#it's impossible to fathom what an ordeal that must have been

[blimbo-buddy]

The only other cat that was shown to be traumatized that remember is Twigbranch for like one moment and even then it was meant to show how traumatized poor little Bramblestar is as opposed to her feelings on the matter. But seriously more cats should be traumatized or frustrated or dealing with stress. They had to come up with Nightheart being traumatized out of nowhere!! He might have been stressed and confused but I can’t remember any moment where Nightheart and Bramblefake interacted in TBC.

Like with the previous ask, I'm surprised that this is the only reason she's scared of BrambleStar and not the AVoS stuff. Any resemblance of being traumatized is, as you said, brushed off with "Buh-buh-but what about BrambleStar's poor traumatized feelings :("

How the fuck is FinchLight not traumatized from her mom nearly being mauled to death. How the fuck is everybody in the Clans not traumatized from the Imposter, how is it that it's only BrambleStar whose feelings we gotta consider and not the feelings of literally everybody else who was affected by the entire ordeal. TwigBranch from what you guys are saying did feel a bit of fear, but just like you said too, it's brushed off because "Poor BrambleStar must feel so isolated" like of course he probably feels so fucking isolated, AshFur used his body to gain control over everybody in order to get to SquirrelFlight. BrambleStar cannot fathom the idea that cats might be scared of him not because of this idea that they must attribute the trauma to him, but because the guy who almost destroyed the afterlife took control of BrambleStar's body, and so when cats see him, all they can remember is the Imposter

Blimbo try not to eat your own organs in a fit of rage challenge (impossible)

#blimbo rambles #ask #wc

[camels-pen]

Grateful

Ectoberhaunt Day 4 - Box & Staff

Summary: The Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep has a small problem with the 'sleep' part.

Ao3 Link

For too long, Pariah had remained in this nightmarish prison.

The Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep, the little eyeball had called it, made to hold any ghost regardless of strength and put them into an indefinite slumber until someone deigns to free them for trial. My family’s finest achievement, your Majesty.

That little one-eyed servant and their peasant family of magical blacksmiths would pay dearly once Pariah was freed. How dare they deceive him—how dare they turn against him, after all those centuries of loyalty to the throne?!

An indefinite slumber—Pariah had given the benefit of the doubt at first, hurt and betrayed by the coup orchestrated by his friends and lover, resigned to sleep once he was defeated in battle and the lid closed above him. 

But it never came.

Years and years and years passed by with his legendary patience waning more each decade. At first, he assumed it would take longer due to his strength—his natural powers alone must have made the prison’s effect slower, not to mention that he was imprisoned with the crown still atop his head. Then he assumed it was his age, then his core type, then then then—

Pariah was not a perfect ghost, not by any means, but he had never even considered harming one of his subjects despite the many ordeals and attempted assassinations on his afterlife. Of the two of them, Clockwork was the one who sent knight after knight to guard him before settling on Fright Knight as a more permanent defender for Pariah. 

He always thought it needless before. There was nothing Pariah couldn’t solve with the help of his advisors and servants and friends by his side. As long as there were people who cared for him, as long as there were people who believed in him, there would never be any challenge he couldn’t overcome with words or a friendly duel.

What a joke.

He had been wide awake, staring at the magic-infused black and green wooden lid for at least a few centuries at this point—longer than he’d known Clockwork, for certain—with only his own mind for company. He’d kept himself aware by changing his shape, lighting the inside of the box aflame, sharpening his claws and fangs on the indestructible wood and waiting waiting waiting for the moment he was freed.

Pariah had not dressed himself in fanciful clothing often, save for the times the royal seamstress had insisted he wear something more than the simple green tunic Clockwork had gifted him once (a warm evening he would never forget; the impossibly soft material laid in his large, rough hands had felt like nothing he’d ever worn before, though Clockwork needn’t have gone to the trouble—Pariah would’ve worn it as often as possible, simply by virtue of being a gift from his beloved). 

Loathe as some were used to admitting it, Pariah was a simple ghost. He had not cared for wearing anything other than comfortable clothing. Clockwork likened him to something called a ‘call-age stew-dent’ once and refused to explain themself—Pariah assumed it was another future term that he would learn in time and his lover would smile that silly little zigzag smile as they tried to avoid laughing at him when he finally figured it out many years later. That smile would never fail to send his core aflutter. 

He wasn’t sure if he desperately wanted to see that smile or if he wanted to painfully rip it off the spineless traitor. Even now, centuries after being imprisoned, Pariah could not fathom how he could’ve missed the signs that Clockwork would, in Pariah’s moment of need, follow the orders of a greedy and treasonous eyeball like a well trained dog over aiding him. 

And they were going to tie their cores in marriage. In the past, it was one of his greatest dreams about to come true and he had looked at his engagement necklace with love and fondness too big for his core to handle.

Now, that necklace lay in a puddle of melted metal on the bottom of the sarcophagus and any reminder of it caused him to roar in fury, green flames billowing off of his whole body as he broke and reformed his hands over and over trying to claw and punch and burn his way out to exact a slow and torturous revenge on the Dog Master of Time.

Pariah heard some fool talking about the power of the Ghost King and abruptly changed his plans. He needed to have revenge not only on Clockwork and the little eyeball, but on every single ghost who stood by and did nothing as he was usurped and locked away. 

And he would make sure to have his appearance reflect that.

Over the years of his confinement, the clothes he dressed himself in shifted and changed with his waning patience. No more were there soft fabrics against his skin. No more were there light, friendly colours inviting others into conversation. No more would he wear gifts from heartless traitors.

No more.

Armour adorned his body now, from head to toe, leaving only his face and hair free to show his rage, let them see each individual strand burn brightly as he watched them all with the one good eye they left him. This is a mercy, the eyeball had said, be grateful we did not take more.

Grateful? Oh, Pariah was grateful. Grateful they had left him more than his core, as even a single working limb would be enough to cut down the vile scum that dared to conspire against him.

A key was inserted into the lock.

Pariah clenched and unclenched his hands, now covered in heavy metal gauntlets. 

The key turned in the lock and there was a creaking sound as the hinges finally unlocked after all those numerous years.

The lid began to open and Pariah grinned, wide and mean and full of teeth.

Pariah would show them all just how grateful he really was.

#danny phantom #nemo the writing ho #Ectoberhaunt22 #EH order #Day 4 #Box

[transcendentalmaggot]

When you’re born with a rare birth defect you’re faced with a litany of roadblocks that compound the older you get. The local hospital that treated me both times my recurrent infections due to anatomical anomalies and a host of other issues developed into a kidney infection leading to sepsis had no adult urologist or nephrologist that had treated someone with my condition before. The only one was a pediatric urologist. They were finally able to create a Transitional Care Program run by this urologist through the pediatric urology department that now gives me the ability to even have a consultation with a pediatric urologist as a 30 something and finally get a consultation with the only doctor in the entire state that has any experience treating patients with bladder exstrophy. Cue the calls every few weeks of confused office staff trying to figure out why an adult has an appointment on the books or assuming I must be pregnant since that’s the only reason they can fathom being scheduled to see him at all.

I can’t go out of state because I haven’t had an income in almost 3 years due to multiple disabling conditions after being injured in 2019 disrupting my hours and then being laid off during Covid 2020 so I’m on a ACA state exchange plan with supplemental Medicaid - much to my inconsolable shame my exorbitant premium is covered by my Dad. I’ve lost my job and have been struggling to find a new one that can accommodate my conditions despite wanting to do just about anything that isn’t abhorrently unethical or physically impossible at this point. My SSDI hearing denial is being appealed and I’m in worse shape than I was when I began due to having to pick and choose which life-sustaining medical care to receive based on my limited support. Entire countries don’t have any doctors at all with working knowledge of this condition and experience performing surgeries to treat it causing people to need to take trips by airplane for simple check ups. Of course I receive a call today that my appointment on August 4th is being bumped until August 23rd because apparently the doctor is never in the office the day they made the appointment.

I don’t blame the office staff. I blame a system that sees sick kids even more intensely through that sense we all know - if you’re sick, die, or make a complete recovery with no residual effects from the initial ordeal. The charities we have, funded by profit making ventures in the private sector more than any other depending on the charity like smiling, wholesome, and conspicuously uniform in sanitized smiling faces imploring you to give them money to find the cure. But no support for those currently living with the disease (outside a community camp out or hosting an online support group). Once those kids, those that do survive, reach adulthood we’re disposed of entirely. The process for surgeries for me is arduous. At the hospital I’ve been going to since the day I was born, I need both an adult and pediatric urologists. This means they have to organize switching time slots for the OR across separate departments. The bureaucracy and capitalization of every aspect of this system is killing us all, workers included.

Sure, you’ve missed more than a couple years worth of schooling, socialization including spending more time in a hospital than a home for the first few years of your life, dream jobs, opportunities you worked years to get to, anything I’ve ever wanted to put effort towards, relationships, missed most major life events you were excited for on multiple occasions, but this is all clearly just evidence you’re hysterical and weak. You’re expected to never put the burden of needing help on others while being endlessly scrutinized each and every moment as to whether this is all an act. For what fucking purpose? Sure, they’ve spent millions of dollars, implanted complex medical implants and cadaver parts and animal muscles into me across several hospital systems, and the insurance has paid out each time (usually with a fight) because I like to take my vacation from a hospital bed. I’ve fooled hundreds of medical professionals according to this convoluted and cruel mindset somehow.

I vacillate between soul-shattering rage, immense grief, and a numbness that goes beyond any dissociative state I’ve experienced.

#venting #disability #healthcare #medical system

[writteninsunshine]

He’s Going The Distance - Chris Redfield/Ethan Winters - SFWish

Title: He’s Going The Distance

Author: Reno

Fandom: Resident Evil 7: Biohazard

Setting: Medbay, Post-Dulvey Incident

Pairing: Chris Redfield/Ethan Winters

Characters: Chris Redfield, Ethan Winters, Random Nurse

Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Romance

Rating: M

Chapters: 1/1

Word Count: 1386

Type Of Work: One-Shot, Part of the For All These Times series, Whump Bingo Fill #2

Status: Complete

Warnings: Gay, Slash, Yaoi, MLM, Pre-Slash, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociating, Blood, Deep Wounds, Trans Male Character, Trans!Ethan Winters, Possible OOC for Chris, Medical Equipment, Medical Treatment, Stitches, Sutures, I.V.s, Pain Meds

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything.

Summary: Was Ethan truly so used to pain that he didn't notice that?

AN: Hey guys, it’s me again! Just thought I ought to say, if you want vague updates and to talk to me more, I have a writing Tumblr, too! Twitter is Sunshinecackle, and Tumblr is Writteninsunshine! I also have a writing Discord that is currently pretty dead. xD If you want it, please contact me on Twitter!

More whump fic bingo! I’m really enjoying these, they’re too much fun to write. Oops, I like to punish Ethan even if he doesn’t deserve it. He’s so whumpable. I hope you guys are enjoying this, I know I sure am. This one is for my editor, Gryph, who is the best editor I could ever ask for. MAJOR shout out to her!

Resident Evil Fic Masterlist

Ethan Whump Bingo Fic Masterlist

He’s Going The Distance

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There was an old thought resurfacing as Chris looked at Ethan. A man who could live through anything was what S.T.A.R.S. had wanted, Ethan would have been welcomed into the fold. The man was a machine when it came to surviving anything. Despite this, he seemed too oblivious to notice when something was wrong with him. All the healing fluid in the world couldn’t help the man with how much constant pain wracked his body. It was almost impossible to discern one pang of pain from the rest. That hand was a nasty wound, the staples not quite sanitary when they’d been secured into his skin.

But that wasn’t what he’d noticed just now.

“Ethan,” He began, his voice soft and wary as if speaking too loudly might shatter the other man. “You’re bleeding.”

“I am?” His voice sounded exhausted, hoarse, and so soft Chris barely heard him.

Tugging him closer for inspection, he unbuttoned Ethan’s shirt and pulled it away like a pair of curtains. Yanking up the undershirt he wore, Chris paused a moment to stare. Unable to help how his fingers splayed over the other’s stomach, eyes taking in the thick scars beneath his pecs. His thoughts turned away from the injury for a second, he only stopped when he reached the center of Ethan’s chest. He took in the soft peach fuzz there with a quirk of his lips he wasn’t in control of. Finally, his fingers fell over the thick gash leaking over Ethan’s pale skin, and the touch made Ethan recoil some. 

“Don’t,” Chris warned, eyes narrowing a little as he reached around, pulling Ethan close again by his waist, a hand on his middle back, “You’re hurt. I’ll fix you right up.” 

Leaving Ethan for a moment, he returned with a basin of warm water and a few washcloths. Where he’d gotten them from, Ethan didn’t know, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

Dragging one wet cloth over the blood, he cleaned Ethan up despite his hisses and gasps of pain. What was the best option was going to hurt, so Chris started by applying a local anesthetic gel to the area around the wound. He must have found it when he brought the rest of his supplies, Ethan figured. He winced, flinching when Chris’s hands got too close to the weeping injury, but he sucked in a deep breath and bit the thin skin on the inside of his lip. It was all he could do to keep himself from making any more noise.

“I’m going to have to give you stitches.” Honestly, Chris was worried that Ethan was going to start leaking organs. It was deep, and he could almost touch the other’s rib bones. Ethan had really taken a beating, and it was hard to fathom how he hadn’t noticed this. Then again, he was in shock after everything that had happened, after all of the mental and physical trauma he had taken. Maybe it wasn’t such a strange occurrence. 

After all, he was a civilian. He hadn’t been meant to find these kinds of things. If he had stayed away, he would have been blissfully unaware, but there might have been a worse problem on Chris’ hands by the time they arrived at the scene.

“Okay.” Letting out the breath he’d been holding, Ethan nodded just slightly to save him from aggravating his pounding headache, “Just… Do it quickly. I don’t feel good.” Swaying, he felt his knees begin to buckle, and Chris caught him in a tight embrace. This wasn’t going to work with Ethan standing, anyway.

Hefting him up bridal style, Chris carried Ethan like he weighed nothing. Sitting him down on a nearby gurney, he removed his shirts and set them aside. They were stained, torn to hell, and bloody. He’d have to get him a change of clothes. Helping ease him to lay down so that his right side was facing out, he ran a hand over the other’s chest in a hope to help calm him. Maybe it wasn’t entirely innocent, but he was trying to stay focused here.

“This might hurt, but I promise I’ll be quick.” All Chris got in return was a soft murmur he couldn’t hear, let alone understand. If nothing else, Chris was efficient, and Ethan looked like he was going to faint. That might help him do this without Ethan bellyaching the whole time. Stepping away, Chris grabbed a first aid kit, opening it up and setting it beside Ethan on the cot. Digging out a needle, some antiseptic, and surgical thread, he worked the thread through the eye of the needle and set to work.

The laceration was likely already infected, if not by something typical, then by the mold Ethan had been exposed to. With a little sigh, Chris poured some of the liquid over it, making sure to use gauze to get it inside. The forceps he had grabbed entering it made Ethan grunt, but he was too tired to try and fight it. Chris diligently worked on cleaning him up, wiping at more blood before grabbing the sterilized needle. He wiped it down again with a clean antiseptic wipe before starting with the initial stick. Ethan didn’t seem to notice this, due to the numbing gel, and Chris was glad for it.

With the easy glide of the needle and his skillful hands, he made quick work of the stitches, hoping not to bother Ethan too much. Once they were tight, he cut the cord and cleaned up the wound once more, wiping away the gel with a few medical towelettes, before drying the area. To make sure it would stay clean, he rubbed another cloth damp with warm water on the site before running more of the wipes over it. A dry rag then worked over the glistening flesh, and he didn’t stop until he had patted him dry.

“Ethan, I need you to sit up. I have to wrap this.” Chris spoke, breaking the silence in the room they were in. Unfortunately, it seemed that Ethan had fallen asleep, or maybe passed out, so he had no choice but to gently shake him awake. “Ethan, you have to sit up.”

Ethan nodded absently, slowly pushing himself up with the other’s aid. Bracing himself on his shaking arms, he let Chris wrap him up with gauze from his stomach to his shoulders, surprised by his gentle hands. Once Ethan was bandaged up, he was allowed to lay back once more, and Chris didn’t think about his next action. Kissing Ethan’s forehead gently, he petted a hand over the skin and the other’s sweat-damp hair.

“You should be alright, now. I’ll keep an eye on this.” Voice quiet, he smiled slightly, hoping to keep him at ease. It didn’t seem like Ethan was going to panic, though, too worn down to do much but flutter his eyelashes. “Sleep, now. I’ll get you some pain killers when you wake up.” God knew he’d need them. Moving the gurney around so that he could be more comfortable and closer to the setup for the I.V., Chris sighed in relief. Already asleep, or so he hoped.

Settling in a nearby chair, Chris pulled out his phone. He’d be stuck here for a while, for sure. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do, he’d been set to guard Ethan while his tests were being done.

Ethan didn’t wake for what felt like hours, and when he did it was with a groan of pain. Chris was quick to give him water and a shot of morphine that he was instructed to administer through the I.V. that a nurse had given Ethan. At the very least, he was going to be taken care of.

“Thanks.” Ethan managed, his voice cracking halfway through. 

“You need care.” That much was obvious. Chris combed a hand through the other’s blond locks once more. “If that means I have to do it, then so be it.” There was an odd fondness he felt for Ethan in this moment, watching him nod, his eyes glassy and distant. “You’ll be okay.”

