wolf would get him.  

He was on his own.

There was a snapped twig lying next to him, half-buried in the snow. He held it out as a makeshift club, though the twig wasn’t much bigger than him.

The wolf lunged. Pinky swung his weapon, but the brittle twig broke as soon as it hit the wolf’s leg.

It didn’t leave a scratch.

The wolf’s jaws snapped above his head, and he was once again dangling in the air by his cloak. He was nothing more than a floppy ragdoll, his body flying in every direction as the wolf mercilessly shook him. He tried to pry the cloth away from his neck, but his numb fingers couldn’t get a grip.

He couldn’t breathe—he was going to die—was Papa going to be okay?

The snow had turned black, or maybe his vision was just going dark…

A roar pierced the air.

More wolves? Had the entire pack come to finish him off?

The wolf yelped and lost his balance, dropping Pinky into the snow. A chill seeped into every pore on Pinky’s face, startling him awake. The black spots in his vision were gone.

White fangs gleamed in the corner of his eye, coarse gray fur brushing against his arm.

But they didn’t belong to wolves.

They were the Beast’s.

Pinky’s voice caught in his throat. He couldn’t scream.

The Beast’s fangs were bared, his claws splayed out. Pinky was pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy. Hot breath tickled his face. A large, purple cape billowed around them.

Except the Beast was locked in a staredown with the wolf, who stumbled as he got up. The Beast growled, a thick, long arm thudding down into the snow in front of Pinky. His pink eyes narrowed, focusing entirely on the wolf.

There was a shallow gash in the wolf’s side.

The Beast crouched low. If he planned to kill Pinky himself after dealing with the wolf, then he was just glad he’d die warm.  

And yet…that seemed unlikely to happen.

Then the Beast charged, sinking his fangs into the wolf’s front leg.

The wolf howled, his jaws sinking into the Beast’s cape and thrashing around to throw him off. But the Beast held firm, and only let go when the wolf’s fangs grazed the back of one large ear.

But that didn’t stop the Beast for long. He lunged for the wolf’s side, raking his claws down the ragged pelt. The wolf yelped, and his flailing claws caught the Beast’s right arm, leaving three long clawmarks behind. The wound instantly welled up with blood, and the Beast recklessly swung out with his injured arm, roaring in agony.

The Beast didn’t seem aware of anything besides his injury and the wolf.

Nor was he as massive as Pinky had originally thought.

He was small next to the wolf, but fighting with all the strength of a large predator. And the wolf only came halfway up Pharfignewton’s long legs.

The Beast sprung onto the wolf’s back, clawing at his ears and remaining eye. The lower half of the Beast’s cape was shredded beyond repair, exposing his bare back. The wolf flailed and yelped and snarled, finally bucking the Beast off. He crashed into a tree, taking a moment to catch his breath before standing up on his oddly-shaped feet. His breath came out in misty puffs as he dug his claws into the tree bark to pull himself up.

The wolf ran away with his tail tucked between his legs. He wouldn’t be making a meal out of them tonight.

But even so, Pinky felt sorry for the wolf. He hoped the poor thing would find an easy meal somewhere else.

Slowly, Pinky sat up. Someone nudged him on the back of his head. He turned around, and his nose hit warm fur.

Pharfignewton’s reins had finally come untangled.

“Poit. I’m okay, Pharfignewton,” Pinky whispered, gently taking her face in his hands and planting a kiss on her muzzle. Her blue eyes were downcast, and she whinnied sadly. “It’s okay. You did plenty. I’m sorry I worked you so hard.”

She nuzzled him on the cheek, and Pinky knew all was forgiven.

Then he heard a sharp, ragged breath.

He and Pharfignewton glanced at the Beast. He was having trouble staying upright, blood trickling from the clawmarks on his right arm.

The Beast’s pink eyes met Pinky’s.  

There was no anger. Only remorse and a pain that was far deeper than his current injuries.  

The Beast collapsed on a pile of snow.

Pinky took a step forward, but Pharfignewton pushed him back, nickering anxiously.

“We can’t just leave him, Fig,” Pinky said quietly. “I know what he did, but…he needs help. And he saved us.”

Pharfignewton nuzzled the back of his ear and gently nudged him in the direction of the Beast.

Pinky smiled at her, then approached the fallen mons-well, he didn’t seem like much of a monster now. Though he had fangs, claws, horns, and a temper, he just seemed so…tiny.

True, he was twice Pinky’s height and girth. But as Pinky knelt in the snow beside the Beast, there was no scary monster to be feared. Only someone who needed help.

“It’s just me. Just Pinky,” Pinky whispered gently. “Fig and I’ll get you back to the castle safe and sound, okay?”

The Beast wasn’t fully unconscious, but he wasn’t fully aware either. His limbs twitched restlessly, chest heaving with exertion. He tried to curl into a ball, like he was hiding away from the world, but his injured arm made comfort impossible.

It was the most serious injury on him. He’d gotten lucky.

At least he wasn’t laying on it.

They didn’t have medical supplies. Pinky would just have to improvise. And thanks to the injuries Papa sometimes got while working on his machines, he’d become skilled at improvisation.

So he took off his mother’s cloak. It was worn, wet, and torn down the middle. It was one of his most treasured possessions. Mama had worn it until the day she died, then it was suddenly Pinky’s.

She’d be okay with this. Mama loved helping others, and she believed that’s why the world turned. She wouldn’t mind her cloak being used as a makeshift bandage, even if it could never be mended again.

Carefully, Pinky tore the cloak down its seams until he had two separate halves.

“I’m gonna put this around your arm ‘til we get some proper bandages,” Pinky said. The Beast tensed as Pinky gently took hold of his right arm, using one half of the cloak to sponge away the trickles of blood. He squeezed the Beast’s pinky finger to reassure him. “You’re okay. Just relax. I pinky promise I wanna help. Those promises are forever, you know.”

The Beast didn’t tense up again, but he didn’t move away either. Pinky wrapped the other half of the cloak around the Beast’s arm, winding it around until it was nice and tight.

It wasn’t as good as real bandages, but it would do for now.