With any luck, he’d bounce back from this. He’d been through hell already, what was another ordeal to save him?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

AN: There we go! It’s not super shippy but I’ll still tag it, just in case. Also, this probably makes more pain for the start of The Village, but that’s okay. I might write something about it when I’ve seen more of the game. I got it preordered for my birthday but it’s at my friend’s house until I can see her again. I’ve been watching it, however, so I’ll get there eventually. I hope you guys enjoyed it!

Prompt: Ethan Doesn’t Realize He’s Injured

#Resident Evil 7 Fanfic #Resident Evil 7 Fanfiction #Winterfield #Ethan Winters #Chris Redfield #Injury

[project-ohagi]

Rumi Usagiyama ღ Miruko x Reader

Buy me a coffee!! <3

At first, the news had sent a surge of felicity pirouetting around your heart. Since the dawn of adulthood, you been quite desperate for a child, but whenever the subject was broached, your boyfriend would reel off some fantastical excuse as to why you shouldn’t try just yet. It was too early, he wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment - maybe later, okay sweetie? You should have realised his play, but you were naïve, drowning in love and trust. So you relented, shelving your dream for him, for the man who decided that abandoning you at your most vulnerable was fair.

It was to him.

To him, your relationship had been merely a farce. By manipulating such an innocent young thing as yourself, he dispelled the suspicions and rumours surrounding him. To an outsider, the hugs and kisses were genuine tokens of his affection. Even you had believed this, as foolish as it sounded in hindsight. Your support network wasn’t potent enough to destroy all the pain he inflicted. He left one night, and you had waited. You waited for days, feeling deep within your core that he would soon return. He just needed a little break, is all! It was big news. He just needed time alone to process it. Except…he hadn’t been so alone, and he never crept back into your embrace.

You would have forgiven him. You would have forgiven everything.

Finally, comprehension stabbed at you, and the turmoil began filtering out your excitement.

You were resolved to keep the child, provide the entire world and then some, all on your lonesome. It would certainly be difficult, but nothing was impossible. Not for a single mother. As far as you were concerned, that wretched man was a criminal, who captured your heart and sentenced it to the most excruciating form of torture. You wouldn’t let him steal anything else - especially the one thing bound to bring you joy.

What use were men, anyway?

Well, worrying for the erstwhile months was useless. Your boots graced the concrete and you clutched your eight-and-a-half month baby bump. You smiled brightly, through the aching pain of your back. Perhaps it would prove wise to spend less time tossing and turning amid your bed-sheets, and actually sleep in a comfortable position? You had never experienced backache like this before. Hopefully this would be the one and only instance. You looked to your phone, checking both the time and weather, and trying not to pay too much attention to your background. It was a close-up shot of the Rabbit Hero: Miruko, leaked to the media and quickly snagged by you. It was such an incredible picture, capturing the definition of her muscles and that pride-stitched smirk. She was something of a celebrity crush, you supposed - not that that would ever be revealed.

All of a sudden, your stomach twisted - a result of the harsh kicking from within, maybe? Or were these more of the dreaded contractions? If that was the case, then abdicating your afternoon walk was probably a good decision. You hastened toward home, hand still firmly attached to your bump.

"Hey, watch where you're going, you ignorant slut!" The voice was startling, not least of all because you didn’t realise someone had been barrelling down the street, in your direction.

You wanted to apologise, despite clearly being void of fault, but your stomach throbbed with agony. The challenge of simply placing one foot in front of the other was becoming greater, and you were tired. You barely had enough energy to stand, let alone argue with this man. A civilian standing nearby watched the exchange, and grabbed the man's arm.

"Why don't you watch where you're going? You just ran into a pregnant woman! What the Hell is wrong with you?" It was nauseating to see a stranger fight your battle, but you appreciated the help.

The man's agitation seemed to be growing. "Huh? How is that my problem?!"

"How is it not your problem?"

He liberated himself from the civilian's hold, just as a distant voice shouted, "Don't let him get away! He's a thief! Thief!"

Your saviour attempted to grab him again. "Is there a hero in the area? Or failing that, a police officer?"

"Eh…I think she might need a doctor, too."

A sliver of water - what surely must have been water, anyway - trickled down your leg. It was soon shadowed by drop after drop, but with your attention diverted, you didn’t really notice until a hero arrived on the scene. Your lips parted in disbelief. It was your idol, Miruko, in the flesh!...But you couldn’t allow her to witness you in such a sorry state. So you turned away, hoping that your company would get the message. They didn’t. Your abdomen felt almost like a rock, the contractions became more frequent and moulded agony on to your face. Someone yelled, wondering why you weren't being escorted to a hospital. The thief was apprehended. You groaned, water pooling underfoot.

A dam had burst inside your core, and the torrent showed no sign of slowing.

The civilian from earlier spoke to Miruko, pointing at you, in spite of your embarrassment. The next thing you recalled was being lifted into a pair of muscular arms, and risking a glance up at that radiant smirk. The pain forced you to hunch, and as Miruko whisked you away to god knows where (hopefully a hospital), your flushed cheek found purchase on her chest. The water continued to flow. Why was she still holding you? She must be soaked by now! Oh gods, this was so, super embarrassing! Humiliating, even! She was an extraordinary hero, someone for whom you held deep respect and adoration…and now she was carrying you like a princess, while your water was breaking. The journey lasted an eternity. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration. She was very fast, so you actually reached a hospital in a matter of minutes.

"How far along are you?" Truth be told, you had expected her to leave the minute you arrived.

But you were still curled up in her arms. "Eight-and-a-half months."

"Damn! Why were you out on the street? And you got attacked by that guy, right? Well, I beat his ass for ya!" She led you inside the building.

"Thank you so much." A smile lingered on your lips, but your breathing was laboured. "You have no idea how grateful I am."

She laughed as a midwife practically tethered you to one of the beds. You had acquired your hospital gown, which would no doubt make the delivery easier. You didn’t really understand, but apparently the baby was coming? The nine month mark hadn't even hit yet! Worry seeped into your heart. Did something go wrong? Was this ordeal about to end in tragedy? Miruko's keen eyes latched on to your shaking form, her ears picking up on the tiny whimpers passing through your lips. She was childless herself, but could fathom the pain of labour, and the anxiety that accompanied it. But heroes didn’t allow people to suffer alone, right? Especially not the most defenceless. The midwives practiced breathing with you, slow and steady. Miruko followed suit, grasping your hand in hers and taking in big gulps of air. You seemed to relax upon seeing this.

You panicked less.

You stared at each other for a spun-out minute, just grinning and relishing in the warmth and the comfort. Until you started pushing, and you had to squeeze her hand very tightly. Thankfully, this woman was incredibly strong, and you were not, so it was more adorable than harmful.

"Come on, you can do this!" She stated, leaning toward you ever-so-slightly. "I'm gonna be here, and my hand ain't gonna snap off, so you can hold it as tight as you need!"

You nodded, over and over, trying desperately not to scream. There was a trace of blood, that Miruko was ready to call out, when the midwife told her it was completely normal.

"You hear that? Everything's fine! Just keep going!" She squeezed your hand back, the sight of you writhing in pain tugging at her heartstrings.

She stayed, out of more than simple necessity.

She stayed! That was more than could be said for…

Oh, forget about him already!

When the baby finally tumbled out, you sighed in relief, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Miruko's grin widened with both pride and elation, as if she was your birth partner. Maybe she was. She vanquished those small, glassy droplets.

"We did it!"

Did she…did she mean those words? They sounded genuine, they sounded…loving. Was it possible? Your new-born nestled into her strong arms. Miruko had the air of a triumphant parent. Maybe she could be. Maybe this wouldn’t be your last encounter. Maybe she would stay, be a permanent fixture in your lives. Wouldn’t that be something wonderful?

Fatigue brought your voice to a whisper.

A happy, little whisper.

"…We did it…"

Hurray…!

[Word Count: 1502]

#bnha #bnha x reader #miruko x reader #bnha miruko #my hero academia imagines #my hero academia x female reader #rabbit hero: mirko #mirko x reader #pregnant reader

[halfway-happyyy]

It’ll All Work Out

AN: Been a while! Got inspired to write this piece as I am currently stuck working through this mess, while my partner stays home to social distance. Hope everyone is staying safe out there! All of the fluffiness and feels.

Word count: 1499 

This was never going to be simple.

You knew it from the moment he sidled in next to you at that quaint bar somewhere downtown. All of his impossibly warm skin, a cracked leather jacket, the distinguished Swedish lilt. You were good at avoiding eye contact; it was a trait you had picked up in younger years and never fully let go of. Yet you yearned to stare at him- you ached to watch the way the feint wrinkles next to his eyes grew deeper when he smiled, the way his cheeks grew pink under the influence of dark ale and even darker lights. You’re pretty sure you knew that night that you loved him. You knew because he asked you to dance with him and you said yes without missing a beat. You wandered fearlessly into his open arms and swayed with him to the live band a few feet away, oblivious to everything around you. No one had ever felt like home the way Alexander did. You were hard-pressed to believe anyone ever would again.

And then the earth made a full rotation around the sun, and the inevitable happened and he got on a plane and disappeared for four months.

You were surprised with yourself if you were being honest. Where a year ago, you never thought twice about the empty space next to you in bed, now it was all-consuming when the lights went out at night. An indent of where he used to sleep could still be found there, and quite frustratingly, you found yourself aching for him. It wasn’t just the physical aspect of his touch that you keened for, though you missed that very much as well, but it was the act of having someone take up the perfect amount of space in your life. You longed for the idle wine-induced arguments, early mornings perched on his lap at the kitchen table, pouring over coffee-stained scripts and even later evenings attending premiers in dresses you could never fathom wearing in your wildest dreams. You had watched your life intertwine with his in ways hard to explain, and yet you still let him board the plane to Iceland without telling him the truth.

You managed to miss the first phone call.

Somehow the frequency of the vibration had been a few octaves too low the first time and a second managed to rouse you from your slumber. You fumbled around in the dark for the phone next to your bed, wordlessly pressing the glowing green button before you had even worked out what to say. You scrubbed a palm down the length of your face to wake up. “Mmm, hullo?” You yawned sleepily into the darkness before you.

Alexander sighed heavily, the sound tinny and crackled through the connection of the wire. “Hi baby. I’m sorry to have woken you, but I’ve just gotten some bad news.” Your gaze travelled to the newspaper splayed haphazardly on your bedroom counter, the headline reading:

DEADLY VIRUS MAKING ITS ROUNDS IN THE NEW YORK CITY AREA

LOCKDOWN FOR RESIDENTS IMMINENT

You were pretty sure you had every idea what this was about, though you asked him to elaborate regardless. “They halted production on the film this morning and I’m currently in a car on my way to the airport.”

“When will you be home?”

Alexander hesitated before replying. “I’m supposed to land at JFK around 6:45 in the morning.”

“Alright well, I’ll pick you up-

“You can’t baby.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly void of all moisture. “I can’t?”

Another beat. You could hear Alexander saying something to the driver on the other end. “I need to… self-isolate for fourteen days upon arrival.” He must have sensed the unease on your end because he cleared his throat and began again. “Just for precaution’s sake of course. I’m all good- I feel fine. We are all fine here on set but Bill is lending me his place in the city for the two weeks while he goes home to Sweden.”

And then it donned on you. “Why aren’t you going home too?”

Alexander murmured something else to the driver and you could make out the sound of a car door closing in the distance. “Well, you are my home.” The silence didn’t settle long before he informed you that he’d made it to the airport. “I’ll call you when I’m on solid ground, okay?”

You found yourself nodding into the growing light of your bedroom. “Wait! Alex?”

“Yeah baby?”

Your heart began to hammer wildly inside your chest. “Have a safe flight home.”

“Can’t believe I get to see your beautiful face in fourteen days.” Alexander faltered before the line went cold; you could almost feel the warmth from his smile all the way in New York City.

If any of the fourteen days were going to be anything like the first one, you figured you could probably get through this ordeal relatively unscathed. Alexander facetimed you for over two hours after getting settled into Bill’s apartment. He spoke at length of his time in Iceland, and how when this was all over, the two of you would road trip around the country for a few weeks before production picked back up again. You spoke until you noticed how jetlagged he was, and you hung up on the promise of another call again later in the evening.

Day seven was rough all around. Courses you’d been taking while Alexander was away, had been cancelled in person but were to continue up online a week later. Work had sent you home a few days prior and the feeling of being trapped in your own space, by yourself had become somewhat overwhelming. “I know times are scary and unpredictable right now... but we’re already halfway there baby.” Alexander mused quietly, a glass of wine wedged firmly within his grasp.

“Not soon enough,” You groaned.

“Just think,” Alexander smirked. “In seven days, I get to finally touch you after four months away…”

You rolled your eyes and unscrewed the cap of the half-empty wine bottle before you. “Do not start with me, Skarsgard.”

Alexander clicked his tongue teasingly. “Of course I’m going to start with you, and then after I do that, I’m going to finish with you.”

You could only imagine the things he had planned for you; the places his lips would touch, fingers would slip, tongue would graze. Your eyes fell shut as you gave yourself over to the thought, earning a hearty laugh from Alexander on the other end. “I’m hanging up on you now.”

Day thirteen had finally arrived. You had been occupied most of the day with work, so had not had a chance to speak with Alexander until the evening over dinner. He had made himself salmon and rice with a garlic dill aioli and you opted for Asian-chicken stir-fry, which you consumed mostly wordlessly. After dinner, you chose a vinyl record to put on (Ryan Adams) and set Alexander up so that he could watch you finish off the rest of the dishes. “That’s one thing I’ve really, strangely missed since I’ve been gone,” Alexander offered up after a while.

“Hmm?”

“Doing the dishes with you.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Dishes?”

He nodded his head, a small smile pulled at the edges of his lips. “Or anything really. Dishes, reading, bickering, making the bed.”

“Grocery shopping?” You quirked an eyebrow in amusement.

“Yes! My favourite Sunday’s with you are the ones where we wake up late, grab breakfast from Frankie down the block and grocery shop.”

“Frankie does make a mean egg’s benny,” You offered quietly.

Once you had finished up the task at hand, your fingers raw and red from the water they had been submerged in for over half an hour, you took Alexander to the bedroom while you got ready for bed. He wordlessly watched you free yourself from your clothing and slip into one of his old t shirts. “Guess what Alex?”

“What’s that baby?” He yawned.

“I get to see you in ten hours.”

Alexander beamed brightly at you, the sheer force of it caused you to smile back just as big. “How did I get so lucky, hmm?” A moment passed before he spoke again. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do tomorrow morning?”

“Well, I think I might just wrap my arms around you and never let you go.” You sidled down in bed and turned onto your side. “And you?”

Alexander took a deep breath and said, “The first thing I’m going to do tomorrow morning when I see you, is tell you how much I really do love you.”

Those last five words hung suspended in the void between the pair of you; he was six blocks away but if you closed your eyes real tight, you could almost feel him next to you. “Tomorrow morning I’ll say it back.”

This was never going to be simple.

But damn, it was going to be worth it.

#phoeobe bridgers on repeat #this was not meant to make light of the current situation #more so to distract from it #hope yall enjoy #alexander skarsgard #alexander skarsgard fanfic #alexander skarsgard x reader #alexander skarsgard oneshot #alexander skarsgard fluff #fluff #writing #alex sstuff #alexander skarsgård

[calenheniel]

Queen of the Ashes | extended author’s notes

In which I delve into the themes, symbolism, and creation of my latest fic.

Foreword

I’ve been writing in the Hans/Elsa fandom since 2014 now, and yet, to my surprise, had never delved into the world of the “Hans with fire powers” genre. I’d enjoyed the art and fics for it, but didn’t have a good idea of what to write on the topic myself, though the idea percolated in my mind that I should, at some point, contribute to it. After bandying ideas back and forth with a friend off-Tumblr, the first line of the story came to me: “They met as children.”

Fics about Hans and Elsa meeting pre-Frozen are also common in the fandom, and to my mind, the notion that they would have met before completely changed how they would interact during the coronation sequence (and “every moment after,” as Hans might say himself). Add to that the notion that Hans, like Elsa, had secret powers – in addition to all their other shared experiences, which the fans elucidate through fics and art and posts – and it creates a new and tantalizing dynamic to tease out over the course of many chapters. It also begged the question, to me at least: even if they had met when they were kids, and realized some of their likenesses, could they still have successfully overcome their individual traumas as adults?

I had promised, for some time, that I would explain in full the background behind this fic, including symbols and themes which readers may have missed along the way. In particular, I am aware that the Epilogue may have unsettled or taken unaware some of them who had enjoyed the quasi-happy ending of the preceding chapter—a phenomenon which I was well aware might happen from the very beginning. It is therefore my hope that the following notes elucidate some of the mystery of the story, and why it ended the way it did. (And I’m tagging @yumi-michiyo​, who helped me to summarize my thoughts more cleanly in discussing them with her.)

Theme: abuse (and its consequences)

There are many allusions in Queen of the Ashes to various types of abuse experienced by its main characters: parental and familial; physical and verbal; intentional and unintentional; organizational and relational. While some are described in an overt manner with little ambiguity, others are less obvious, but no less malicious in their impacts on the character. 

When reading into the various traumas of the characters, it is easier to ascribe value judgments to the actions of certain characters over others. It would be difficult for anyone to argue that Hans’s father and brothers, for example, weren’t terribly abusive towards Hans; likewise, it would be hard to ignore that the insistence of Elsa’s parents for her to “conceal, don’t feel” had tangibly negative psychological consequences on their daughter, regardless of their good intentions. The consequences of such abuse on both characters are obvious: towards themselves and their powers, they are taught to feel fear, anxiety, discomfort, denial, and confusion; towards others, they can be perceived as childlike and their decisions arbitrary and cruel, cynical of the outside world, unable to trust, and blaming all else but themselves for their troubles.

On the flip side, the abuse which Hans then inflicts on Elsa – pursuing her in spite of her telling him to leave (on multiple occasions), leveraging family connections (Anna) to pressure her into speaking and meeting with him, taking advantage of her self-doubt and fear to convince her to trust only him, lying to her about his true nature and his past misdeeds, pressuring her to continue hiding her powers up until and even after they are married – is in many ways subtler, disguised as him trying to help her accept her powers and herself (even as he tells her that no one else will accept or understand her, except him). They are also characteristic of the deceptions deployed by the character in canon to achieve his objectives, even if they were, originally, used on Anna (whom he also lies to in this story, for other reasons).

It is understandably harder to view Hans’s actions in the same light as those of his parents, or her parents, as we are led to believe that he truly does care about Elsa in this story, and feels a special kinship with her on account of their shared miseries and strengths. I am not here to say definitively, one way or the other, if he cares about her or doesn’t; that is always up to the readers to decide. The point is rather to illuminate how difficult it can be to tell deceptions from truth when the deceptions are told from a sympathetic perspective, and when the deceptions appear to be borne from circumstances so harrowing and tragic that the readers might be inclined to forgive them their trespasses against other characters.

When viewed in the context of their upbringings, we can more clearly see the full cycle of abuse: that which was perpetrated against our protagonists, and that which they, in turn, can and do perpetrate against each other. In attempting to break this cycle, and start a new life with Elsa, Hans ends up playing into similar patterns of manipulation and coercion with her, her family, and her people which he had internalized over many years of suffering the same. Whether he does this on purpose or inadvertently is up for interpretation, but still beside the point, which is: in trying to be the opposite of his family, and then in killing that family, he begins to resembles them.

Theme: perspective

As in several other of my fics released over the last few years, this story experiments with narrative and perspective, describing to the audience the events of the story through only one character per chapter. For the majority of the story, we are shown events from Elsa’s perspective (Chapters 2-8 and 10), and given special insight into her years of isolation and accompanying mental distress. No other character is allotted as much time and room to think and develop and reflect on everything that is happening to them, as Elsa is; and yet, at the same time, we are rarely allowed all the way in to see and know her thoughts in each moment beyond the whispers of “conceal, don’t feel, don’t let it show” that echo through her mind, in empty rooms, and from her own lips.

We are mostly shown her reactions to things that are happening to or around her, and given vague descriptions otherwise about “off-screen” moments like meetings or public hearings where her attention is not fully present. Upon a second reading, it might become more difficult to be certain about what exactly is going through her mind, especially towards the end in Chapter 10 and the Epilogue (in which we are removed from her perspective entirely, and see her only as Hans does).

In Chapters 1, 9, and the Epilogue, by contrast, we are shown events from Hans’s perspective: as a child, then chronologically from childhood through adulthood, and finally just after he is crowned King of Arendelle and married to Elsa. We first meet Elsa and Anna through his eyes and experience his pain, though the source of it is not confirmed until later in the story. When we finally learn about his powers through the confrontation with Elsa in Chapter 8, we are briefly allowed back into his perspective in Chapter 9 in order to experience his ordeals and better understand his motivations.

With so little “screen time,” however, it is difficult to know or understand Hans in the same way we think we do Elsa. We trust him when Elsa does (or perhaps before, if we are sympathetic to the child Hans from Chapter 1), and believe that his version of events as recounted in Chapter 9 must be true and accurate due to their disturbing nature. Even when we are presented with evidence which suggests that his actions aren’t as pure and good as they seem (see notes on the symbolism of roses, apples, and gloves below), we are unlikely to question the validity of his memories and intentions towards Elsa, since, as the victim of severe abuse, we cannot fathom that he would inflict the same on someone he appears and claims to deeply cares for.

It is easy to forget, in these switching perspectives, the complexity and development of the characters, and how certain aspects from earlier on in the story – such as Elsa’s initial suspicion of Hans and his motives – might return even after the “happy ending” of Chapter 10. A common critique of romantic comedies (and Disney movies) is that they end just as the relationship is about to begin—the relationship being the more difficult part of the story to explain and understand, with less romance and more compromise and bargaining.

The Epilogue therefore serves as an antidote to this trope in asking: what would actually happen after Hans and Elsa came together? How would he publicly court her, given his sour reputation? How would he help her to control her powers, while still keeping them (and his own) a secret, and convincing her to do the same? If they decided to get married, how could they continue to keep it a secret? Could Elsa ever truly forgive and forget Hans’s past misdeeds, and cover up his crimes in perpetuity? 

And, perhaps, the kicker: Did Hans ever really care for, or love, Elsa during the course of the story—or does he just see her as an extension of himself and his own trauma? Did Elsa love him in return? Can there be love without trust?

It is impossible to answer these questions wholly when the chapter is presented only from Hans’s perspective, as it is; and even if it were from Elsa’s, we would still be missing half the story. In place of seeing both points of view at once, we are left to put the pieces together ourselves of what happened in the year between Chapter 10 and the Epilogue, relying on our knowledge of both characters’ actions from earlier chapters in the story to make sense of their final decisions and feelings.

Symbolism: roses

Roses play an important symbolic role in the story, and feature both in Chapter 6, during Hans and Elsa’s conversation in the rose garden of the castle in Arendelle, as well as in the Epilogue, wherein Hans offers Elsa a rose made of flames during his proposal (which she then turns into ice).

Hans, comparing Elsa to a rose in Chapter 6, frames it thusly:

“You know, Elsa,” he began, “roses are actually rather difficult to grow. The conditions have to be just right, with plenty of sunshine, well-drained soil, and in areas free from pests, since they’re so susceptible to disease. Without regular attention, it’s unlikely they’d survive.” He eyed her pointedly as he added: “So it’s a wonder that these are still here, and blooming as beautifully as they are.”

The unspoken implication of this analogy is that Elsa, as a delicate and fragile flower, must be taken care of and tended to. Thus, the paternalistic warning underlying his speech is that she will decay without proper handling, and that he is the one who can handle her. Even when Elsa rejects this perspective and the analogy itself (“I’m not a rose, Hans. I don’t require sunlight, or pruning, or ‘regular attention’ to endure”), a feminist reading of this scene might say that he still forces her to take on the feminine duty of caring for him when he plucks the rose from the bush in order to make his point, reinforcing the dominance of the male gaze and viewpoint during this scene.

Likewise, his traditional proposal to her as described in the Epilogue, even with the untraditional aspect of his created rose of flame, could be interpreted as him delineating their roles in their future married life together—with Elsa’s ice solidifying this arrangement. In both chapters, Hans is literally leading Elsa “down the primrose path”: showing her what a world wherein she is free from fear and doubt would look like, but only if she puts her trust in him, and discards the memories of and attachment to her deceased parents. (The idiom itself refers to leading a life of leisure and sin in place of morality and good judgment, and so you can see its application here. You are all also more than entitled to feel that I, as the author, also led you down the “primrose path” in the sudden atmospheric shift between Chapter 10 and the Epilogue.)

Symbolism: apple  

Similar to the rose, the apple featured in Chapter 7 is an explicit nod not only to the temptation of Eve in the Garden of Eden – and the accompanying downfall of mankind – but also to many other stories of temptation leading to damnation, such as Snow White. 

As Hans points out in his speech to Elsa:

“Fine things, apples, when they’re ripe like this. Beautiful, even—your mouth waters just looking at it, thinking about how sweet or tart it might be. But then […] You see something like this, and even though you want to take a bite out of it, you think, ‘well, I’d better just check.’ So you take out a knife and cut it open,” he said, and dug both of his thumbs into the side where the hole was. “And what do you find? […] Nothing but a rotten, brown core,” he continued, a sigh escaping his lips as he gazed into the fruit’s ruined interior.

[…]

“I know that the memories of your parents are precious to you,” he murmured, his grasp soft, “and I don’t mean to deny you them. I only ask you to question what happened—to ask yourself what good it did you to be kept inside all these years, separated from your sister. And all because of what? You hurt her once, when you didn’t know any better,” he said, “and they made you pay for it, for every moment after. But you shouldn’t have to anymore.”

While he is making the analogy in order to imply that Elsa’s parents, though well-intentioned, still raised her within an immoral and abusive environment, the apple also serves to illustrate the darker side of Hans’s own behavior and speech. On the surface, he is trying to help Elsa remove the “rose-colored lenses” through which she still views her parents, and to see her powers as a gift and not a curse; but as he grabs her hand and pressures her to listen to him (“The juice from the putrid core of the apple oozed out from his fingers onto the back of her hand, and she grimaced, the sensation causing her skin to go cold”), the graphic description of the decay, corruption, and stench of the apple implies that he, too, may be acting from less than noble motives.

Symbolism: gloves

Perhaps the most obvious symbolism in any Frozen fanfic dealing extensively with Elsa’s and Hans’s emotional trauma relates to their gloves. What does it mean when the characters are wearing them, or when they’re not wearing them?

These questions have been analyzed pretty thoroughly in various Tumblr posts over the years, and I don’t want to belabor the point by adding on to them. In no uncertain terms, the wearing of the gloves relates to deception, manipulation, control, and fear, while not wearing them relates to the release of inhibitions, and being one’s true self. The former is evident in Elsa’s coronation sequence in the first film (as well as in this story), as well as during the original Hans villain reveal scene. The latter is evident in the most famous sequence and song from the film, “Let It Go.”

In this story, however, the roles are somewhat reversed: where in the original film Hans wore his gloves up until he was revealed to be the “big baddie,” he doesn’t wear them at all in this fic except for in flashbacks (Chapter 1 and Chapter 9, respectively), and in the Epilogue. Meanwhile, Elsa is gloved for almost the entirety of the story, with only short instances of being ungloved (in Chapters 1, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 10). Until the Epilogue, almost all of these instances occur due to her interactions with Hans; whether from pressure or curiosity or affection, she reveals her hands to him and him only, deepening their connection and her confidence in him with each new physical encounter.

Unlike the film, moreover, this story does not tie honesty to being ungloved: Hans goes the majority of the fic without them, and is lying to Elsa about his powers up until Chapter 9. Instead, he uses the seemingly improper visage of his bare hands to his advantage in gaining Elsa’s trust, showing her that he trusts her by touching her skin directly—and that she can (and should) trust him.

When Hans’s deception is revealed in Chapter 9, rather than the gloves being an obvious marker of his villainy that the reader can point to, their absence reinforces his power over Elsa. It is a literal “sleight of hand” he performs by demonstrating the extent to which he has gained control over his own powers in comparison to her, as she still struggles to maintain the veneer of “normalcy” in her day to day life. He convinces Elsa, and therefore many readers who see themselves in her character, that he was dishonest for “good” reasons; his hands, bare as before, do not hide anything from her (and us, by extension).

This is turned on its head in the Epilogue, wherein we learn, thanks to Elsa’s observation, that he is wearing his gloves again:

“You’re wearing gloves,” she observes, ignoring his question.

He stifles a swallow. “It’s the least I could do, on such an auspicious day,” he replies, struggling to keep his smile in place. “It would look odd to have bare hands for our wedding, after all.”

Suspicion flashes across her gaze at the answer, but she says nothing, looking back at the dance floor. She watches her sister with something between longing and regret, though the emotions are so fleeting that the king cannot be sure if he saw them at all.

The implication is that by putting his gloves back on, Hans has committed himself – and Elsa, who shares similar abilities – to a future of continued deception and manipulation, never revealing the truth about himself and his powers to the public. In Hans’s weak reply and Elsa’s sharp and suspicious look at him (not to mention her own, bare hands) afterwards, we can surmise that she has already realized this. In her quoting back to him the lines he once told her (““I do. But love… isn’t always good”) and rejecting his overtures of affection, we can see that she will not accept such a fate for herself.

The notion that she rejects his beliefs and worldview might have profound, if unseen, consequences for the story. Will she follow the path of her character in canon, freezing over Arendelle and retreating to her palace of ice and snow? Will she reveal her powers - and his - to the public? Will she tell Anna what really happened to them as children? The possibilities are endless, but the core message of the story is the same: the truth will always come out.

Concluding thoughts

It’s undeniable that I tend to write tragic or “angsty” stories compared to the rest of the fandom (and in particular the Hans/Elsa fandom), though I’d like to think my stories provide a space for those who are interested in exploring that darker side of the story. The purpose of the ending is not to upend what came before for the sake of “staying the course” in this genre, or playing to my strengths as a writer within it. Rather, it is to make the reader think more carefully about the nature of Hans and Elsa’s interactions, the nature of their relationship, and the nature of abuse itself, including all the insidious and subtle forms it might take. 

This is not to say that the ending implies anything one way or the other, in terms of their feelings for one another. One reader might see Hans as a true “knight in shining armor” saving Elsa from the gaslighting of her past, while another might see him as gaslighting Elsa. Another might still see how they lie to each other about their beliefs and pasts, and their feelings around both, and think the relationship is doomed to fail as a result. And that is the true purpose of this story: it is meant to leave us wondering how love can survive without truth, and if the characters would ever be able to overcome their past trauma individually, much less together.

#QueenoftheAshesFrozen #frozen #frozen fanfiction #helsa #frozen symbolism #this was not intended to be so long #I just had a ton of thoughts to share #hope this is helpful for all readers #and maybe fic writers too!

[indiavolowetrust]

Carajillo

SUMMARY: Some things are truly set in stone. After the tension arises in the Devildom and Celestial Realm, the human is called back to attend a summit.

TW: Mention of Rape

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

BARBATOS: september 21st, 5:21 a.m.

It is a rather simple process. The coffee beans only take thirty-two seconds to grind, the water requires five to ten minutes to boil, and the coffee requires four minutes and eleven seconds to steep. It is seven seconds to fetch a glass, twelve seconds to place the cubes of ice from the ice box into the glass, and one minute to pour the liqueur into the glass. Once the coffee has finished steeping in the french press, it takes twenty-two seconds to finish the process of pouring the coffee into the glass.

I know this. I know each and every ingredient to make carajillo, as she had called it. I have memorized every possible method of brewing and melding the properties of the cocktail together, and I have recorded every possible outcome from each process. I know the exact measurements of each ingredient, the most viable temperature for the cocktail, and the notes present in the drink.

I know these things, and yet I still manage to make too much each time.

It is a side effect of her death, I would imagine. Six hundred and sixteen days have passed since the time of her expiration. Fourteen thousand and seven hundred eighty-four hours. Eight hundred eighty-seven thousand forty minutes. It is also known as a total of fifty-three million, two hundred twenty-two thousand, and four hundred seconds -- most of which I have used to silently mourn. Half of which I have used to berate myself, the incessant questions plaguing me in all hours of the night.

How long had she known of her fate? How long had she suffered? I ask myself. Had I tried one more time -- effectively placing us in the eighty-seventh cycle of the events -- would she have lived?

Worse, I wonder if she detests me for committing such acts on her. With her.

The outcomes had carried the same characteristics throughout the course of the cycles, albeit with small variations. A strangling by the stairs, the marks around her neck black and blue from the force of the assault. A stabbing outside of her own room, her hands still pressed to the wound as she had tried to get help. A deadly fall from the top of the stairs, her body crumpled in a broken pile at the bottom. The forced ingestion of poison, the evidence of a struggle seen in the aftermath. Then I had found her body stuffed into a chest in a storage closet, a trail of blood leading to the gruesome scene, and something inside me had snapped.

But there is no benefit to contemplating the consequences of my actions now. All the anguish and sorrow in the world would not bring her back. The regret would leave my heart heavy for the next millenia, and then I would have to forget. I would force myself to forget, regardless of circumstances. I had been lucky to avoid a revelation on Lord Diavolo’s part, to avoid the punishment that would surely come with using my abilities in such a manner. A millennia would be enough to mourn the loss.

I take the glass with me to a seating area by the window. While the diminutive nature of the kitchen forces a rather unconventional use of the space, I find the set up to be rather charming. Cozy, as one would call it. The seating area has been nearly built into the window, allowing its user to overlook a portion of the labyrinthine garden, and the table has been graciously donated to the space as an afterthought. I begin to raise the glass to my lips.

“Isn’t it a little early to be drinking something like that?” asks a voice.

Her voice.

But it can’t be her, I realize with a start. She’s --

Maria slips into the space across from me, playfully drumming her fingers against the table. “It’s a shame you didn’t wait for me,” she teases, a smile pulling at her lips. Her eyes flicker briefly to the cocktail in front of me. “I would have loved to have tried it together for the first time.”

What are you doing here? I want to ask, staring unabashedly at what must be a figment of my own imagination. Why are you here? How did you get here? Is this some cruel part of my mind playing tricks on me?

“You’re dead,” I manage.

“I am.”

I lower the glass back onto the table, not quite trusting myself not to drop it. “Are you --”

“Real?” she finishes for me. Maria reaches over and traces her small fingers against the back of my hands, pressing lightly, and the contact is as solid as it had been when she was alive. Albeit much colder. “Of course I am. Does that answer your question?”