His work finished, Pinky hopped up and signaled for Pharfignewton to come over. She faithfully trotted to Pinky’s side, lowering herself so that Pinky could place the Beast on her back. He wasn’t that heavy. It just took a few minutes for Pinky to place the Beast in a comfortable position where his claws wouldn’t accidentally scratch Pharfignewton.

“Pin…ky?” the Beast murmured. His pink eyes were open, but half-lidded from exhaustion.

“Yeah. My name’s Pinky,” he said softly. “Let’s go, Pharfignewton.”

With the snow blowing around them, Pharfignewton began a steady trot back to the castle.

AN: I opted to change the pack of wolves to just a lone wolf, because while Disney’s Beast can take on an entire pack, I have to account for mouse size here. Sorry if the action scene isn’t very good, but the bit where Beast first appears to defend Belle from wolves up until the wolves run off is less than a minute, so I think it’s fine to keep it short.

Pinky is too sweet for his own good, even when he’s on the verge of getting killed.

#pinky and the brain #beauty and the beast au #patb fanfiction

[cutesycadaver]

Pellets

And now my creepypasta parody of Cupcakes (Mlp)

Content warning/violence, torture, Cannibalism, death, twists

After their plan had blown up in their faces, Brain was ready to collapse. He was lying on their sponge bed while Pinky was messing around on a lab computer. “Brain, come look!” He called, He begrudgingly got up from their bed, feeling quite sore. “What is it Pinky?” Brain grumbled “I found this video Reading Cupcakes (creepypasta) it’s about Pinkie Pie! Though cupcakes and haunted spaghetti sounds strange.” Brain looked at the screen, the video showed a cupcake with rainbow frosting “How do you know it’s about Ms. Pie?” Brain already knew Pinky was amazed by the horse he shared a name with but the video didn’t seem to directly state anything regarding her. “Oh, She was on the front but her mane was really straight and flat and her eyes were so small, poit.” Brain was growing suspicious “Pinky don’t you believe this seems...sketchy.” “Maybe but it’s Pinkie, It’s gotta be fun fun silly willy! Let’s watch it together!” Brain was hesitant “Alright” he mainly wanted to be there to turn off if (more like when) it turned sour.

At first it seemed like Pinkie Pie came seeking Rainbow Dash wanting some help making cupcakes, but took a gruesome turn. The problem being both mice were entranced and couldn’t get themselves to stop the video before it was too late. When the video finally ended there was a minute of absolutely nothing. They had wrapped themselves tightly together, both shaking. “B-Brain?” Pinky stuttered, shattering the deafening silence. “Yes, Pinky” Both mice sounded rather dreary “I-I’m s-scared” “I know you are.” Brain couldn’t get himself to admit he was too. “We should get to bed regardless.” The smaller mouse trying to regain his typical demeanor. He broke away from the embrace quickly, standing up. “O-ok, I mean ok, narf” Pinky attempted the same though his narf was far less enthusiastic than it typically was.

The two curled up next to each other, far closer than normal. “Pinkie isn’t really like that is she?” Pinky asked genuinely “Of course not, Pinky, it was just a story. You know Ms. Pie is just like you.” Brain rubbed his companion’s arm in an attempt to comfort him. “Just like me?” “Yes.” Suddenly the fatigue he felt earlier hit him like a truck. “We should sleep Pinky” he yawned “Ok Brain” he sheepishly grinned. Brain’s eyes slipped shut, his last sight was his still quite awake cagemate, seemingly content though.

Brain awoke with a start, though the cage was still quite dark. Now that he thought about it, was he in the cage? He seemed to be suspended upright in the air by ropes tied to his wrists and ankles. His heart began to race, What was happening? Where was he? “Pinky?” He called out, concern flooding his tone. “Oh, you’re awake sleepy head!” A familiar cockney accent giggled calmly “Pinky, you’re ok! Where are we? What’s happening?” Brain couldn’t see anything but Pinky was near, that was good “This is my workshop you silly goose. And your number came up, you get to join the party!” Workshop? Number? Party? Before Brain could voice any of his inquiries the lights flickered on. His eyes couldn’t believe it. There were tables with various painted mouse skulls as centerpieces. Balloons made of livers and kidneys and stomachs were all around . Streamers of intestines lined the top of the walls of the gritty basement Brain was in. “Welcome to the Party, isn’t it fun fun silly willy that I finally get to work with a friend!” Pinky appeared in front of him, donning a fur coat made of squares of, all too familiar, whites, grays and browns. “P-Pinky cease this foolishness at once.” Because that’s all it was, an elaborate prank, a stupid joke. “But I can’t Brain, it’s my job. And a job is a job is a job and I gotta do it, troz.” “What job?” “To turn you into food pellets, Brain.” He paused “Pinky this isn’t funny!” Brain shouted struggling against the restraints. “Well cause it’s not a joke Brain.” Pinky giggled. As Brain moved trying to free himself, he caught eye of a table with various tools typically used by the surgical scientists. It wasn’t a joke.

“Pinky, I-I’m sorry. I-I’ll be better, no more bad names, we’ll play the games that you like...every other night. We’re friends, Pinky, you can’t do this.” He pleaded, whatever would make him change his mind, anything “Brain, I already told you it’s my job” no no he needed more “Pinky I...I” he needed to force the words out, his life did depend on it “Pinky I love you! I always have, please, let me go, I’ll keep quiet, I’ll love you forever. No one will know I promise.” Pinky stood in shock for a moment, then lovingly looked at him “Oh, Brain!” He swooned, he came closer. Brain crashed their lips together in a hopeful deep kiss. “Zounds, Brain! I’ve never gotten a goodbye kiss before. Oh, Thank you it was so sweet. This batch is sure to be good.” Pinky pulled away seeming giddy but Brain’s hope died as his friend spoke. “Pinky...but…” “Aren’t you a smarty Brain, I told you it’s my job, zort.” His gleefully expression drooped. “I don’t make the rules, Brain. I really wish I did but your number came up and those are the rules.” Pinky shrugged “Pinky…” Brain started not entirely sure what he would say “Wait Brain, I just remembered something.” Pinky ran off to another part of the room. Brain’s immediate thought was to think to escape but then if he did what would he do, to hide from Pinky, with the knowledge of this, to cope, with his life.