“Not quite,” I respond, struggling to control the tone of my voice. “I would like -- no, I need more answers.”

Maria is quiet for a moment, regarding me -- and then she sighs, sinking into herself. “I was lost for a long time. A really, really long time. I don’t know if it was because I died down here or because I wasn’t allowed up there for -- for doing that, but I couldn’t remember who I was. I didn’t know where I was.” She presses a hand to her face, as if she were trying to subconsciously suppress a painful memory. “But then someone called me by my name, and I remembered. Ended up here. I think it was you, now that I think about it.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Well, time doesn’t really work that way when you’re dead,” she says, reading my meaning. Her finger idles with the edge of the glass. “It’s -- it’s harder to think when you’re dead. To keep time stick-straight and linear.”

Silence settles between us. The light of the false moon almost filters through her form, the composition shifting between that of a translucent nature and one that appears more solid. Dark, unruly curls frame the soft angles of her face, making her appear almost pitiful, and her frail shoulders are visible at times through the phantom blouse. Revealing the olive tone of her skin beneath. My eyes begin to trail her form, and I study the shape, looking for any indication that this apparition before me is not the human I had foolishly come to cherish. That this is only part of some horrible, conjured image. I find no such sign. Her dark gaze meets mine briefly, holding it for a moment -- but she looks away quickly, biting her lip.

Despite everything that I have seen of her, I feel inclined to be ashamed.

“Where will you go?” I say, attempting to distract both her and myself from the blunder. “It isn’t uncommon for spirits to wander to such a deep level of the Devildom, but you can’t stay here.”

She blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“They’ll eat you alive here. Devour you. Tear you apart. In limbo, where you were before, nothing lives or dies -- but such rules do not apply here.” I level my gaze with hers, trying to suppress the emotion in my voice. “If you perish a second time, there will be nothing of you left.”

“And if I don’t want to leave?” she ventures.

I pause, wordless. Unsure of how to answer. She should hate me. She should detest me with every fiber of her being, given the things that I have done to her. I had taken her innocence in every way possible. I had forced her through the ordeal again and again, unable to fathom the consequences such traumatic experiences could have on her psyche. I had used her for my own selfish means, simply believing that keeping her alive would make the both of us happy. I could not accept the reality of her death, rejecting the very idea -- and in turn I had brought unimaginable suffering onto one I had come to cherish. One I had truly, hopelessly come to love, twisting the concept just as a demon would.

“I’m sorry.” I cannot bring myself to look at her, the guilt swallowing my conscience. “I --”

“The Celestial Realm is on the brink of war,” she says, her voice suddenly on the other side of the room. I lift my head to see that she is making carajillo with the leftover coffee and the liqueur I have left on the counter. Her rough measurements are evident in the color and aroma of the cocktail. “While I may have avoided becoming a martyr, it appears that a coup d’etat has already been staged. If little action is taken, Lord Diavolo will have a much more significant disaster on his hands. That’s why I came here.”

To be corrupted, I realize, gazing upon her ethereal form. She came to me to be corrupted into a demon.

Her eyes are sharp. Determined. “Will you?”

Even death has not changed her. She is still that bullheaded, stubborn mule of a human. Difficult, as always. Hopelessly infuriating. Willing to use the sheer force of her will to deny death its cold clutches. I find myself almost smiling at the fact, a mixture of both trapped grief and inexorable joy coming to the surface. The silent forgiveness is nothing short of jarring, the unspoken words speaking at a greater volume. Maria smiles back, lifting her glass in a strange sort of truce. I move to stand by her side, meeting the edge of her glass with mine, and take the first sip of the drink together with her.

It will take a millennia to truly beg for her forgiveness. A millennia to atone for the acts I had committed, the suffering I had inflicted upon her. And then it will take a millennia more to earn all that I had needlessly thrown to the fire. War or not, conflict or ceasefire, I find that I am completely willing to do so. I would prostrate myself before her for the end of time, if she so desired.

I find that the taste is truly all that she had said. Deeper than the blackest night. Warmer than a summer’s day. Sweeter than the parting kiss of a lover. Unforgettable in every manner possible.

END

#obey me #obey me barbatos #obey me oc #obey me shall we date #obey me fanfic #fanfic #writing #obey me oc x barbatos #tw rape #tw rape mention

[morrigan-writings]

The God Father

Warning(s): none

A/N: Alright so this is a piece I wrote for an assignment a year ago, and I decided to go ahead and post it here because I was so happy with how it turned out (and I got an A!), and part of me wants to write some little blurbs that continue the concept.

Basically this is a fictional piece based on ACTUAL Norse mythology and NOT the Marvel versions. I got the idea for this off the writing prompt tumblr that was along the lines of "you write down Loki as your childs godparent as a joke, but he actually takes it seriously". I loved it so I used it. Enjoy!

PS -- I realized later that it maybe wasn't 100% clear, but Astrid was adopted, hence why she's "old enough" to play tea party, maybe 6-7. Only a handful of days passes over the duration of this piece.

It was all a joke, really. A complete farce, a “good laugh.” At least, that’s what it was meant to be. The Ohlsons had just welcomed their daughter, Astrid, into their lives, and they had crossed all the T’s, dotted all the I’s, but one last question remained: who to appoint as the girl’s  godparent? Erika and Ingrid Ohlson immediately turned to their respective families of course, but almost every option was eventually decided against. Both grandparents were already far up in years; Erika’s parents already living with an in-home nurse, and Ingrid’s own father refusing to ever speak to her. Erika was an only child, so Ingrid’s brother was next to be scrutinized. However, despite being close in age, he still acted a child in a grown man’s body, making poor investments, partying all weekend with numerous friends, moving from girlfriend to girlfriend. Absolutely not someone able to take care of a child (much less himself), and immediately scratched off the list. 

Friends were next, but...... there weren’t many options. The two new mothers weren’t incredibly social people to begin with, and as such only had a select few friends. A few were married with several children already, and Ingrid insisted they not add the potentiality of another child to the mix. Their other friends ranged from being either unequipped to raise a child, too busy with their own specific line of work, or just not close enough to be considered for godparent. Options had now all but disappeared, and the two women had resigned to perhaps just skipping over this particular notion.

About a week later, during an evening of movies and a couple drinks after putting the young Astrid to bed, Erika began giggling to herself, the sound growing to full-on laughter which she hastily struggled to stifle in the small apartment so as not to wake the child. Ingrid, simultaneously confused and curious, glanced over at her wife, a single brow raised.

“What in the god’s names has got you so hysterical?”

Pulling in a gulp of air, Erika turned to Ingrid, tears in her eyes. “Listen, okay, what- what if...... hear me out here- what if we......we......” she could still barely speak from her incessant giggling.

“Dear, please, what is it?” Ingrid sighed, her curiosity starting to eat at her.

“Okay...... okay so......” the woman finally composing herself to a degree. “What if, for just absolute shits and giggles....... what if we named a Norse god as godparent? Like a literal GODparent? Just, what if. For the hell of it.”

Ingrid, the resident librarian of the house, blinked. “You want us....... to name an ancient, all-powerful, Norse god of old..... as our daughter’s godparent?”

“Ingrid, hun, look: we have literally no options at this point. Maybe eventually we’ll have a friend become a better candidate later in the years, and if so, we’ll write them down as godparent instead. But for now..... come on, it’d be funny and it’d be an absolute hoot to see the look on people’s faces when we bring this up,” Erika then smiled more deviously, “plus I know you can’t pass up a good pun.”

Giving a smile of her own, Ingrid sighed. “Alright fine, lets do it. Which god did you have in mind?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Deep in a labyrinthine cave, hidden away from the known world, sat two ancient beings whose existence had all but been forgotten and reduced to mere myth. A restrained fire giant, face scarred, auburn hair now matted and lank, with a monstrously large serpent sat poised above his head. His wife, Sigyn, a goddess in her own right, yet often left out in stories even in the days of old, sat ever faithfully by his side, her own face gaunt, exhaustion and fortitude lining every inch of it. In her own scarred hands she held a bowl aloft as the only barrier between his face and the beast above as venom drip, drip, dripped into the small basin, the sound now akin to what the mortals refer to as a clock, the deity’s only semblance of time. 

The god had long since lost his unhinged anger for this life sentence, had since devolved into simply being..... exhausted with the ordeal. Relieved that his wife remained by his side, but also guilty that she stayed in such a horrid place with such a tiring task despite having no orders herself to be here. He had grown weary, maybe a touch apprehensive, with the smallest hint of boredom even. They had been stuck down here for centuries now. Or at least physically. The god found he maintained his ability to project an astral form of himself wherever he wished, and this is what he utilized to learn of the world through the long years. He only wished he could share this illusion of escape with his spouse.

As the centuries passed, he watched as humanity started to turn from the old ways, began to write off the gods as only myths and legend, not beings worth worshiping any longer for the most part. He watched as the rest of the gods slowly accepted this and drew back into their homes amongst Asgard and Valhalla and even Hel, only sitting back up to take notice if something truly important occurred on Midgard, but otherwise ignoring it, as they themselves were ignored. And why shouldn’t they? There was virtually no point otherwise anymore. But today........ today somehow felt different. The imprisoned god cracked open an eye as something seemed to shift in his awareness. Not...... worship, not really. But..... something new. Someone, somewhere, it seemed, was inscribing him as a guardian. To their child. And for supposedly no particular reason that he could even fathom. This was definitely new. The god began chuckling quietly before he could stop himself, the whole concept incredibly humorous. 

However, before he could share this new discovery, that dreaded time came again when that hatefully small bowl filled to the brim, and Sigyn sucked in a sharp breath as she suddenly flew into motion like clockwork. She rushed to pull the bowl away and dump the acidic liquid before too much harm was caused before she could return to her original post, but it was never fast enough, it was impossible to be. The second the obstruction disappeared, the snake’s venom began dripping onto the imprisoned god’s face, his eyes and cheekbones burning with each drop as if on fire, bellows of pain being loosed from his lungs all the while. His wife returned the bowl to its original position, frantic and remorseful apologies spilling from her lips as always, him waving them off with a shake of his head and a forced smile. Once resettling, Sigyn peered down at her husband with curiosity. 

“What was it that made you laugh so genuinely after so long?”

He smiled once again, remembering. “The gods may no longer be revered as they once were, but.... a fascinating development has occurred in the mortal realm: I have apparently been named as guardian to a young child, for whatever reason.”

The goddess raised her brow in surprise. “Guardian? I mean no offense, my love, but surely it must be in jest? And as you stated, we both know worship is no longer practiced on Midgard, so why this sudden change?”

“No, I agree, I find the whole matter quite amusing. However. Due to the absurdity and the rarity, on the chance that this is meant sincerely in any way, I feel inclined to follow it through.  I am named guardian, I am now bound to comply, I believe.”

A warm smile, the first he’d seen in decades, grew upon his wife’s face, as even her dulled eyes began to slowly light up again at the idea he presented. “Then by all means, you should go. All I ask is for you to bring me back stories of this child when you return.”

He returned the smile, the same genuine warmth mirrored back to her. Letting out a long exhale, the god settled back onto his rock best he could, closed his eyes, and cast out his consciousness to the mortal world, empowered by the promise of new mischief to come. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been only a couple days since Ingrid and Erika had filled out the paperwork to appoint their god of choice as the godparent to Astrid. As was anticipated, they were given a strange look from the clerk assisting them when he read the name. “A family friend,” Erika waved him off with a smile. The two new mothers had a good laugh on a the walk home that day, imagining all the potential hilarious scenarios in which to share this information.

Ingrid was playing tea party with Astrid as Erika was in the middle of cooking dinner when their doorbell rang. Intrigued as to who could possibly be visiting them at this time of night, Erika walked over and cracked the front door open, only just wide enough to see the person waiting outside. 

There in the hallway stood a man, nearly six and a half feet tall, with a lean build, and immaculately well groomed and dressed. A tailored suit was his attire of choice, a dark forest green, with gold buttons stamped with intricate designs, and cuff links that resembled a wolf’s head. His long, fiery red hair seemed to gleam faintly in the light as if metallic, the top half of it tied back out of his face, a couple small braids interspersed throughout. The man’s features were both fascinating and eerie, mostly made of sharp angles with smiling thin lips and darkened hazel eyes that almost seemed to flare gold (but it was probably just a trick of the lights). However, the only oddity about this figure was the scarring around said eyes, so faint you could only see it when the light hit his face just right, but still curious to see. 

While the strange man gave a tentative smile and made no move toward the open door, keeping his hands in his coat pockets, Erika had become confused into silence, trying to rapidly figure out just how to ask who the hell this man was in the politest way possible. Ingrid, also interested in who their late night visitor was, quietly came up behind her wife and peered past her shoulder to the figure outside. Ingrid, apparently, was quicker on the draw.

“Excuse me, but who are you? We weren’t expecting anyone this late, we’re in the middle of dinner.”

The stranger smiled knowingly, bowing his head slightly. He raised one hand up toward his face, snapping his fingers and causing a small flame to ignite above his index finger, pulling a gasp from one of the women.

“I do apologize for the late hour, unfortunately the concept of time has slowly left me over the years. But I am Loki of the Aesir, and I do believe I am young Astrid’s godfather.”

#loki #norse mythology #original story #norse gods #sigyn

[snowbellewells]

A Year in the Court of Misthaven: Part IV

Hello, lovely readers!  I hope there are still a few of you out there who remember this little Lieutenant Duckling story universe. I don’t really have a good excuse for why it has been so long between this installment and the last one, but I do love this version of Killian and Emma and it has never been far from my thoughts. As always, this is for @kmomof4 who first requested more in this world beyond the original CS Secret Santa gift one shot.  You can find Parts I, II, and III on either ff.net or AO3 under “A Year in the Court of Misthaven”, if you need a refresher on where we left off or haven’t seen this storyverse before now.

Oh, and Killian was being understandably angst-ridden this time around. By the time I got him put to rights, this installment didn’t cover as much ground as I had hoped, so there will probably another part moe to this than I previously envisioned. (What’s new where this one’s concerned, right?)

I so wish I had artist skills to give you a picture for this little story, or at least some knowledge of how to do manips or picsets. Sadly, no such luck, but I hope you can imagine it with me, and I’d love (as always) to hear what you think!

A Year in the Court of Misthaven

Part Four: Long As We Both Shall Live

By: @snowbellewells

Eventually, Lieutenant Killian Jones of her majesty’s Royal Navy could no longer delay disembarking from the Jewel; his fellow sailors - those uninjured and able to move under their own power at least - had already done so, and he had busied himself securing every spare bit of the rigging, checking and re-checking every last inch of their ship, until there was nothing left to do, real or imagined. He turned then to find his Princess still waiting on the docks - practically vibrating with excitement and clearly exerting every ounce of control she possesses over her vivacious nature not to call out, distract or embarrass him, or leap aboard the ship herself and take the matter of their reunion into her own hands.

In truth, there was nothing Killian desired more than to hold Emma in his arms again. Every fiber of his being ached to run to her, sweep her up, and hold on as though they would never more be parted. It went against every fiber of his very soul to hold back, to hesitate… to make her wait. And yet…

He knew she had seen the stump where his left hand had been, the shocked and concerned widening of her bright jade eyes could not be masked, even if her reaction had been much subtler than he expected and feared. She’d still only glimpsed the ruin of his violently truncated limb from a distance, covered in bandages. It was a sight he’d had nearly a month to accustom himself to, and it still sometimes shocked and appalled him with all the power of a vivid nightmare from which he could not wake.

They were to be married. He could not hope to conceal the full extent of his wound from her - stubborn, empathetic creature that she is - and when it was fully bared before her, how could she help but be repulsed? The carnage he had glimpsed through nausea-gritted teeth and gasping breaths as the ship’s surgeon worked desperately, first to staunch the massive bleeding and save his life, then to change the bandages regularly and fight off infection and fever, had nearly turned Killian’s own stomach on more than one occasion.

Though she would never say so, never admit it, how could Emma choose to remain near so grotesque a mutilation of the human form? She is beauty personified, his princess; in his own mind’s eye, she is sheer perfection come to life. He is no longer worthy, and only half-able, to merely hold her hand. Though he knew she would balk, and deny it, and fight him like the tigress that she is in the name of those she cares for most, Killian knew he could not hold Emma to their betrothal now; he would not trap her in a union that has been abruptly doomed to be sexless and ruined; all that bright, passionate hope snuffed out before ever seeing fruition, and he clenched his eyes tightly, along with his remaining hand, to fight back a moment of overwhelming rage and mourning. She should not still choose him - deep down, surely she would not still want to.

His delay in going to his beloved was merely one last valiant effort to forestall his own inevitable heartbreak.

In the end, as he might have known, (Killian cannot hold back the fond half-smile at her impetuous nature) Emma could seemingly wait no longer, coming to stand at the very edge of the dock, just where the gangplank ended, after all the other crewmen had disembarked. She looked up at him hopefully, longingly asking with a soft hesitance and biting of her lip. “Killian?... What is it? Why don’t you come to me?”

He swallowed hard, throat working drily, wanting nothing more than to hold her, kiss her, and bury his face in the soft, flawless and sweet-smelling skin at the crook between her neck and shoulder, seeking the comfort only she could offer. Not only had he suffered this physical amputation, but the fear, the worry and anger… and Liam…  He wants to ask how she could even wonder, and how she  still looked at him as though she were thirsting for the very sight… as if nothing had changed. For one of the first times ever in their young lives, he could not fathom what she was thinking, or what the look on his princess’ face might mean. If he didn’t believe it impossible, Killian might almost think she could still love him, could look at him without repulsion and lost hope, but he had spent the whole slow, limping voyage back to Misthaven preparing himself for what he saw as her unavoidable goodbye, so that he could not see the truth standing before him.

His mouth opened and closed  soundlessly, his throat working but bringing no words forth to answer her question. And then he blinked and Emma was standing right in front of him, a scant breath away. She sensed her beloved holding back from her, tormented somehow by more than his physical pain. In truth, until he had turned to face her from the ship’s deck, she had not even noticed the missing appendage, so grateful was she for the beautiful sight of his face - her love, there alive and returned to her - that she could take in nothing else. Nothing else mattered.

Even close enough to take in the red-stained bandage at the end of his shortened arm and the way Killian almost unconsciously moved to put his arm behind his back, then sucked in a pained hiss of breath at the sudden movement and abandoned the action, Emma was not the slightest bit deterred. She ached for the pain he must have endured, for the difficulty he will have to adjust to (in daily functions), and for the agony that she still read in his eyes. However, none of that changed how much she needed to touch him, to hold him tight if it would not hurt him further, and to hear him speak her name in that voice she had been missing all the months he was away.

Unable to resist any longer, she reached forward tenderly, meaning to trace her fingertips over the much-beloved faded scar across his right cheekbone, the one that he has borne since they were six and it was caught just so by the snap of a thorned branch she didn’t hold onto as they’d crept through a bramble patch to spy on the royal physician entering the weird shed he used for storage on the palace grounds. Emma had wailed and sobbed much more than Killian, as it bled profusely and Queen Snow struggled to patch him up. Her mother had finally gotten her calmed down, promising her little girl that her best friend would be good as new. Of course, Killian had been fine, but the scar appeared a permanent mark that Emma fondly stroked sometimes in their private moments, affectionately wondering that she hadn’t known even then that he loved her and she him. No one else would have let her go without any teasing or blame or remonstrances to be more careful. He had barely flinched or cried during the whole ordeal - as if he’d known how awful she already felt and refused to make her feel any worse.

However, Killian pulled back ever so slightly as her hand neared his skin after so long apart. Emma froze, alarmed, fingers pausing in mid air, and her lieutenant stillsed once more as well, as if bracing himself against any further reaction. Yet, if she hadn’t been certain before, she was in that moment. Something was wrong with him - he had never tried to avoid her touch - and she needed to make it right.

“Killian, what? What’s wrong?” she whispered, her voice trembling, wishing he would see that she was there and wanted to help.

Still, though she knew something was not right, Emma was taken aback by the tone of his voice when Killian replied. The torn, almost angry rasp of his words made her start, almost jerking back at their troubling fervor.

“How can you even ask that?” he hissed, eyes darting around as if afraid others might be watching or might overhear. “Do not play with me, Emma. I’m maimed, ruined - no longer your sailor, little more than a grotesque. You cannot pretend you are blind. We both know you see this - ” he broke off, chest heaving, gasping wildly for breath, waving the stump of his arm before her, only to snatch it away again as he clipped out, “We both know it is disgusting - there is no other way to put it.”

He turned abruptly, even though he swayed slightly as he did so, reminding Emma painfully that her lieutenant was quite probably still weakened from blood loss and fever and not at all well. He was trying to put space between them, despite his pain, and it pierced her chest as sharply as if she had been stabbed with a physical dagger. Before he could move too far, she finally reached out and closed her hand on his uninjured arm to pull him back; her voice a bare, soft plea. “Hey, Killian, hey… stop...just wait… please.”

When he paused and looked back at her slowly, she could see the torment and sorrow in his eyes that he meant to hide from her.  It bled from the electric blue of his gaze in a fluid torrent that stopped her breath, clogging her throat in a flood of emotion she could barely navigate and stay afloat. “What?” he asked, his voice raw and his arm trembling within her grasp. “What can you possibly still want with me, Emma?”

As much as she tried to hold his gaze steadily, to remain strong when he surely needed to see her resolve, Emma was nearly overcome by the sorrowful resignation and loss in his eyes. Tears welled up unbidden, and she struggled to speak aloud before he could pull away, knowing he intended to free her from her promise and obligation to him, inciting panic when nothing could be further from her heart’s desire.

Finally, in a thin, desperate rasp, but spoken all the same, she managed to gain his full attention as she pled, “Don’t you know, Killian? It’s you. Just you. You are all I have ever needed or wanted...and that has not changed.”

Those brilliant blue orbs widened almost comically. If the moment were not so serious, Emma would have been tempted to amusement at his expression - made even lighter by the dark of his thick, black lashes framing them and the heavy brows arched above them in surprise. Sensing that she finally had his full attention; that he was truly hearing what she had to say, and not just the rejection he seemed to have feared, Emma eased closer to him, her entire body thrumming more potently with every inch nearer she drew to his strength and warmth.

Soon, though both of them seemed nearly holding their breath, as though each were afraid the other might flee or disappear if they blinked or moved too suddenly, Emma was close enough to wrap her arms around his lean torso, even more spare and trim than she remembered, and press her face into his chest, holding on - now that she had him in her grasp - as if she never meant to let go. The pungent scent of perspiration and the dirt and stains on his clothing do nothing to deter her; instead, she was merely grateful to once more smell beneath the other odors that musk which is uniquely Killian, with hints of wooden ship planks, salt ocean spray, the spice of a nip of rum and faraway places, and something warm and attractive and entirely his own.  Emma simply could not breathe it in deeply enough, when she had begun to fear she would catch his scent again.

As if finally relenting and allowing the tension that had held him so rigidly apart from her to bleed from his being, Killian leaned into the embrace, bringing his good arm up to encircle her waist and burying his nose in her hair, as if drawing her in as well, just as she had been doing with him. In the next few moments however, he slumped markedly in her embrace, resting a measure of his weight on her as his muscles relaxed, and alarming her considerably. She did not yet know the extent of what he had suffered, his prognosis for recovery, or a number of other items of dear importance to her, but she meant for the family’s own private physician, believed the best in all of Misthaven, to see her fiancé straightaway.

Giving herself just a few more precious moments to run her hand up his back, over his shoulders, and into his thick, disheveled hair, so glad to feel the strands against her fingers once more, to which Killian merely hummed lowly in a sort of conflicted contentment, Emma then spoke to her sailor determinedly - with love, but also allowing no argument, “Come with me, Killian. We need to get you up to the castle. You need rest, and to have Dr. Whale look at you. Everything else can be figured out in time.”

It seemed Killian had almost slipped into some sort of shocked half-consciousness, which worried Emma nearly as much as the distance, heartbreak, and anger had done, but he followed her dutifully to the carriage which had brought her down to the harbor and climbed in after her. As they began to move, and Emma clutched his hand while Killian stared off somewhere in the middle distance, she tried to tell herself that it would be enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***************~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

As a week passed slowly by, Emma and her family, as well as Dr. Whale and a select few of his assistants, slowly pieced together the facts of the attack Killian’s ship and crew had just barely survived and returned from. Not only had Killian’s hand been taken by a cruel blow, but he had very nearly lost his beloved brother and captain as well. Much as she loved Killian, she had been raised with Liam too, and though he could be infuriatingly bossy when he tried to exert the some three years’ age he had over the two of them and tried to make them act with proper court propriety at all times, Emma was genuinely troubled to see him hovering in such dire condition as well. The first full smile, untempered by anger, shame, or pain, that she had seen light Killian’s face since his return to her, was on the morning their Viktor Whale proclaimed the diagnosis that Liam’s stomach wound would heal in time, gouged violently as it had been by debris as he stood near the place the rival ship’s cannonball had struck the Jewel’s side, valiantly orchestrating their defense.

When Killian’s blue eyes turned to meet her green, blinking back relieved tears at the knowledge - finally - that his brother would mend, Emma found some trace of the light once more within the indigo that had become more and more darkly haunted as each day passed. Reaching out for his hand to squeeze it in encouragement, she halted sharply when he flinched, only then realizing that his injured, blunted arm was nearest her. Stomach sinking as if weighted down with lead, she swallowed hard two, then three, times to choke back the frustrated scream she wished to loose at him for still thinking she could look at him so differently that his injury would turn her away. Trying to salvage some fragment of her pride, and hoping if only a tiny bit, that perhaps it was self-protective and the stump still pained him to touch. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, clasping her hands around her torso instead, both trying to keep from reaching for him again, and to hold herself together from the shattering inside. “I didn’t mean to hurt you…”

But she trailed off at the sharp way he shook his head back and forth, bowing as he huffed out a breath and then speared her with a look as he met her eyes once more. “Stop it, please. Don’t bother pretending. You know that wasn’t why I pulled away.”

Emma wanted to be strong, did not wish to crumble and make things worse by crying, but his anguished words, and his doubt in the strength of her love they conveyed, was like a battering ram to the last vestiges holding them at bay. She had tried to comfort him, to support him, be a shoulder for him to cry on, to draw him out, distract him from his loss, anything to show him he was no less in her eyes. Yet he retreated further into himself at every turn. Her lower lip began to tremble, no matter how much she tried to press them together and hold in the wrenching sob that was building inside. “What do you want from me, Killian? I love you. I’ve been dreaming of being your wife, praying you would return home safe, thinking of nothing else, and yet you act as though we don’t stand a chance, that I couldn’t want you anymore.” Hot tears slipped down her cheeks beyond her control, and she couldn’t swipe them back fast enough. Maybe he deserved to see what he was doing to her, how much he did still matter. “You’re the one who is putting distance between us, not me. I know you’re in pain, but I’m trying to fight for you.  I want to help. Why won’t you let me?”

Killian stared at her, aghast, mouth working soundlessly as her shoulders shook with more silent tears. “Emma…” he tried much more softly, his whisper hoarse and aching. “Forgive me, my Love.  I didn’t - I couldn’t - see…”

Gazing back up at him balefully, Emma struggled to regain at least most of her composure. Blinking back the last vestiges of her tears, she edged gingerly closer to him again, placing a tentative hand on his upper arm before holding his stare with one of her own. “It isn’t too late. I don’t expect you to be recovered overnight. Just don’t push me away… let me in.”  Standing on tiptoe as she used the hand on his arm to steady her balance, she stretched to place the barest brush of a kiss on his stubbled jaw. Emma tried to be encouraged when he only flinched minutely.

They stood wordless for a moment, almost frozen as close as they had been since his return, until finally she took a step back and spoke once more in a calmer tone. “I’m going to leave you for the moment, Killian. They think Liam’s waking up and you can see him at last, and I don’t want to infringe on that moment. But i-if you want to see me later… I’ll be at our lookout point on the bluff. A-and if you don’t….well, then I’ll know...y-you don’t wish to marry me anymore.”

Her head bowed, unable to look into his beautiful ocean eyes that had bewitched her long ago and retain her fragile composure. Killian’s breath seemed to block  his throat at her words, and he finally reached for her, hoping to explain that it had nothing to do with what he wanted or his love for her - it was that he loved her so much he could not bear to disappoint her with what was left of the man he had been.

However, before he could do so, Emma - his princess - had turned silent and swift on her heel and slipped from the room. Her exit left him torn, unsure how to move forward, only knowing that he had tried so resolutely not to hurt her as he had been hurt, and instead he had injured her all the same.

~~~000~~~~~000~~~~~000~~~

Once Lieutenant Killian Jones had been admitted to his older brother’s sick room, surprising the castle librarian Belle, who looked up wide-eyed and mouth a startled ‘o’ from where she had been clearly reading some seafaring yarn to his brother whether he was awake to fully appreciate it or no, Killian immediately felt somewhat steadier. Merely being in his sibling’s presence and seeing for himself that Liam’s chest still rose and fell, grounded his world in some small measure that he hadn’t even known was missing.

The petite brunette gracefully stood from her place, nodding to Killian in a shy greeting, even as her cheeks flushed a brilliant shade of pink at being discovered. Killian had to bite back the smile which threatened to take over his face at the sight; Liam had yet one more reason to pull through that he hadn’t even known about, he realized. He nodded to her in response, hoping that Ms. French did not feel she must leave. They had always been friendly, speaking of books, travel and adventure whenever they encountered each other amidst the collection she maintained.

“It’s good to see you, Lieutenant Jones,” she murmured with a gentle smile up at him through her lashes. “I’m so glad you and Liam have both made it back to us.”

Killian returned her friendly smile, but fidgeted awkwardly, not sure how to respond. He wanted to reply that he was glad to have returned home, but the words strangled him, weighing on his tongue. Was his glad he had survived? Had so much changed that he didn’t still wish to be there?

And suddenly, it was that simple and that clear. He was giving up something he still desired with every fiber of his being. Without even putting up a fight. Simply letting it slip from his hands because he had assumed Emma could no longer want him instead of allowing his princess her rightful say in the matter…. And in the process, making them both miserable with his stubbornness and self-pity. If the situation were reversed, and it were Emma who had been hurt and maimed, he would find her no less beautiful and would still love her just as much. Was it so impossible to fathom his beloved being capable of the same devotion to him?

Blinking dumbly, as if finally awakening from a long, numbing sleep and regaining his senses, Killian sank into the chair at Liam’s other side, barely managing to wave dazedly as Belle made her exit. It was clear that Liam had been oblivious to their friend’s pleasantly lulling reading voice, and that he would have to wait a while yet to finally speak to his older sibling again, but it was comforting for Killian merely to sit at Liam’s side and know it was only slumber and not an unconsciousness he would never rouse from that held the elder Jones in its healing thrall.

And what was it Liam always repeated to him, so often over the years that it played as a mantra in Killian’s head?  ‘If he wasn’t willing to fight for what - or who, in this case - he truly wanted…’  Killian shook his head, amazed it had taken him so long to see the truth. He would have deserved what he’d gotten if he had managed to push Emma away completely. Thank the Lord she was so pertinaciously determined.

He lingered at his brother’s bedside for some minutes longer, eased by the awareness that his hero and captain would soon recover, that his body was mending even as Liam slept. But then he could wait no longer. Standing quickly with a promise to return as soon as possible, Killian strode with renewed purpose from the room. He could only marvel at the steadfastness of his Swan’s love and promise her he would try with all that was in him not to doubt it again.  He needed to reach her before any more time went by.

~~~000~~~~~000~~~~~000~~~

Emma stood on the grassy bluff overlooking Misthaven’s harbor, enjoying the feeling of the wind whipping out before her and the seemingly endless blue waters stretching out ahead, as far as her eyes could see. She loved the quiet of this spot, where she and Killian had once often escaped their lessons with their tutors and he would detail his plans to join her mother’s Navy, sail the seas, explore the whole world, and bring her home gifts from every port he visited. Emma had listened dutifully as she wove flower crowns or watched the way his face animated with excitement as he talked, then tease him for assuming she wouldn’t go out adventuring with him, even if they had to turn pirate to do so and keep her from being carted back to fulfill her stifling duties at court.

Having grown a lot since then, Emma knew she could never abandon her kingdom and birthright as she had once frivolously imagined. Still, she had never considered having to take on the crown and its duties without her sailor - her heart - at her side. Shivering against the chill which stole over her at the possibility, she wrapped the shawl over her arms more tightly around her torso and tried to tell herself Killian would see reason and follow his heart in time. She simply couldn’t let go of the dreams she had stored up of a life for them together, nor could she relinquish the love for him that was woven into every corner of her soul. Even if he didn’t come around, couldn’t find a way to see himself as whole as she still did, Emma simply was not sure she could ever love another. She would rule alone and find a way to carry on - if only for her parents and her people - but it was Killian or no one for her heart, given long ago with no interest in taking it back.

The sound of hoofbeats on the packed dirt path behind her, winding up to her lookout point, caused Emma to turn quickly, hope fluttering in her breast that it was Killian come to find her. His coal black horse, Poseidon, crested the hill in the next moment; her fiancé’s beloved visage meeting her eyes mere seconds later, and bringing relief at last from the anxiety which had plagued her since meeting his ship and realizing that he had been changed, that he was pulling away from her.

Slowing his mount near the tree where she had tethered her own horse and jumping from the saddle to stride toward her with an assurance that had been missing from his bearing, Emma could already tell that her beloved sailor had come to a decision. His mouth was a firm line, his stance straight and tall, and his eyes flickered with some unnamed intensity as he drew close to her. Her hands trembled as she faced him, though she strove to be as strong and steadfast as he appeared.

For a moment, Killian merely stood facing her, seeming to drink her in before taking her hand in his larger, calloused one and folding them both to rest upon his heart. “Can you forgive me, Love?” he asked sincerely.

“F - forgive you? What do you… what for, Killian?” Emma’s breath is thready with emotion, nerves, and rising hope. Did he finally see that she could never give him up, regardless of what happened?

Ducking his head, her lieutenant wet his lips with that tantalizing tongue, scratching awkwardly behind one adorably flushed elfin ear as he did so, before he continued speaking.  “Why, for ever doubting my Princess, of course,” he murmured softly. “I failed to see past the carnage and my own insecurities. And in so doing, I also failed to comprehend the depth of your devotion. Emma, I love you dearly. That has never altered, but I convinced myself that you could not still want me as I am now, that I would be condemning you to a passionless, sterile marriage out of some sense of guilt or pity. It merely seemed - “

Before he could even finish speaking, Emma reached out and wrapped her hands around his neck, jerking him both closer to her and down to press her lips against his own with surprising force, effectively stoppering his words and completely claiming every ounce of his thoughts. Near drowning in the sensation of her all-consuming touch, Killian pulled Emma tight against his chest with his uninjured arm, growling with rising ardor into her devouring, lovely mouth.