Pinky was back as soon as he left, hiding his hands behind his back. “Brain guess who’s here to see you?” Pinky asked gleefully, Brain stayed in silent confusion raising an eyebrow “Hey Brain, it’s me Snowball, let’s ditch the dummy and take over the world together.” Pinky said in a poor impression of the hamster. He waved around a skull reminiscent of Brain’s own head. Brain gasped, he and Snowball were enemies but the knowledge he was dead made him sick. “I know he didn’t have a number like everyone else” blue eyes stared into the empty sockets “but when would I be able to try hamster meat again. I remember you liked them, said they were slightly more salty. Troz” Brain remembered the taste so vividly now in utter disgust. At the time the fact that the food pellets seemed to change two days after he defeated Snowball didn’t mean anything. Now it meant everything. This dawned the revelation that he was eating mice on the regular. Nausea took over his senses, Brain wanted to pass out.

Pinky studied the look on Brain’s face, then seemed to snap his attention to the table of tools. “Oh, Brain, We’re getting behind, we should get started.” Brain swallowed hard, he wanted to voice more pleas for escape but couldn’t force the words out. Pinky picked up a scalpel “I should get your fur patch first so it does get all icky and red, narf!” The tick that usually gave Brain mild irritation or silent bliss now sent puncturing fear and disbelief through his veins. Pinky went to his back and, with the scalpel, lightly cut a heart. When he got to be about the full size of his back, he placed the scalpel where he started, pressing further into the flesh. “Nyaaaaaa!” Brain writhed, the cold blade sliced through his back. Pinky traced the heart carefully, cleanly cutting the skin. Blood started to run down from the bottom of the heart. Brain instinctively struggled against the searing pain. “Brain, stop moving, I’ll mess up the cut.” Pinky complained, Brain forced his body to comply, with the hope Pinky might spare him with mild injuries if he behaved. Taking deep breaths to try to slow his heart, even though he knew it wouldn’t do much. Pinky had completely traced his work, setting the scalpel down, he placed a hand at the top of the heart and slowly peeled the flesh from his friend’s back. Brain stiffened, eyes widened, he let out a small squeaky cry, a single tear rolling slowly down his cheek. He forced his eyes closed to prevent more tears. Pinky eyed his work, satisfied with how it came out. He walked around to face Brain and show him the pelt. “Oh Brain it’s perfect! I made yours special, it’s heart shaped. I usually make them squares.” As Brain tried to open his eyes a wave of agony washed over him as the air pushed against the open wound.

Pinky went to place the pelt somewhere else in the room. Brain steadied his breaths trying to ignore the pain. He realized just how out of control of the situation he really was. He pondered the irony of his demise. It was almost funny. Almost. “ I’m back, zort” Pinky greeted, his usual cheery tone felt foreign in Brain’s ears. The lanky mouse went over to the tools, grabbing a simple kitchen knife. “Now for your ziggy-zaggy tail.” Pinky went behind Brain, wrapping a hand directly under the first bend. The contact would be sensual if not for what Brain knew what was coming. Pinky slammed the blade down, creating a red slit at the base of his friend’s tail. Brain writhed as the agony jolted through him. Pinky took a couple more strikes. Lingering on a third to slide the knife through the cut, as he wasn’t making progress. Brain let his tears flow freely, he quite literally had nothing left to lose. Pinky struck the tail again, it did nothing. “Guess I forget to sharpen it.” Pinky dropped the knife on the table. He picked up a hack-saw “Brain, why do they call it a hack-saw, it doesn’t hack, that’s what I was doing with the knife, it’s a saw poit.” Pinky giggled, Brain quietly sobbed. Pinky grabbed the tail again “Pinky?” Brain sniffled “Yes Brain” “I want to go home.” This was pathetic, he was pathetic and he wanted to be alone. “I feel like that sometimes too but I gotta finish a job zort.” He placed the saw in the cut “Oh, Like how we do with your plans, we never really finish but we get as far as we can before we fail.” Pinky pushed the saw, cutting through the flesh. “You know, Brain, I don’t usually keep the tails, but yours is just so special I had to!” Pinky giggled but soon the sound of grinding flesh and bone was the only sound that filled Brain’s ears. Pinky sawed through the appendage until it was only attached by a bit of flesh “Hey Brain, think fast poit!” He didn’t have time to register what Pinky said before his tail was ripped away from his body peeling a long strip of skin from his back with it. Brain couldn’t handle the pain slowly passing out as it surged through him.

Brain felt a small pinch before awareness filled his head. “It’s very rude to fall asleep when your friend is hanging out with you, you know.” Pinky reprimanded “I mean what I fell asleep in the middle of a plan, ‘Sorry Brain, you’re just sooooooooooo boring.’” Brain looked up about to make his own snarky remark before noticing Pinky was chewing on something, flashing a curious look. The lanky mouse took notice. “I needed to try some so I took a sample from your leg. Want some?” Pinky shoved a small piece of meat into the shorter mouse’s mouth. Brain spit out the chunk of his own flesh. He shuddered at the fact it tasted good. “You could have just said no, it’s not like you haven’t eaten the food pellets before.” Pinky said surprisingly curtly. “Ahhhhhh!” Brain finally felt the wound on his thigh, for where the “sample” had been taken. He started to sob as he fully remembered the earlier events. Pinky started to laugh “You really should have seen this coming Brain, it says I’m insane in the intro.” Brain’s expression twisted into a scowl. “Oh you’re cute when you’re angry but for falling asleep, I’ve got a surprise.” Pinky walked away leaving Brain very confused.

He came back with a nail gun. “Pinky...what are you doing?” Brain said, faking his sternness and attempting to swallow his fear. “You’ll see!” Pinky giggled, turning on the power tool. He knelt down to be eye level with Brain feet. He struggled against the restraints once again. “Pinky!” He reprimanded, he was ignored,  the nail gun pressed against his left foot. Brain’s heart sped up, his breath hitched, his fear became known once more. “Please...don’t…” he whimpered weakly, he was ignored again, a nail shot through his foot. “Ahhhhhhhhhh!” The immediate pain of the puncture registered first but it was soon realized that the nail was burning the flesh surrounding it. He was using heated nails. Boiling blood ran off his foot and onto the rope that held it in place. Pinky went to the other foot as Brain writhed. The second nail went in, cauterizing the wound it formed. Fresh tears spilled fast and freely as another scream could be heard, Pinky giggled. He walked away, probably to go get something. Brain heard Pinky’s sadistic laughs, wondering if this really was the adorable goofball he fell in love with.