When she finally relinquished the kiss, panting for air, but with fingers still sifting through the dark strands at the nape of his neck in a way that caused tingles to skitter all the way up and down Killian’s spine, she smirked at him knowingly with a twinkle in her eye. “A passionless marriage, you said? Are you sure about that, lieutenant?”

Shaking his head to clear the dazed cloud of euphoria enough to form coherent words, he could only gaze back at his princess in stunned, adoring surprise. Bending gently to press just one more kiss to her forehead, he answered her amazedly. “Well then, I guess I didn’t know quite as much as I thought.”

Tagging those I remember liking this, or who I hope might. Sorry if I tag you and you don’t want to be.  Let me know, and I won’t continue!  @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @searchingwardrobes @effulgentcolors @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @resident-of-storybrooke @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @therooksshiningknight @aloha-4-ever @vvbooklady1256 @linda8084 @branlovestowrite @spartanguard @laschatzi @gingerchangeling @blackwidownat2814

#cs ff #cs au mc #lieutenant duckling ff #a year in the court of misthaven #part four #angst #hurt comfort

[capnjay21]

doubt truth to be a liar (never doubt I love) 1/1

I have missed writing for CS, so this is me throwing something back out into the ether and seeing who yells back.  In the weeks that follow their return from the Underworld, Killian begins to question the new revelations that have changed everything. CS, with effusively referenced Milah/Killian. 

Rating: T Words: 2,992 AO3

Even now, weeks on, Hell still clutches at his back.

It murmurs in his ear, brushes white hot caresses down his spine until he spasms, and conjures the scent of smoke and rotting flesh no matter how long he spends scrubbing his clothes to get it out. His neck occasionally smarts with phantom pain, and in hostile, fleeting flashes, the streets of his home burn in a mirage of orange and he panics, clutching at whomever is near to him to pull him back to the world above. In his quieter moments, he can hear the ground whispering, beckoning him back into the darkness underneath.

Zeus had put him back where he belonged, he daren’t doubt that; the souls of the departed do not always agree.

No matter how many times his friends suggest it might help, he does not return to the park. Not when a drop of his blood into the lake, the blood of a man restored, might lure the unworldly mist and summon the only beings with the power to drag him back to the Underworld. When he considers it, he cannot stop his breath from catching.

These are some of the new truths for Killian Jones. Not all, but some.

Others are far more pleasant.

Like the way he can wake up beside Emma in a house they call their own, and have her only tuck herself deeper into his side. The way he can join the Charmings for dinner at Granny’s without remark, how he can take Henry sailing when the weather is fair, how willing Regina is to trade barbs over a game of darts instead of a clash of wills; after their ordeals over the past year, he is finally a proud, welcome member of their family. It wasn’t just Emma’s quest to rescue him, it was all of theirs. He is happy. And when his soul burns red Killian can make love to Emma and she will be right there with him, loving him, begging for the sun to rise.

He loves Emma more than anything in any realm. This is not a new truth for Killian Jones.

What is, however, is the strength of that love. True Love, capital T, capital L. Emma lying atop him as an ancient door creaks open, you chose me. The most powerful magic of all, and he and Emma share it. That knowledge bolsters their interactions, pulls smiles from a light inside of him whenever it is mentioned, becomes the foundation for many a teasing jest mumbled into the juncture of her neck while she giggles into his shoulder.

Other than that, nothing feels different.

And it’s been gnawing away at him.

Emma Swan is his True Love. True Love like the kind that meant Snow White and Prince Charming could share a heart, the kind that could revive Henry from a sleeping curse, that could rescue entire worlds from darkness. With as much as he loves Emma, this does not feel entirely beyond the realm of reason. When they are together he feels like he can make entire kingdoms collide. That said, there wasn’t some shining moment he decided what he felt for her was pure — it built, it pounded against him gently first until it cascaded to a roar that nearly overwhelmed his senses. He didn’t know he felt it until he realised the ringing in his ears had already been there for what felt like centuries.

The only trouble is, this isn’t the only time he’s felt this way.

“What is it that makes love True?” he queries one afternoon, when he can suppress the question no longer. Beside him Snow starts, and he realises that although his thoughts have been full of their usual tumult, they had been working quite pleasantly in silence.

After lunch, David and Emma had been called away on some minor emergency on the other side of Storybrooke, and after they had insisted they would not need any assistance he had volunteered to stay with Snow and finish clearing up. They settled easily into a routine, her washing and him drying, and as he watched her he couldn’t help but imagine she was some sort of authority on the subject of True Love; she and David were the staple pair, surely. The story of Snow White and Prince Charming was practically synonymous with the concept. So, without thinking, he blurts the question forward.

When Snow turns to look at him curiously he feels a warm flush creep up from his collar, so he busies himself with putting a plate away, balancing the cloth on his hook.

“What do you mean?” she asks, not unkindly.

Killian offers an abashed shrug. “Just — this whole True Love palaver. I’m not entirely certain I understand it.”

Snow laughs. “I don’t know if there’s anything to understand,” she smiles as if he’s a child making a funny remark about something straightforward, and it irks him slightly. “You just feel it. You must know what I mean, you and Emma have it.”

“No, I do, I do feel it,” he says, drawing out the word, “I would do anything for Emma and she for me. What I mean is… who decides? Who decides when the love a heart feels is True or — or just regular love?”

(Is it wonderful, she had breathed, to travel so much?

He had told her of the air filled with spices, of distant queens in fleeting kingdoms —

— Sometimes he thinks he may have loved her even then.)

“Is there such a thing as regular love?”

“Well,” Killian scratches behind his ear, “not every impassioned couple has the ability to break a curse.”

“It’s not about that,” she turns fully to face him, drying her hands on a dishcloth. “It’s about building something together over time, it’s about sacrifice.” She lets out a long sigh. “I’ve never loved anybody like I love David. It’s just more. And those are all the answers I have, I’m afraid.”

She nudges his shoulder playfully with hers, and he knows she means to lighten the mood, but all she has said only vexes him further.

“I’m not a young man. I’ve loved before Emma,” it’s not quite a confession when the entirety of Storybrooke knew about his feud with the Crocodile, “fiercely. I would’ve easily given my life for her — I tried to, she didn’t let me.” He leans heavily against the counter, and although he can see Snow’s expression shifting into one of sympathy, he presses on. “But with all this talk of True Love, of its rarity, that you should consider yourself lucky to have felt it once…” Killian shrugs helplessly. “What does that mean for Milah?”

He feels a squeeze on his upper arm, sees Snow’s hand resting there. “Oh, Killian.”

“Did I not love her, then?” Three hundred years of all-encompassing grief and a vehement desire for revenge would, to him, suggest the contrary. Which left another possibility clutching suddenly at his insides with anguish. “Or did she not love me?”

The mere idea of it makes him seize up. She had risked Hades’ wrath to help Emma and the others get to him in the Underworld, and had lost her soul to eternal torment in the process. Even the satisfaction of knowing that Hades had been destroyed isn’t quite enough to soothe that particular ache. What if she had never truly loved him?

“Have you spoken to Emma about this?” Snow asks gently. Killian frowns, shakes his head. He doesn’t exactly think bringing up his past love is the most romantic of conversations. “I think you should.”

She’s probably right.

“But I will say this,” she continues, “what you and Emma have… it’s special. But it doesn’t make what came before any less so. We are all who we are because of our experiences.” She rises on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “You’ve fought hard for your happiness — please remember to enjoy it.”

She leaves him in the kitchen then, her words having done little to soothe his troubled mind.

-/-

Killian takes a moment to observe the house they have built together as Emma rises from her position nestled into his side on the sofa. She reaches for their discarded plates, and heads out into the kitchen.

The room had felt enormous when she had first welcomed him inside it, all bare walls and scarcely populated floor space — it had been a reflection, really, on the darkened state of her mind that found itself projected onto the even colder space around them. Even when she had led him to the telescope and the stunning view of the sea he found it hard to imagine making a home out of it. Yet, on their return from the Underworld, they had done exactly that.

A fire burns in the hearth, bright and warm, golden light flickering from memory to memory across the room. The once exposed walls are now lined with Henry’s schoolwork, with photos of the Charmings, of Regina, of Robin. Robin. The man whose soul had been lost because of Emma’s quest to save him. They both owe him so much, it had felt important to honour him some way as they moved forward; he would never be forgotten.

Killian had never even considered finding a home apart from the sea — he had been abandoned first on the ocean, lost his brother to its lure, it was hard to even fathom another person becoming a reason to maroon himself away from its natural pull. Yet when he sees pieces of the life he and Emma are just beginning to stitch together from their rags of broken things, it is impossible to ignore the reality. Anchored, but exquisitely happy.

Lost in thought, Killian only just realises Emma has been speaking, her voice floating above the running of the tap in the next room.

“I told him if he wanted that kind of ‘favour’ he’d need to ask Regina — and whaddya know, he asks to stay at hers an extra night. He’s as transparent as they come. Still,” she continues, and he can hear the padding of her socks on the floor bringing her nearer, “we don’t mind the extra night on our own, do we?”

Mary Margaret’s advice rings quietly in his ear, like a murmur. When Killian lifts his head to see her standing in the doorway, he is as always stunned by her beauty. Even dressed down for an evening spent in their house, she could not appear lovelier.

“Emma,” he says softly, and maybe it’s his tone or his mood all evening, but the utterance gives her pause, “may I talk to you about something?”

“Of course,” she responds automatically, and as she crosses the room and drops down next to him he can see the light furrow in her brow. He wants nothing more than to smooth it over with his thumb, kiss the uncertainty from the line of her mouth. Trepidation stays his hand.

When he doesn’t immediately respond, Emma turns to face him on the sofa and reaches a hand across to squeeze his arm. “You were thrashing about in your sleep again last night.”

Hades had him dangled above the river of lost souls, only that time Emma had not made it before he found oblivion.

“Is it —?”

“Aye,” he says, partly to stop her dwelling on the subject. They had spoken enough of his ordeal to last a lifetime. “But I find my mind is frayed with thoughts of a different kind.” She waits, her expression open and kind. It is so far from the walls she threw up the moment they met that his heart squeezes with gratitude — it becomes stifling to even consider revealing that which he had quietly admitted to her mother that morning. “I don’t want to hurt you, Swan.”

(And perhaps maybe a year ago, that comment may have spooked her.)

Emma lifts his hand and squeezes it. Quietly determined. “Go ahead.”

“Recently,” he starts, and it is difficult to find the words, “recently I can’t help feeling… I love you,” he hastens to assure her, “and I know you love me. That this love is true. We have proof of that.”

“No broken curses in sight but we did open a creepy old door.”

Killian breathes out a laugh to match the glimmer of amusement in her expression, the way her mouth is tugged gently into a smirk. He feels some of the tension in his shoulders ease away even as he is drawn back into solemnity.

“I just — recently, I can’t help but feel this… veneration of what lies between us makes me a traitor to an old love.”

Emma’s eyes dawn with understanding. She nods slowly once.

“Milah.”

“It sounds ridiculous.”

“Hey, I met her, remember?” Emma sidesteps his attempt at a dismissal with ease. “She was kind, and brave, and nothing about you wanting to honour her memory is ridiculous.”

Killian slips his hand out of Emma’s, runs it through his hair.

“I find myself doubting even that which I’ve always taken for truth. Did she and I not love each other as much as you and I do? Why is one hailed as True where the other just… was?” He sighs. “I even pestered your mother today, such is the extent of my anxiety.”

Was he merely a fool?

Emma had turned her face slightly away from him, staring into the hearth with a soft frown, thoughtful in its most open corners. It makes Killian squirm to see it, and he instantly wishes he hadn’t been so thoughtless as to follow Snow White’s advice.

(Of course she would advocate for total honesty, spilling secrets was practically her modus operandi).

“I’m sorry.” He means it with a depth and severity he cannot measure, and reaches for her hand again. “I want to just enjoy what we have. I wish I weren’t thinking this way.”

“I love that you are.”

A damn lucky fool.

Killian’s bemusement must have shown on his face, because Emma smiles kindly as if he were Henry asking for help with a particularly challenging mathematical problem.

“You think I haven’t had similar thoughts?” she muses. “I loved before you too, you know.”

A vision of Baelfire stuns him then, the familiar rush of guilt and anguish and sorrow coming to the fore before he attempts to soothe them with thoughts of the peace of their last encounter. With Emma’s love, quietly earned and steadfastly valued. He knows the young man would approve — he can feel it in the deepest chambers of his heart.

“Neal might not have always been brave, but he was when it counted. He died for me and Henry. You and me, we’re…” Emma hesitates, and he can see her searching for the right words to pluck from the space between them. “We’re different to Mom and Dad. They fought hard for their love, sure, but they’ve never lost. Not really. Not the way you and I have.”

(I love you, she had whispered, before crumpling into his arms —

— the beast had laughed, cackled, taunted the extent of his despair —

Is it wonderful, she had breathed, to travel so much?)

“I never thought I would love again after Neal. I imagine things were the same for you.”

He had spent 300 years convinced he never would, he never could. Had foregone all else in his pursuit of revenge.

Until he met her.

“Aye,” he agrees, needlessly. She knows the answer already.

“Then maybe —” Emma begins with a renewed sense of purpose, adjusts her position next to him, demands his full focus as she tosses some of her hair over her shoulder impatiently. “Maybe it’s not some secret power or magical authority that decides what’s different this time. Maybe it’s just us.”

He frowns, waits for her to continue.

“We chose each other, Killian. After everything that’s happened to us.”

He thinks back to the test that had engulfed him in flame, how Emma had launched herself at him instead of her own heart.

“You chose me,” he echoes that moment with wonder, his mouth beginning to lift into a smile.

She mirrors it. “And you chose me.” As she leans forward he meets her halfway, allows the gentlest press of her lips to his before she pulls back. “I wanted to believe in us, so I did. And here we are.”

And it’s a damn near perfect place to be.

“Here we are.”

“It doesn’t mean we loved them less. It just means we loved again.”

He has no idea if they have reached a real conclusion – whether the breadth of True Love can really be measured in such a way — but he figures if mystical scales buried under miles of rock beneath the mortal realm are authorised to make that judgement, then so are they. It mutes the stir of his mind, in any case. The Milah of his soul can continue to smile, unimpeded by the cloud of his own uncertainty. They had loved. Bloody hell, they had loved. And they had lost.

Zeus had made it clear enough; he was where he belonged now.

“I like that,” he decides, kissing her again because he can’t not do it.

“Me too.”

“I like you.”

Emma laughs, and it’s an open and honest sound. “Yeah, the feeling’s mutual.”

As the embers die he finds comfort with her long into the night. When they make love he watches stars burst around them, feels her warmth carry him into a dreamless sleep. With her, he need not worry where his home might be anymore. The earth does not beckon him beneath its shell, and as the dark stretches until morning he does not again doubt that the sun will rise.

He knows it with a certainty, a surety, one only born of the privilege to deeply love, and be loved deeply in return.

#jay writes #captain swan #cs fic #cs #killian jones #emma swan #ouat #millian #killian x milah #true love #what makes love true #and other musings #mama snow #got a bit of her in there too #one-shot #essentially I am not good at being regular with tumblr #but this plot bunny entered my brain and would not leave #voila voila #cs ff #it will probably get no notes #but I am proud of it #*throws at tumblr*

[chuckling-chemist]

You’re A Kind One, Miss Elsker (11/14)

((Aside from “Dance of the Fuchsiablood Fairy, this is my most clever title. Doesn’t get better than this. And if bad friendships are a squick or trigger for you, please skip.))

Some trolls lived the high life. Swinging off chandeliers with seadwellers, drinking the finest Faygo with clowns, feather boas and pretty trolls lounging on pianos as servants in tuxedos played rhapsodies on the ivories. This was true of Atenic’s friends, all of whom adored it. Pereon loved the dark, slinky dresses in elegant masks where she’d take business partners for mysterious affairs. Siroet loved the colors and entertainment scattered abound for her to find. Careen reveled in the atmosphere, the dancing and overall aesthetic of flaunting her infinite wealth. She didn’t know much about Dontoc, but anyone who comes from the underwater City of Twinkling Lights must enjoy the high life. And Pothos...well...Atenic mostly avoided thinking about him.

Did Atenic enjoy the high life? That’s a hard question. On one hand, not only did the high life enjoy Atenic; but she also hated all the boisterous, drunken, bloody parties found among lowbloods where she couldn’t even wear a pretty new dress from Kordof. She loved going out and enjoying time with her beautiful friend, Careen, which made these events fun despite the crushing anxiety that occupied her thoughts the minute Careen went away. A shame that was guaranteed at any socialite event. And when Careen was absent, Atenic felt a crushing emptiness in her bones unlike no other. It made the same nights she’d adore now impossible to enjoy. Trolls like Siroet or Pereon didn’t fill the hole the same way Careen did. So at best, she’d file her answer down with little more than a solid maybe.