Pinky walked back towards him, heading towards something behind his tool table, a bundle of wires in hand. Brain couldn’t quite see what he was doing but Pinky appeared to be attaching the wires to something. He walked back in front of him, holding the ends of two wires. “Oh Brain I think you’ll find this next one quite shocking, narf!” he laughed “Pinky please, I’m sorry you...you don’t have to do this.” He pleaded softly, the nails still deliriously painful “You shouldn’t have been such a sleepy head Brain.” Pinky’s tone was casual “Don’t you bop me when I do something stupid?” “I-I thought you liked the bops?” “Oh I do Brain! They feel funny and make me get all…gooshy!” Pinky giggled, his eyes going half lidded and a bit of drool dripping from his mouth. “Don’t you love me, Pinky?” The mouse in question blinked out of his lovesicktrance “Well of course Brain, you’re my best friend!” Pinky hugged him, making all his wounds sting, including the one in his heart “Than why…” “Because! It’s! My! Job! And these are the rules. I know you don’t always get it when I say silly things but this isn’t silly. You tell me I gotta do my job and do it right all the time!” Pinky seemed to grow very angry on a dime, tying the wires to the nails “If you really loved me you wouldn’t do this!” Brain shouted, more pain than actual anger. Pinky walked over to where he before “You need to calm down Brain this might help.” A mischievous gleam in his eyes, he pulled a lever. Suddenly a strong electrical current coursed through Brain’s entire body. His muscles tensed, the pain unbearable and unchanging, the screaming uncontrollable and straining. Brain finally felt his body lost consciousness even though he tried to force himself through theare pain.

Another needle pinch in his abdomen before the awareness and trepidation came flooding back. “I’M SORRY! Pinky, I’m sorry.” Tears filled his eyes, wishing for mercy “Hush, It’s time for the harvest, this part’s my favorite, narf!” Pinky took a scalpel and pressed it deep into Brain’s sternum. The blood trailing down either side of his chest. He pulled the scalpel down his stomach. Pinky giggled at Brain’s screams. Peeling open the flesh to reveal the organs underneath. “Now to separate the good stuff from the bad stuff this is so fun fun silly willy! Like your plans, oh your plans. I’m sorry Brain you never got your world, didn’t you?” The sentiment sounded sincere yet demeaning “Pinky…” teary eyes looked into a sea of horrible sadistic beauty “Pinky you are my world.” Brain said in true defeat. He supposed it made sense that his world would end him. “Oh Brain, you stole my heart.” Pinky looked at his surgical work. He recklessly shoved his arm into his lover's ribs and pulled the aforementioned organ from Brain’s writhing body. “Now I stole yours ha ha ha narf!” With one last breath Brain’s eyes slipped shut.

Brain awoke a start, in bed, he was in bed. Brain was back in the cage, it was morning. He looked beside him, Pinky wasn’t there. “Pinky? PINKY!” panic filled his voice. “You’re awake! Brain? Are you ok?” “Y-you strapped me to a table! I-in a basement with dead mice everywhere! A-and you turned me into food pellets!” He spoke frantically “Brain that’s Rocket to Insanity silly.” “Huh?” “Rocket to Insanity, that’s the one where Rainbow Dash dreamed up Cupcakes and then goes to Pinkie and stabby-stabs her. Wait, you’re

not gonna stab me are you, Brain?” The smaller mouse looked at his friend in relief then processed his question. Without another moment his lips were locked with Pinky’s. “So that’s a no?” “I would never stab you, Pinky.” He stated gently “And you’re an idiot for ever thinking I would.” Brain quipped “There’s my Brain!” Pinky hugged him “I love you Pinky.” If that dream made anything clear it’s that those words needed to be said. “Really Brain?” Blue eyes gleamed hopeful “Yes, Pinky, really.” Pinky pressed their lips together. “I love you too.”

#pinky and the brain #patb #animaniacs #pinky x brain #brinky #mlp #my little pony friendship is magic #pinkamina diane pie

[for-a-muse-of-fire]

before the otherness came

the wench and the witcher

“before the otherness came”

Fandom: The Witcher (2019)

Paring: Geralt of Rivia x Fem!POC Reader.

Summary: Geralt realizes how much he has to lose.

Warnings: NSFT/18+ - you should not be interacting with this fic if you are under the age of 18. Fingering, intercourse, sex as a coping mechanism (again, jfc Geralt). Smangst!

A/N: This is absolutely the brainchild of @witchernonsense​, who provided me with this scenario and then helped me flesh out the next parts that I have planned because she is my DARLING TUMBLR WIFE. Listen, I got a taste of the smutty angsty and it’s just *chef’s kiss*. Love me some emotional turmoil, y’all. Title and lyrics from “As It Was” by Hozier.

Part 2 can be found here.

@coconutxraikage - @onyour-right - @ly–canthrope - @kianya-loves - @c-s-stars - @gczanetti1 - @alwaysnatz - @agniavateira - @witchernonsense - @owillofthewisps - @hina-chans-stuff - @yespolkadotkitty​ - @wastingmypotential​

And the sights were as stark as my baby And the cold cut as sharp as my baby And the nights were as dark as my baby And half as beautiful too 

He’s awake long before dawn, too agitated to try for a few more hours of sleep. He tries to relax again. Failing that, he tries to close his eyes and quiet his mind – find the stillness that comes with meditation – but the peace is illusive. It won’t come. He can’t shut out the sleepy, easy rhythm of your heartbeat, nor the warmth of your hand over his chest. Geralt gives up before long, rises carefully - you don’t move, which shouldn’t make him feel relief like this. He finds his clothes, quietly sets about strapping into his armor and tries not to be distracted by the scent of your skin. It teases at his nose. He can still taste you on his tongue.

As he pulls the last buckle taught, he hears you murmur and lets himself look. You turn in your sleep, curl over the pillow he’s vacated. The dark of your hair spills over your neck and face and his fingers itch to push through it. He should wake you. At the very least say goodbye, but the words cloy. They sit heavy in his mouth, an unwieldy chill behind his teeth.

You look soft, and warm, and so fucking lovely in bed that it grips around his heart.

He thinks suddenly, wildly, about throwing down his sword and his armor and crawling back under the covers.

His weapons could gather dust under the bed.

You would wake up curled next to him every morning and smile like the beaming sun. He could repair the roof, keep learning how to bake – smell of your soap and fresh bread instead of gore and road dirt. Worst thing he would be covered in would be cooking oil.

Fuck he can see it – that quiet, boring, simple life and what’s worse, he wants it. He wants it so much that it hurts, deep down into the pit of his stomach and not even the thought of his inevitable return can ease the pain. The idea of leaving, the thought of being without again – it’s a hunger-pang ache. It gnaws at him.

Geralt grits his teeth as he pulls his boots on. You hum sleepily when he ducks in and kisses your cheek, but he’s out the door before you begin to wake.

It’s mostly quiet downstairs, though he hears the rattle of a cart on the road outside. The sky outside begins to wash from inky blue to muted gray with the coming dawn. He takes quick inventory of what remains in his pack, using the list in his head to distract from the pull of desire and the temptation of soft, willing skin upstairs. The scent of you lingers on his hair, in his clothes – you’ve seeped down into his very pores, it seems, soaked him in the sweet, honeyed smell of you.

That scent, clover honey and fresh herbs, suddenly grows stronger and Geralt frowns until sees you coming down the stairs. The soft fabric of your shift whispers over your bare legs and that’s when he realizes your scent is off. It’s tainted – too sharp, too bitter. He sees why when you falter at the last step and the sight strikes like the blow of a mace.

He’s seen you cry – from laughter, from rage, from sorrow – but this is different. This is the sharp, acrid scent of fear under the salt-brine bite of tears and a hollowness behind your dark eyes that hurts to see. Your jaw works, your full mouth twisting before you duck your head, but not before he sees the wet shine on your lashes.

He needs to leave. Needs to walk away because this is suddenly far too real, too raw, but his feet carry him towards you instead and he tastes salt on his tongue when he kisses you. You gasp – sob – against his lips and the noise twists between his ribs. Your heartbeat thunders in his ears and he grips at your hair, your waist, while your fingers tangle and fist into his hair. His hands twist in the light cotton of your shift, bunching the fabric as he lifts you into his arms; your legs grip over his hips.

“Don’t go,” he hears you whisper; it’s soft, and broken, and sad. “Don’t go.”

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut. He manages to set you on the smooth surface of the bar, shivering when your fingernails scratch over his scalp. His gloves hit the floor. Your legs are warm and soft under his palms, and between them is slick and wet and sweet. The smell of you, rich and heavy, sends a shock of arousal straight through him, sudden as a lightning strike. He groans, letting his fingers stroke over your swollen, slick flesh until you’re panting, until you shake apart in his grip, moaning into his mouth. Your fingers tremble as you yank open the buttons of his trousers.

It’s not gentle, not by a long shot. He ruts into you with sharp, greedy strokes and you cling to him, panting hotly against his cheek. Your heels dig hard into his backside. Each shuddering gasp from you seems to take root in him, grips around his heart with grasping vines to squeeze, to bloom with heat and light and fuck all he doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to leave.

He doesn’t want to leave you.

So, he kisses you hard. He draws you close and breaks the tracks of your tears with his thumbs, licks each soft, bitten-off sound from your mouth. You whisper his name when you come; the silken grip of your cunt drags him along, blinds him with the white-hot shock of his orgasm. He grits through a moan with his face pressed into your hair.

You won’t look at him, after.

He picks up a clean rag from the pile folded nearby, lets you clean the mess as he rights his trousers again. Still, you won’t meet his gaze. The thick curtain of your hair hides your face. Geralt picks up his gloves, watching you weep silently. You don’t flinch from him when he touches your cheek, pushing back the fall of bed-wild curls, but he feels you drawing away. Like you’re trying to curl up and vanish.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs.

He hears you give a wet sniff; you finally lift your head. Your lovely, dark eyes are bloodshot and bright with unshed tears. There’s a heavy, awful thing pressing at the back of his throat; it’s bitter when he swallows. He chews the inside of his cheek, bites his tongue - he tries not to let himself drown in the deep sorrow behind your eyes. The ache between his ribs thrums.

“I will come back to you,” Geralt whispers in a rush. He crowds close, pressing his forehead to your temple to breathe you in. “You’re - ”

The ache surges in time with the slow pulse of his heart, catches him off-guard. “You’re my home,” he breathes.

Geralt feels panic claw at him, snaring with freezing cold fingers. He forces himself to breathe through it as he presses a rough kiss to your temple and turns on his heel. It feels as if he’s watching everything happen instead of being there – he takes his pack, his weapons and the next thing he knows, he’s managed to swing into Roach’s saddle. The world snaps into clear focus again.

The panic twists, the cold mingling with the ache.

The Witcher grits his teeth, spurring the bay mare into movement. “Shit,” he hisses to himself.

#geralt of rivia #geralt x reader #geralt x you #geralt x poc reader #geralt x woc reader #the witcher #the witcher netflix #fanfic #fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #nsft #the wench and the witcher #tutu scribbles

[callboxkat]

Those Long, Lonely Nights (part 4/6)

Author’s note: This is a retelling of the story These Deep Dark Woods, but from Roman’s perspective. I recommend reading that story first, but this can also stand alone.

Summary: Roman, a knight, insists on accompanying his best friend Logan, a potion maker, when he decides to head into the notoriously dangerous woods bordering their home to find some rare herbs and minerals for his apothecary. They find much more than they bargained for when they encounter Remus, a bloodthirsty giant. Logince. Angst with a happy ending.

Fic Warnings:  food mention, blood, injuries, death mention, killing mention, gun mention, mild body horror (it’s Remus), disturbing imagery (it’s Remus), character death, temporary/believed character death, kidnapping, guilt, attempted self sacrifice, talk of giants, vampires and other monsters. Very unsympathetic villain Remus.