This also meant tonight was no exception to the rule. This time, Careen finally managed to convince her unwilling matesprit to go out and actually enjoy the night with her for once in his life. Judging by their lack of return to the table, he succeeded at such. Siroet already left off in one of her usual Siroet-tantrums some time ago. And Pereon disappeared some time after Careen to discuss business with well-to-do highbloods in snug outfits. Only Atenic remained at the table to sip expensive punch and pick at crumbs of triple moobeast milk crumb pastry. Unlike the rest of them, she’d prefer to stay in the VIP room away from general populace lowbloods. Lowbloods meant trouble. They jeered at Atenic, despite her caste, when she couldn’t hear. Careen was adamant of such.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, pushing around crumbs in complete silence to keep away her dejection, before a chilly hand rested on her shoulder. She looked up to see Pereon standing behind her, smiling politely down. Another troll, a rather toned and meek-looking indigoblood who stood taller than Pereon’s own hair, stood next to her. The indigoblood’s arms rested behind her back. “Atenic,” Pereon said sweetly, “you should enjoy the ball. It’s not every day you’ll see a landdweller host like this.”

Atenic glanced down at her food, nodding absently. She liked Pereon, but Pereon didn’t understand. No one here did. None of them understood the impossible challenges Atenic experienced when Careen wasn’t around. She was...what was the word? Antisocial. Atenic was antisocial.

She craned her neck up again. Pereon was dressed as beautiful as ever, dressed in a two piece dress with a long, two tiered purple skirt and short, lacy halter top. “I am enjoying the ball. The food is very good. And I love wearing this dress! It makes me feel like an eight pointed snowflake!”

Had she been standing, she may have swished her dress for emphasis, but she settled for squirming around in her seat. It might’ve been a shorter dress, but the cute snowflake pattern on the skirt, pale blue ribbon and sheer, sparkling cape made Atenic feel like a true lady of winter. Kordof never failed in making her feel she danced around in other troll’s daydreams.

The indigoblood next to her snickered behind her hand. Pereon, though, she was too respectful for that. She merely quirked her arched eyebrow high enough to blend into her hairline. “Atenic, you do realize snowflakes have six sides, right?”

“Oh.” Where did she learn that? Must’ve been from some cheesy novel. “Sorry Pereon. You’re so smart.”

Pereon patted her shoulder. “It’s fine, little one. Anyone in your position would’ve made the mistake.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” Pereon ruffled Atenic’s hair, right between the small, curved horns on her head. “Perfectly normal mistake for landdwellers. It’s why Careen took you in out of the goodness of her soul.”

“Yeah...she did.” Atenic smiled bashfully as warmth flooded and added the barest amount of blue to her face at the memory. Long ago, probably at least ten sweeps at this point, Careen found Atenic hanging around the lower castes and brought her in. Careen brought Atenic into the light of seadwelling society. Atenic learned everything Careen put in front of her, lapped up the praises and criticisms in equal fervor, remembered and internalized every facet until she perfected it to get where she stood now.

“And I’m sure Careen would appreciate if all the help she gave you was put to use.”

She frowned, kicking her legs underneath her chair as Pereon’s hand disappeared. She didn’t like it, but Pereon did have a point. Standing around here waiting for Careen disrespected the hard work she did, not just for the work Careen did in the past couple perigees for her, but for all the work Careen’s done for her in her life up to this point. “Yeah…maybe you’re right.” Atenic stood up, smoothing the skirt of her dress down. “I think I’ll go out on the ballroom.”

“I think that’s a good idea.” She patted Atenic’s head a couple more times before taking the indigoblood’s hand. “You’ll know where to find me if you need me.”

Atenic nodded silently, eyeing them as the two sauntered back toward the orchestra. She wouldn’t need them. Atenic was an adult troll, long past her seventh sweep ordeal and everything. Anxious tendencies or not, she didn’t need Pereon’s help just to go find a specific troll, especially when she knew exactly where that troll would be.

Atenic scuttled her way into the main ballroom in a hurry, rushing past all sorts of lower casted trolls flitting in her way. The music’s quick tempo spurred her footsteps faster, faster toward her eventual goal. She had to be here somewhere important. Find someone important. But where was she? Amid the twirling capes and glittering adornments, she couldn’t make anything out. Nor could she find an easy way in. Not with the sheer volume of trolls. If she wanted to do anything without making a scene, she would have to wait until they thinned out.

“I simply cannot abide this betrayal of my sensitivities!!”

The voice rang out above everything else in the room, clear as day. Atenic didn’t have to see the source to know who it was.

Careen.

All worry of causing trouble washed away. She squeezed between a couple greenbloods doing some odd dance to get into the dance floor proper, frantically darting her head around to look for the voice’s owner. Surrounding trolls, mid and lowbloods mostly, danced on, blocking off Atenic’s line of sight. The curse of being a smaller troll: even when the trolls were distinctly younger and lower casted, she couldn’t see past them. But then again, she knew Careen. She knew Careen better than any other troll knew her. She knew how Careen needed to stay in the public eye in these difficult times, what with that other tyrian pink troll making a calculated effort for Empress.

She pushed her way toward the orchestra. A few trolls resisted, but she was a cobaltblood. No reason not to take advantage of such. Especially when the trolls who pushed back looked like nosy tealbloods thinking they deserved better for being a higher midblood. Someone had to remind them of their standing. May as well be her.

When she arrived, she found herself standing on the edge of what looked to be some kind of standoff. On one side stood Careen, in all her beauty, next to a tall highblood in a rather fru-fru FLARP suit. On the other side was Dontoc in that odd suit with some rust dressed in blacks and bright reds Atenic didn’t recognize. Despite the lack of trolls paying attention to them, none of the four appeared to notice her arrival to the scene unfolding in front of her.

“I just can't fucking fathom why you're being possessive over the pale quadrant!” the brownblood exclaimed. She threw her arms in the air for emphasis as she added, “ The hell do you think you are?”

“Last I checked, I am the Heiress--”

“Yes, Careen. We know.” Dontoc sighed in exasperation. He looked tired. Moreso than before they left, anyway. “That being said, heiress or not, I am allowed a dance or two with my moirail of five sweeps.”

“I was your first quadrant!” Careen stamped her foot on the floor. “I deserve to have him for the event. It's what I deserve after everything I've given him.”

With a shudder, Dontoc looked down at the floor in silence. He almost appeared to curl inward on himself, drooped fins and all.

At the same time, every aspect of brownblood bristled. Her posture straightened, her gaze angry and hateful, the fingers at the side of her body that didn't take his hand twitched violently.  “If I'm being honest, I think you deserve to have me shove my boot up your frilly waste chute but you see me parading around like I own the place,” she said darkly.

Finally, the indigoblood standing next to Careen registered the conversation. He pointed at Dontoc and said, “Control your moirail! She should realize who she speaks to.”

With a huff, Dontoc pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ignoring how wildly inappropriate you are every time you speak, especially now, why are you here? This does not concern you.” He jerked his head up. “Unless you are attempting to get something from us.”

The brownblood seemed to mutter something under her breath, but Atenic couldn't make it out over the indigoblood sputtering, “I would never do such a thing! I feel only that I give my Heiress what she deserves!”

Careen craned her head up to the indigoblood with a particularly indignant look. “What I deserve is my matesprit and I don’t know why you’re so insistent on anything otherwise.”

Atenic frowned. She deserved so much better than Dontoc. She deserved a troll to be there for anything and everything. Dontoc didn’t have the emotional energy to live with her full time and be there at any minute when she needed him. He lacked the patience. The gentle temperament she showed towards those lower than her needed to be returned to her in full.

She cautiously nudged herself out of the edge and into the center of the four of them. Her focus fell only on the Heiress. She didn’t care about any of the other three of them. “Hey, hey Careen?”

She didn’t have to look at the other two trolls to feel the daggers on her back. Careen though, Careen watched her with curiosity. “Atenic, I’m surprised you made it out,” she said. Her gentle tone soothed Atenic, calmed her anxieties the same way a good cup of hot chocolate does.  “What is it you need?”

“I just want to say I agree with whoever the big scary blueblood is. I think you deserve better too!”

Careen sighed, putting her hands on her hips. “That’s great you feel that way, but really Atenic what I deserve is well...you know.” She gestured toward the two trolls behind her. “Someone like Dontoc.”

“A damn shame that what he deserves--”

“I would silence your tongue before I cut it myself,” Careen sneered. “Remember who you speak to, rustblood.”

“Bold words for someone trying to look pretty and nice for the cameras,” the brownblood threw back. “If you want to fight me, actually come over here and do it. Otherwise? Just shut the fuck up.”

“Oh please I have a sense of self respect. Unlike yourself,” Careen scoffed. She flipped her hair behind her shoulder. “Truly, Dontoc should have a troll who actually cares about what he wants.”

“That’s rich considering--”

“Valeba,” Dontoc sighed in defeat, “stop.”

Atenic whipped her head around behind her to Dontoc and the other troll. The lowblood looked upset, but the glint of murder in her eyes faded into a general glare directed toward her moirail. Dontoc took her hand as he leaned over to whisper into her ear. She frowned deeply, but the her expression softened into...something. Or maybe it didn’t so much soften as return to a neutral state. With the resting bitch face, Atenic couldn’t tell. “Right. Yeah. You’ll know where I’ll be,” she said quietly, quietly enough Atenic could barely hear it. She looked up to Careen with a scowl and before she left, growled, “Do understand though, if it weren’t for the restrictions put upon me for tonight and tomorrow, I would have culled you here and now. She sharply turned on the heel of her foot and walked out before anyone could stop her. The sea of trolls nearby them parted like an ocean as she moved.

Careen made a motion toward Dontoc, but he stepped back. “Careen? I suggest you let me go talk to her.”

“But Dontoc, this is your fault! You let that nasty lowblood into your life, and see how it’s turning out? I should just end it--”

“I don’t think she cares,” he snapped. His fins grew, making already large fins take up a good chunk of his face.

“Well maybe I care!”

“And perhaps, the last time you cared that I danced with a troll who holds no interest in women, you got possessive despite cavorting with…” he looked over to the indigoblood with a raised eyebrow “...numerous curiosities. So do what you will tonight, but understand unless you plan on making this drawn out, you are rather limited to tormenting me like last sweep, and such is a bullet the both of us know I will take. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to speak to her and calm her down proper before you must deal with the beloved kismesis of the only other Heiress competing. The same one looking for an excuse to cull you. Who is also here tonight.”

She stepped closer, seemingly unaware Atenic was in front of her as she only focused on her matesprit. “And what about everyone else? About--”

“Then maybe this time, you should have thought about someone other than yourself. Because I have. And this is, quite frankly, possibly the path of absolute least resistance for you, and yet you still threaten me. This will take a whole five minutes, and then I shall remain with you for the rest of tonight and tomorrow.” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Do you not understand that?”

Atenic looked frantically between the two of them. Should she...should she do something? She’d heard Careen complain about Dontoc before, but she’d never actually seen them fight. And what did Dontoc mean by threatening? Careen hadn’t threatened him. She hadn’t threatened anyone.

“Uh...Careen, maybe you can spend some time with me!” she blurted out. “Until Dontoc’s back, at least.”

Dontoc’s fins shrunk as he stared at Atenic, flabbergasted. “Um...if you wish, I suppose? Erm, thank you. Assuming it is, ah…” he looked up at Careen. “Is that a suitable compromise?”

She released her crossed arms with a huff. “That can work, yes. And if this doesn’t come back to me, Dontoc, I guess I’ll make sure your little quadrant doesn’t get thrown out.”

He nodded, and as he turned around to walk away, Atenic could have sworn she saw him roll his eyes. “Of course, dear. Always so forgiving,” he remarked dryly. “I will meet you in the VIP room when I’m finished.”

Careen’s face brightened up. Dontoc was right: she was just so forgiving. “Okay darling! See you there! Come on Atenic, we shall dance in private. I know how you dislike crowds.”

Dontoc nodded, but Atenic wasn’t sure he completely heard, otherwise he might be happier about the whole state of affairs. Their fight was over, and Atenic managed to solve it herself! Maybe she could even slide into being an actual quadrant with Careen. Moirail? Or... auspistice. If it was possible to auspistice a matespritship.

But when Careen shooed away the rather confused-looking indigoblood and took Atenic’s hand, she realized she didn’t care. For this one moment, she was the Heiress’ world. It was all she needed.

#12th perigee ball 2018 #fantroll #homestuck #fanfiction #long post #not a starter #my writing #careen #dontoc #valeba #atenic #a tale of 12th perigee

[socialjusticeartshare]

Biden Has Pledged To Reunite Families Separated At The Border, And It’s Already Begun

As a mother, the horror of fleeing my home country’s violence—maybe with only the clothes on my back—holding my children in my arms, or gripping their hands as we walked or ran to safety, and then having them ripped from my embrace and hearing “You’ll never see your child again”… it’s the stuff of nightmares. I truly cannot fathom it. But this heartache and trauma is the reality for so many migrants who were separated at the border under the former president’s “zero tolerance” policy.

It seems many have forgotten that this country has been a nation of immigrants since the first white explorers (who were immigrants) stepped foot on this land hundreds of years ago. And yet, in 2016, Trump built his campaign on the promise of a giant wall to keep immigrants —specifically, immigrants with brown skin—out. (And, he built his campaign on the backbone of racism and bigotry to help fuel the desire for said wall.) He referred to migrants at the southern border as “rapists” and “murderers” and “drug dealers” even though time and time again, we hear stories of mothers in anguish who were fleeing violence and trying to save their families. Even though there is no evidence that immigrants (specifically with darker or brown skin, as those are the immigrants Trump hates) are any more violent than American citizens with lighter skin. In fact, interestingly, most mass shootings in our country that inflict horrific numbers of casualties are committed by … wait for it … white men.

But it worked for Trump as his thing was to fan the flame of racism whenever he could in his endless quest to return America to the 1950s when white men controlled everything and could do whatever TF they wanted, women stayed home and cooked pot roast and churned out babies, and anyone with darker skin “knew their place” and had their civil rights infringed upon without consequence.

One way he kept his promise to “make America white again,” especially as it became more and more apparent that his border wall project was an abysmal failure, was to enforce inhumane treatment of migrants at the southern border. Specifically, separating families as a deterrent for future migrants to even attempt crossing over. We saw video after video and read article after article of young children, babies even, crying for their mothers. We saw parents being led away in handcuffs, looking back one last time, not knowing if and when they’d see their kids again.

Thankfully, Lord Voldemort was not re-elected and instead, a sane person with some semblance of a moral compass is now in the White House. But what a mess President Biden has been handed, as he now must clean up the many disasters Trumpelstiltskin left us with, including re-uniting hundreds, if not thousands, of broken families.

But Biden knew what he was walking into on inauguration day back in January, and he hit the ground running, spearheading plans to fix this humanitarian crisis. Heart-warming stories like that of Sandra Ortíz and her son Bryan are now giving us hope that the Biden administration can actually repair some of the fractures caused by so much hate throughout the previous four years.

Sandra Ortíz and her son Bryan Chávez “had fled their village in Mexico’s Michoacán state, where it seemed as though everything that could go wrong did,” The Washington Post reports. “Her husband disappeared in 2010; his body was found two days later with bullet wounds. Then the local cartel delivered the body of their teenage neighbor, Chávez’s friend, dismembered in a bag. And then they began trying to recruit Chávez.”

Imagine that terror—what mother wouldn’t run? What mother wouldn’t do whatever she could to save her son’s life and her own?

The Washington Post goes on to explain that Ortíz and Chávez “turned themselves in at the San Ysidro port of entry and requested asylum.” (Remember—for all the “They should come here legally!” folks… requesting asylum is LEGAL.) But two days later, the desperate mother and her son were taken to an office where, she says, “They told me to say goodbye to my son, that I wouldn’t see him again. And then they took him away.”

The article goes on to describe the next part of Sandra’s heartbreaking ordeal, including her month-long detainment in a detention facility with other mothers, during which she was not able to communicate with her son (who was 15 at the time), and during which the mothers were all told their kids would be put up for adoption.

Imagine being trapped in a cage, unable to talk or see your child, and hearing you’ll never see them again. As a mom, it physically pains me to even imagine.

Eventually, Sandra was deported and only saw her son’s face over video chat for the next few years. That was until the Biden administration began its reunification efforts and finally brought her back to the U.S., where she could hug her son—now a 19-year-old—in real life.

Also, ABC News also shares another mother’s story of seeing her kids again, after many years of separation. In the emotional video, a woman named Mabel, from Honduras, tightly hugs her sons as she surprises them at a family gathering. She, too, had been separated from her kids at the border and then spent two years in a detention center before being sent back to Honduras, the country she fled because of extreme violence.

The reunion is emotional, full of tears, hugs, and “I love yous,” and it’s been a long time coming. But these are only two stories—there are hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of families just like Sandra’s and Mabel’s who are still waiting.

“As these reunions start to trickle in slowly, the daunting challenge of reuniting the rest of the families that were torn away at the border looms over the advocates who search for them,” ABC News reports. “So far the Biden administration has identified more than 1,000 families that remain separated.”

CNN, however, reports that the number is far higher. “Trump administration’s controversial ‘zero tolerance’ policy resulted in the separations of at least 2,800 children from their parents, according to government data.” The reason we don’t know the exact number? This is due to the same reason it’s so hard to reunite families. Not surprisingly, the Trump administration kept very few (if any) records of those deported or separated, making reunification for some families seem impossible. And making the total number of separated families still unknown.

But Biden’s task force isn’t quitting, so families desperate to find their kids can take comfort in that.