Word Count: 3910

Part 1 : Part 5 

Writing Masterpost!

...

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” the giant called in a sing-song voice. “I know you’re theeerrrre, little bugs!”

Roman and Logan were pressed against an outcropping of rock, panting, trying to be as quiet as they could while they caught their breath. Logan, in his darker attire, was peeking through the small gap between the cliff and some undergrowth, towards where the monster was. Roman watched as he shuddered. He went to put a hand on Logan’s shoulder, as if to comfort him, then thought better of it, and took it away.

The giant was well and truly angry now. It was clear that he had been toying with them before—despite having very, very nearly killed Logan once already—and he had at least then wanted them to last a while, while he had his fun. But that was before. Now, he was still definitely trying to have some sick, twisted version of fun, but he did not plan to keep either of them alive for long.

Remus had a club with him now. An enormous weapon that someone of his size should not have reasonably been able to wield—even standing at four times the height of a normal man, with hands large enough to wrap around entire human limbs and with shoulders the width of a decent-sized supply cart, the pink and black boulder wrapped over and over again to that thick, gnarled log serving as a handle was enormous. Had the giant had human proportions, he shouldn’t have been able to lift it, let alone swing it like a bat.

One good hit, and they were both done for.

The giant was getting closer. Logan silently tugged at Roman’s sleeve, and the pair snuck further away as quickly as they dared, doing their best to stay silent. Roman’s ears were still ringing a little, so he could only hope his training was paying off, and that he was being quiet enough. Logan didn’t say anything, but watching how he listed heavily to one side as they went, Roman didn’t really trust him to be a good judge either.

They pressed themselves against the next outcrop. Old Haven was sometimes called Stony Cliffs in older manuscripts, and it was easy to see why—the forests here were filled with these outcroppings, especially to the south and west. They were useful both for Logan’s work, seeking (relatively) easily accessed minerals for his apothecary, and, it seemed, for hiding from homicidal giants.

Roman’s head was spinning, but he was much more worried about Logan. They’d tied a makeshift bandage around his head wound,  although the bleeding had mostly stopped, but he was not in good shape. It was still shocking to Roman that he had survived this long at all. Thinking back, it seemed almost impossible. Perhaps he had gotten lucky, being bundled into the giant’s bag after Roman, that his head had been pressed into Roman’s side. Tied up and probably concussed as he was, Roman had been in no shape at the time to try to stop the bleeding, even if he had known that Logan wasn’t already dead at the time. That small, random chance might have been what kept Logan alive.

Roman decided that he really did not want to think about that, actually.

But he could not stop thinking about how pale Logan looked, nor the way he seemed to be just barely keeping himself from collapsing.

The giant was getting closer.

“Come on,” Roman reluctantly whispered, hating that he couldn’t give Logan more time to actually rest. They had to keep moving. He listened for a moment just to be sure he knew where the giant was—although Remus’s movements were hardly subtle—and began to creep out in the opposite direction, pausing to be sure Logan followed.

The dull thuds and crashing of Remus’s movements paused. Roman and Logan both froze.

“Come on, don’t be that way,” the giant called, his voice echoing through the trees. “Where are you trying to run off to?” He cackled, and Roman heard a rustle, the whoosh of air, and a few loud cracks, like Remus had gestured around the dark forest with his club and broken several branches in the process. “Don’t you know what could happen? You could fall and break your legs! You’ll be completely helpless! And then you’d get eaten by birds! Ooh, do you think they’d peck out your eyes first? Or would you get to watch the whole thing?”

Roman and Logan waited, terrified, until it was safe to move again.

Boom!

The sound echoed through the forest. A tree only a dozen yards away fell to the ground. A single bird let out an alarm call as it finally realized that this was the last place it wanted to be, and fled.

“At least we know where he is,” Logan whispered.

That was true. Remus did not seem to be prioritizing stealth in the slightest. Probably, this was because he was certain that Roman and Logan wouldn’t escape either way, but it was reassuring all the same. Roman would take what he could get.

They made it to the next outcrop of rock. At the base of it, in the mud, was the unmistakable impression of an enormous footprint. It couldn’t have been very old. Roman thought he could see more of them, deeper in the trees, visible even in the dimness. Probably, the giant had come this way not long before he’d captured Roman and Logan.

How long had the giant been watching them? Waiting for them to let their guard down, so he could strike?

Roman thought of how he’d slowly grown bored, pacing the perimeter of their camp, and eventually gone to simply sit sleepily on a boulder. Stupid.

They should have turned back when they had the chance. They never should have gone so deep into the woods at all. They could have been home right now, eating peach tarts by the fire in Roman’s cozy cabin, ostensibly because it was closer to the South Tower and thus less of a trek for Logan that night, but really just to spend time together, listening to the lively music drifting from the pub down the street.

It was too late, now, though. Now, Roman could only hope that he could get them both out alive.

…

As they stumbled as fast as they could through the trees, breathing harshly, hardly caring if they were even going in the right direction, the sky gradually began to lighten. The dawn made it easier to see where they were going, so they were able to move just a little faster, but it also made it all the more obvious just how far they had to go. And the giant was not a welcome sight in the light of day.

“FEE, FIE, FOE, FUM!” the giant called, slamming his feet down on the ground with each step, hard enough to make the ground shudder. “Come on out and let’s have some fun!”

The words, delivered with such a promise of violence, sent a fresh curl of fear into Roman’s chest. It seemed even when he thought he couldn’t be more afraid, he was wrong.

Logan’s hand tightened around Roman, gripping his coat, an effort to keep them from getting separated. Roman was glad for the proof that Logan was there with him. He was afraid to keep looking over his shoulder. Partly because he needed to see where he was going, and partly because he was afraid of knowing just how close Remus might be.

Occasionally, the giant would pause in his pursuit, and just listen. Roman knew that the giant was tracking them, or attempting to do so; he knew that they should be trying harder to be quiet. He also knew that they had no time to slow down. He wasn’t sure either of them was in good enough shape any more to do anything to muffle their footsteps, if they tried.

“Come on, come on,” Roman panted, looking around in desperation as they continued on. Not a moment later, the knight’s foot caught on something, and he and Logan were both sent sprawling.

Roman hit the ground hard, landing on uneven ground strewn with stones and tree roots. His head spun, and a long second passed before the world began to settle around him. He lifted up a hand and touched a newly sore spot on his head, practically on top of where Remus had already flicked him.

He heard a shout in the distance.

Logan was leaning over him, one hand reached out, gasping. “Let’s go,” he said.

Roman blinked, watching the way Logan’s hair drifted slightly in the faint breeze. Now that the sun was coming up and he could see better, Logan’s hair looked kind of amusing. Half of it was sticking up in all directions, while the other half was pasted to his skull. Why would he wear it like that?

And then, suddenly, Roman remembered exactly where he was, and exactly what he was looking at. He shook his head, clearing some of the fuzziness. “Yeah—yeah, let’s go.” He reached up and took Logan’s hand. Logan did his best to haul Roman back to his feet.

A sharp pain told him that something was very, very wrong with his ankle.

No time to worry about that.

They continued onwards on clumsy, exhausted, painful limbs, desperately trying to reach safety. Roman thought he could just barely make out the flags at the top of the South Tower’s turrets. Maybe even part of the castle. He hoped it wasn’t his imagination. Logan seemed to think that was also the correct direction, although it was possible that he was just following Roman, trusting the knight to know the way.

No—Roman had to believe that they were going the right way. They couldn’t turn around if they wanted to. If he let doubt in, he would not make it. Logan wouldn’t make it.

Roman chanced a look back at his friend, who still had one hand fastened on Roman’s formerly snow white jacket like a lifeline, and was alarmed to see blood soaking through the makeshift bandage, dripping down his face and leaving a trail of ruby droplets in their wake. They stumbled to a brief halt. At the alarm on Roman’s face, Logan himself seemed to notice the reopened injury, and he stowed his dagger before reaching up to press the palm of his now free hand to the wound. They took off again, with no time to stop. Remus was still crashing through the woods behind them, all too close, and all too happy to keep up the chase.

They just had to break the tree line. They just had to get close enough to the wall for help to arrive. They only had to make it that far. The knights, with their numbers and weapons, would make quick work of the giant. Roman and Logan just had to get to them. The knights would help, would bring them home.

Roman sent up a silent prayer to the gods. Please, help us.

As the sun rose higher and the sky lightened further, Roman grew surer and surer that he really was seeing signs of Old Haven. The trees were thinning—it was imperceptible, at first, but compared to how densely packed they had been nearer the giant’s lair, the difference was clear. Yet their pace was slowing. They simply couldn’t keep running. Roman wasn’t sure that their pace could even be called a run, at this point.

Logan’s grip on Roman’s jacket slipped, sending a jolt of alarm through the knight. It tightened again, briefly, but moments later, he felt as the apothecarist stumbled, and fell to the ground.

“Logan!” Roman gasped, turning around.

Logan looked horrible. Pale and flushed through the blood and dirt and ash on his swollen face, his eyes unfocused and only half open.

Roman pulled him up, put an arm around him, and they continued on as best they could, adrenaline numbing their pain. Their speed was hardly faster than a walking pace, but Roman simply could not go any faster. Logan seemed to be growing rapidly weaker, now leaning heavily on the knight.

Please, Logan, just hold on a little longer.

They were so close. So close. They only needed to—

SNAP!

The sound of hysterical laughter came from off to their left, and the giant materialized. “There you are! Oh, there you are! My new friends!”

Roman took a step back, stumbling on his injured ankle as he pulled Logan with him.

The giant had not escaped Logan’s brilliant distraction unscathed. A patch of hair had burned away on his scalp, he was streaked with ash, and his clothes were a charred mess. He smelled even worse than before. Yet, he smiled when he saw them, his lips cracking apart into a soot-stained grin. “I missed you,” the giant whined. “But… I’m afraid I have to kill you now.” He raised his club up over his head. “Don’t worry! It’ll be exciting! It’ll be so fun; you’ll be like meat pancakes!”

Roman’s adrenaline spiked as the giant brought down the club. Square over where Logan stood.

Roman yanked the apothecarist back, screaming as the effort set his ribs and ankle on fire, flinging them both away from the club.

He wasn’t quite fast enough.

There was a sickening crack, and then Logan was letting out a cry of pure agony, tears of pain in his eyes as he clutched at his leg.

Oh, gods. His leg.

But the giant wasn’t finished yet. He was cackling, getting ready to raise the club for the finishing blow.

Only for the tree trunk of the handle to come away in splinters, and for the boulder to roll several feet away.

Finally. Finally, some luck. Roman sent up a hasty thank you and quickly knelt by Logan, patting his coat in a fervor until he found what he was looking for—Logan’s dagger.

He spun around and brandished the weapon towards the giant, steeling himself. “Get back!” he shouted with all the strength he could muster.

Remus, meanwhile,  seemed confused by the state of his club. Apparently, he had not expected it to break. He was trying to nudge the pieces together as Roman spun around. At the knight’s commanding voice, though, the giant looked up. He dropped the broken log. And he laughed.

He reached towards them, and Roman slashed the dagger across the giant’s palm. It was little more effective than a deep papercut, but the giant yelped and backed up, rubbing at his hand with a wounded look.

“That’s not very nice,” he said. “I was just trying to crush you!”

Logan was moaning in agony. Roman chanced a glance back. Logan still clutched at his leg, his face pale and slightly green. No way was he walking out of here on his own.

“Oh, you’re alive!” the giant cried, seeming to notice, for the first time, that it was Logan who lay on the ground at Roman’s side. Perhaps he had thought a third human had come to Roman’s aid—it was unlikely, of course, for more humans to be out that far, but even less so for one to come back from the dead. “I get to kill you twice! That never happens!”

Roman remembered the sound of Logan’s head cracking against a metal chain. The way his body had gone instantly, utterly limp. Those horrible, horrible hours when he had thought Logan was gone.

Roman’s hand tightened into a fist. “And it won’t!” Roman he declared. He didn’t know how, but he would stop Remus. He would fight off the giant, alone, barefoot, his body bruised and exhausted, because he had no other choice.

There was a shuffling from behind Roman, another moan of pain. Roman blinked away tears at the sound. He stayed put, the dagger brandished before him, the dull bronze blade all that held back the monster.

“Hey, Re—Remus?” came a weak, slurred voice.

Roman actually flinched, he was so surprised. What was Logan doing?

“I have something… to show you. You’ll… you’ll like it,” Logan continued, his voice wobbling with pain. “It’s… nasty, and gross. Just like you.”

Far from being insulted by the man’s words, the giant appeared intrigued. His rancid green eyes narrowed suspiciously, but still, he crouched down. He let out a heavy breath, and so close, the smell of decay was overwhelming.

It took everything Roman had not to attempt to gouge at the giant’s face while he had the chance. He hoped Logan knew what he was doing. Half dead or not, Logan was still the smartest guy he knew.

Remus leaned forward even more, so his face was less than a foot from Logan. “Show me,” he crooned.

“Of course.” Logan sounded far calmer than Roman felt. Logan’s arm came up from behind his back, holding… a small bag of powder. Which he hurled straight into the giant’s face. The bag exploded, sending out a cloud of white dust.

Remus howled, clawing at his eyes, rearing back and all but uprooting a nearby evergreen in his haste. He tripped and fell to the earth, screeching as he tried to get the dust out of his eyes.

Roman shoved the dagger in his coat pocket and dashed to Logan’s side, hauling him to his feet by the underarms, being as mindful of Logan’s leg as he could in what little time Logan had bought them.

“No,” Logan moaned, hitting out weakly at Roman. “No—put me down, put me down!”

“It’s me!” Roman said, holding Logan’s arms away from his face. “It’s me, Specs, it’s me!”

“Leave me here—go!”

It dawned on Roman. Logan expected him, wanted him to leave him behind. That was not happening. Even if both of them died because of it. Didn’t Logan know that Roman would never—absolutely never—do something like that? Hadn’t they known each other long enough for that to become obvious? Roman knew that Logan didn’t know how he felt, but he had to know how important he was to him. Didn’t he know that?

Logan kept fighting as Roman dragged them away from the giant, trying to get Roman to drop him. Logan’s leg was completely useless, and Roman bore nearly all of Logan’s weight.

“I can’t even walk,” Logan cried.

“But I can!” Roman growled. “I can walk for both of us! Dammit, Logan, I am not leaving you here to die! I—I need you! I can’t do this without you!”

Logan’s protests paused at that. Roman hauled them both onward, putting all of his focus in making it to that tree line. Finally, Logan seemed to accept that he was coming along whether he wanted to or not, and rather than trying to stop Roman or simply be dragged along, he started trying to help them move along. He couldn’t do much other than hold on to Roman and try to hop along on his one usable leg, but he was trying.

They could do this. They had to do this.

All too soon, Roman heard the sounds of the giant beginning to follow after them once more. He must have cleared his eyes enough to see, or perhaps he was simply following the sound of them crashing through the undergrowth. It didn’t matter—the result was the same.

To Roman’s immense relief, the trees were definitely thinning now. The giant already knew where they were, so Roman saw no harm in it as he began to shout and scream for help, desperately hoping that the guards on the wall would hear, that they would come to help.

Logan was not doing well. He was getting weaker and weaker, hardly managing to hold on. Roman was all but carrying him. They needed to get the bleeding in his leg stopped, but there was just no time.

“Don’t give up, buddy, come on,” Roman said, between shouts for help. “Come on.”

He could see clear grass up ahead. Just there—through the trees. He could see clean gray stones. He could see the sky. Roman cried out for help again, then turned to Logan as they scrambled over loose stones and broken branches. The jagged edge of one of the stones cut deep into Roman’s foot. He paid it no mind.

“There it is!” Roman said to Logan, desperately trying to keep him awake. “Do you see it? There’s the tree line. We’re almost there, buddy. Just a little further!”

“Almost there, buddy,” Logan echoed blandly. Roman could hardly understand him anymore.

Remus was still yelling behind them, bounding through the trees, getting closer and closer. He threw a boulder, and it crashed to the ground just beside the pair. The ground shook, leaves and pine needles raining down from nearby trees. Roman nearly fell, and Logan lurched forward heavily. The potion maker’s eyes briefly rolled up into his head, before the lids fluttered, and he seemed to come back, just a little.

Roman regained his footing and dragged them on. They were so close. “HELP US!” he screamed, shouting so loud it felt like his vocal cords would tear from the strain. “HELP US, PLEASE, WE’RE HERE! THERE’S A GIANT! PLEASE, WE’RE HERE!”

Mercifully, mercifully, he was heard. For the first time, Roman heard other human voices. He heard horses whinnying. He could hear the grinding of gears and the screech of metal as one of the gates on the wall opened. Shots rang out, and he could hear people shouting orders.

They had made it, Roman dared to think. And then Logan became dead weight in his arms.

“No—no!” Roman cried. Not again, no, please, not again.

Knights were breaking through the trees, some on foot, some on horseback, each armed either with a sword or with a rifle. Many swarmed towards the giant, while others made a beeline for Roman and Logan. Roman kept shouting until he was sure, absolutely sure, that they had seen them, and that help was coming. Please, they had to help them—they had to help Logan.

At the sight of the knights finally arriving, the fatigue and pain all seemed to hit Roman at once. He grew suddenly lightheaded. His stomach flipped, and his vision began to swim. Every second he stayed upright was torture, taking a monumental amount of effort, but he would not drop Logan. He wanted to run to the knights, but it was all he could do to stand there. He stood firm until the knights had reached them. People were talking, shouting, but Roman just stood there, swaying, as they neared. Roman could see medics among the knights. Good. Logan was badly hurt.

Finally, finally, Logan was taken from Roman’s grip. He hardly noticed the arms that came to help support his own weight.

The sound of gunshots and the clang of swords on armored skin filled the air. The giant roared. There was a huge crash, and then… nothing. The gunshots went quiet, and forest was still. There was a howl of victory, echoed by cheers that Roman hardly noticed.

The giant was dead.

“Please be careful,” Roman murmured in the newfound quiet, watching as the medics began to tend to his friend, ignoring the medics and knights who were trying to speak to him. He blinked, long and slow.

Then, he collapsed completely.

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