“The first families reuniting this week are mothers, they are sons, they are daughters, they are children who were 3 years old at the time of separation. They are teenagers who have had to live without their parent during their most formative years,” Homeland Security Secretary Alejandro Mayorkas says.

And, Biden’s task force isn’t just working to create these emotional reunions. They’re also helping families with their paperwork to obtain permanent residency in the U.S. They are also working to provide compensation and social services to help them heal from this traumatic ordeal, CNN reports. “It is the least these families deserve given that our government deliberately abused them,” adds Homeland Security Secretary Alejandro Mayorkas.

Sandra and Mabel are the first of many mothers who have been able to hug their children again and escape the treacherous conditions of their home countries. After all, we are a nation of immigrants, and ripping children from their mothers is not something America stands for. Fortunately, we now have a president who truly represents American values and ideals and is committed to bringing those children back into their mothers’ arms where they belong.

Article Source

#separtated #separating migrant chlldren #border #biden

[nezushiet]

Snowball Effect

Pairing: Takemi/Akira Word Count: 954 Fandom: P5 Summary: He loved her, she knew he did, but it was always her love that flashed out in the most unexpected ways.

Akira heard the unmistakable click of the door lock, a noise that filled the room as he pitifully toppled atop the clinic's bed.  Warm crimson trailed down his temple, staining milk-white pillows and crinkly paper covers.  However the cut along his face was nothing compared to the livid stabbing sensation jolting through his rib cage.

"Let's begin with what happened, shall we?"

"I got mugged." Akira panted through the discomfort not so eloquently, recalling how the stranger appeared out of the blue after he left from a night gathering with his fellow phantom theives.  If it hadn't been for Morgana rushing to his aid...  Akira winced at the thought.

Despite the odor of antiseptic, the atmosphere of the clinical room screamed Takemi.  It always stayed pristine and chilly like a personal arctic tundra.  He hoped that would never change.  The said doctor stared him down.     

"In that case," she hummed darkly, kneeling down beside him, "I'll need to see how critical the injuries are."

"Another examination."  Perhaps his words spoke more to himself.

Akira cooperated to the best of his abilities with her as she labored to gently remove his uniform jacket and shirt.  Which didn't prove very much considering how frequently a hiss or ow ow ow left his lips.  Once his attire was out of the way, she noticed a solid azure bruise already forming above his stomach, and a frown gave way to her face, a lost battle to uphold a neutral mask.

The male found himself focusing on her features to distract himself from the ache.  How could he not gaze at her perfect peachy skin, and eyelashes as lush as raven feathers, at her cosmic eyelids and glossy coral lips.    

"My, my, look who's gotten themselves into a mess, hm?"

"I'm sorry," He began before a whimper ripped through his throat when she added some experimental pressure to the cobalt patch of skin.  "I know this is your closing time and n-" A single finger silenced his apology, cutting him off.

"This is different.  You have nothing to worry about.  Besides, I wouldn't be much of a doctor if I let some thug take out my guinea pig, would I?"

"...No...I guess not."

"Exactly. Okay, I'll be right back with some pain pills and an ice pack, stay put."

Akira figured even if he wanted to leave, rising on his own accord would prove too excruciating.  All his gratitude truly laid with Morgana and Takemi, the feline scarred that thug excessively, engendering Akira to not lose a single yen from the ordeal.

   Miniscule time lapsed before the doctor returned, supplies in hand.  Securing the back of his head with one palm, she guided a glass of water to his lips after administering some medicine.  Takemi then swiftly moved on the bruise, diagnosing it as 'nothing more than a soft tissue injury', which granted him solace to hear, but at the same time...

"You must think I'm overreacting."

Her tawny eyes widened at that, then shifted to his worn, bloodied face.  That stood farthest from what she thought.

"Hm? What makes you say that?"  

"It shouldn't hurt this much if that's the case."

"That's not what I meant. I hadn't hoped I should need to repeat myself regarding your worrying."  

He averted his gaze as if studying an engrossing feature on the wall, cheeks turning dark.  "Sorry."

The older woman cared for his head wound with stunning tenderness.  He couldn't figure if the damp cotton ball which reeked of peroxide felt soothing or ticklish when it danced along his temple.    One thing he acknowledged for certain, despite dealing with the lesion, was how deeply he relished in her treatment.  The plague possessed peculiar ways of inciting his heart rate.

"Low pain tolerance is nothing to be ashamed of."  She clarified in a husky murmur, her eyes half-lidded yet somehow still piercing like daggers at her task at hand.  "All that matters is that you stay more aware of your surroundings next time you walk home at night."

"Did it scare you... when you saw me earlier?"

His ears caught her ghost of a scoff as she retracted her hand and left to throw away the dirtied cotton ball. It was a stupid question, yet if it was so dumb then why did he hold his breath for her answer.

To pinpoint the exact moment he fell for her deemed impossible, perhaps because it wasn't just a single event that sparked it.  If anything, it stood as an epitome of the snowball effect; growing stronger and stronger till it no longer stood to be ignored, and now there wasn't a day when his reveries failed to sway her way.

"...Of course it did."

Her paitent sighed. "Takemi..." 

"Akira." She countered, languidly leaning over the topless male. "Since when did you revel in scaring others so much? Are you still the sweet young helper I created a deal with?"

His frame stilled, caged between her arms and vision locked in an inescapable gaze they shared. How was he suspose to respond at that? His thoughts were melting on the spot.

He nodded at last.

“Can you prove it?”

Timid fingers reached for hers, only to intertwine into a perfect fit.  When was the last time she held someone’s hand like this?  Between the gesture and his doe eyes Takemi might just catch a cavity.       

"You want to know something, A~kir~a?" She whispered. "...Sometimes a kiss is the best medicine."

It was only until he squeezed her hand that she closed the gap between their lips.

"Sometimes a kiss is the best medicine."

To fathom a doctor herself would say such a thing.

And yet deep down, the two couldn't agree more.

#tae is bae #tae takemi #akira kusuru #p5 #persona 5 #takemi and akira #akira and takemi

[nearcromancy]

[captain-zajjy]

Solstice, Chapter 10 - A Final Fantasy XV Story

Pairing: Ignis x Female Original Character

AO3 | Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

A/N: Nurse Gladio and Nosy Prompto to the rescue! Sort of. Also, I haven't forgotten about Val's ordeal in Chapter 8 - you'll find out what's been happening with her in the upcoming chapter. For now, she's keeping it from Ignis since he's already got enough to worry about.

Ignis was drowning. Cold, salty water filled his nose and mouth, burned his eyes. He choked and gagged as his lungs seared, begging for air. It was dark - impossibly black, even for deep water. It was like the Hydraean had swallowed him whole.

Please, he thought. Please don’t take me. Not yet. Ignis had always thought that when his time came, he’d go quietly. Dignified. But if he’d had the breath to do so, he would have been screaming. I don’t want to die. Noctis still needed him. The others still needed him. And Valeria...he’d promised her that he’d come back, that he’d save her from the Empire. I can’t die. Not here. Not yet.

Ignis.

A familiar voice he couldn’t place, calling from far away.

Oh, please. Ignis tried to swim toward the voice, but his arms and legs were pinned, held in place by some force unseen in the darkness.

Ignis, calm down.

I’m dying, you fool! This time, when Ignis opened his mouth, no water rushed in. Air. Sweet, delicious air. He sucked it down in big gulps, chest heaving.

“Ignis! Ignis, can you hear me?”

“G-Gladio?” Ignis’s throat felt raw, his voice cracked and broken. He still couldn’t move, couldn’t see, but he could breathe.

“Yeah, it’s me. Calm down. You’re safe, Iggy.”

“I...what...” Ignis swallowed. His head was spinning and throbbing, a hundred times worse than any migraine. And that was nothing compared to his eyes, which felt as if someone had shoved shards of glass and gasoline beneath his eyelids, then lit a match.

“I’m gonna let you go now,” Gladiolus said. “But you gotta lie still.”

The force pinning Ignis down vanished, and he realized he was lying flat on his back on something soft. A bed? Though his limbs still felt sore and heavy, he tried to sit up, Gladio’s hands immediately on his shoulders.

“Dammit, Iggy. What’d I just say?” Gladiolus growled. “You gotta-”

The sudden wave of nausea must have shown on Ignis’s face, because there was immediately some sort of receptacle below his chin. He lurched forward and retched up bile and sea water.

“C’mon Iggy.” Gladiolus took the bin away and wiped his mouth. “You gotta rest.”

“W-water,” Ignis rasped. Gladiolus helped him drink, then Ignis settled back down on the pillow. “I...I can’t see.”

“You got a bunch of bandages on your face,” Gladiolus replied. “Let me get the doc.”

“Wait. Noctis...where’s Noctis?”

“Asleep.” Gladiolus made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sigh. “Well...unconscious. Docs say he’s fine physically, that it’s ‘magical’ - like it’s got something to do with the power of the Hydraean.”

“I should-”

“No.” Gladiolus was on him before Ignis could attempt to sit up once more. “You should rest. Prompto’s sittin’ with Noct now.”

“You two are...?”

“We’re fine, Iggy. You just about scared the shit outta me, though.”

“Oh, I...I’m sorry.”

“No, Iggy. I’m sorry.” Ignis’s mind was working sluggishly at best, but Gladio’s voice suddenly seemed to grow thick, almost angry, and he couldn’t fathom why.

“W-what?”

“By the time I found you, you were already hurt. Hangin’ on to some piece of debris to keep your head above water. If I’d gotten there sooner...”

The last thing Ignis could remember was an explosion. “There was...there was a child?”

“Dunno, Iggy. You were the only person I saw. Lemme go get the doc, okay?”

A door shut somewhere off to Ignis’s right. A part of him knew that the doctor Gladiolus had gone to fetch wasn’t going to bring good news, but he was in too much immediate discomfort to care. Instead he focused on the Prince - it had always been easier for him to worry about Noctis than himself. Hold on, Noct, he thought. I’ll be back by your side soon.

Ignis spent most of the day sleeping; the medicine the doctors gave him for the pain made him drowsy, plunging his mind into a fog - a welcome relief from fretting about the Prince and his own condition.

Which was precisely what he was doing when there was a knock at the door to his room.

“Come in,” Ignis called. He eased himself up into a seated position, biting back nausea and the throbbing pain in his head. The bed seemed to lurch and spin underneath him, like he was intoxicated - one of many reasons he’d only been truly drunk just the once.

“I’m back.” Ignis tried to concentrate on Prompto’s voice, to center himself on the sound.

“How’s Noctis?” he asked.

“Still out,” Prompto replied. There was the sound of a something sliding across the floor. A chair? “But his fever’s come down.”

Ignis sighed, tentatively fingering the bandages over his eyes. At least the Prince’s condition was giving him time to recover. The medics said the coverings could come off in a few days, but it would take weeks for the wounds to his face to completely heal. And even then, his eyes... Ignis pushed that thought away. One thing at a time.

“Sorry it took so long,” Prompto went on. “It’s a mess out there. But the Regalia’s still in one piece!”

Ignis had sent Prompto to, first of all, find their car, and secondly to retrieve everyone’s things, since it was clear that between himself and Noctis, they were going to be in Altissia for a while.

He didn’t bother asking Gladiolus to do anything - although barely injured during the Empire’s attack, the man seemed worse off than Ignis in some ways, operating under the ridiculous notion that he could have and should have saved everyone - Ignis, Noctis, even Lady Lunafreya; every conversation they’d had since Ignis woke ended with an argument, so Ignis decided it best to leave him to his mood.

There was the sound of a zipper being undone and then Prompto announced, “One can of Ebony, coming up. Want it hot?”

“No. It’s just fine as is.” Ignis felt a cool can of the blessed brew pressed into his hand, and he immediately popped the tab and took a sip. Splendid. After choking down nothing but water and bitter medicine for the past twenty-four hours, it tasted somehow even better than usual.

“And here’s your phone charger. Want me to plug it in?” Prompto asked.

“Please.” Ignis wasn’t sure if his phone had been damaged in the attack - it had been in his pocket, after all, when he’d taken that Imperial mortar to the face - or if the battery had simply died. There was only one way to find out. “Will it turn on?”

“Let’s see...hey, it works!” Along with the Ebony and news of the Regalia, it was another small victory in a sea of stunning defeats.

“Whoa, you’ve got a ton of messages...uh, not trying to be nosy or anything, they just popped up when I turned it on.”

Ignis didn’t particularly want to give Prompto his password, but he could hardly work the touchscreen without sight. And, injured or not, it was still Ignis’s job to stay informed. So, he had Prompto punch in the code and read through his notifications, making a mental note to change it as soon as he was able.

“A lot of stuff from someone named Valeria So-leal.”

“Soleil,” Ignis corrected. Val. Of course, Noctis’s bout with Leviathan - and the Empire’s corresponding attack - would have been all over the news by now. And of course Valeria would have known Ignis wouldn’t have been far from the Prince’s side.

“It says: ‘Iggy, are you alright? Text me when you can.’” The messages increased in alarm from there. “Wow, Ignis. Wait...do you have a girlfriend ?” There was awe in Prompto’s voice. “And you didn’t tell me all about her?"

“Prompto,” Ignis hissed.

“Noct and I have this theory that you don’t actually ever sleep, so-”

“Prompto.” Ignis began to shake his head but was stopped by a lancing pain behind his left eye. “Now is really not the time.”

“I know, I know,” Prompto said. “Sorry. You wanna call her back?”

Ignis wasn’t ready to talk to Valeria. She would want to know what had happened, what had happened to him, and saying it aloud meant he had to face it.

“Send her a message. Say, ‘We’re safe. Still in Altissia. I’ll call you later.’”

“Okay, and...sent!” The phone almost immediately buzzed in response. “That was fast! It says, uh, ‘Who is this?'"

Ignis sighed. “You didn’t use any punctuation, did you?” He probably didn’t spell Altissia correctly, either.

“No. Why would I?” The utterly earnest way Prompto responded made Ignis sigh again. Bloody hell, he thought. So much for putting Val’s mind at ease. And buying him a few more hours for a miraculous recovery.

“Well,” Ignis said. “Best to tell her the truth.”

“‘It’s Prompto.’” Prompto narrated aloud as he typed. “‘Iggy’s here too.’”

Ignis nodded for him to send it, internally cringing at the thought of how Prompto was butchering the written word.

He settled back on the pillows stacked against the headboard, sipping his Ebony, his hand drifting to the skull charm nestled between his collar bones. At least that was still there, attached to the chain around his neck. He never would have forgiven himself if he’d lost it; it was only a thing, a small piece of jewelry - but also a part of her that he’d carried with him on this long, hard road. He couldn’t bear to lose that, not now.

“Um...” Whatever it was that Prompto sat on squeaked and creaked, undoubtedly due to his constant fidgeting. “You feeling any better?”

“From the hour when we last spoke?” Ignis asked, trying not to frown since it caused him so much pain.

“Well, it was more like three hours ago, but, yeah. Dumb question. Sorry.”

Ignis sighed. “No, I...you needn’t apologize. I appreciate the concern for my well-being. And this.” He tipped the can of coffee in Prompto’s direction.

“Well, duh.” Prompto sounded...embarrassed? Uncomfortable? Ignis was quickly realizing just how difficult it was to judge someone’s mood based solely on the sound of their voice.

“So, uh... Are you sure you don’t want to tell me about your girlfriend?”

“Pesky little bugger, aren’t you?” Ignis grumbled.

“Oh, my bad.” Prompto snickered. “I mean ‘girl-space-friend.’”

“I’m honestly shocked you were aware such a phenomenon existed,” Ignis said.

“Hey! Iris is totally a ‘girl-space-friend.’” Prompto then added, under his breath, “She is pretty cute though...”

Ignis almost felt the ghost of a smile grace his lips. “I would strongly caution you not to say that in front of Gladio.”

“Dude, I know,” Prompto replied. “But like, your ‘friend’...”

My duty comes first, Ignis almost caught himself saying. But Prompto wasn’t questioning his priorities. “What about her?”

“I dunno,” Prompto said, most likely shrugging. “...Is she hot?”

“Prompto.” This time Ignis did frown, in spite of way it caused the wounds on his forehead and cheek to scream.

Prompto’s sheepish laugh was interrupted by the ringing of Ignis’s phone. “Hey, speak of the devil,” he said. “It’s her.”

“Blast it,” Ignis muttered.

“You don’t want to answer?”

“Seems I have little choice.” Ignis held out his hand. “Some privacy, if you please.”

“Right, right.” Prompto handed the phone over and shuffled out the door.

“Hello? Is this Prompto?” Valeria sounded panicked. “I want to talk to Ignis. Right now.”

“Val.”

He heard her let out a long sigh of relief. “Iggy! Thank the Six. Are you alright? Why did that kid have your phone? I thought you might be in a coma or something.”

“I’m very much awake, I assure you.” Beyond that, he wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to worry her, but he couldn’t lie to her either.

“I heard half of Altissia was underwater. Both the Hydraean and the Empire attacked. I don’t...it’s like the world’s gone mad, Iggy.”

“Well, they attacked one another. Which went about as well as you can imagine in a crowded city.”

“Is everyone okay?”

“Gladio and Prompto are fine. Noctis remains unconscious with fever, but the medics assure us he’ll pull through. Lady Lunafreya...” Ignis sighed. He was dreading giving Noctis the news. “Lady Lunafreya is gone.”

“The Oracle’s dead?” Valeria’s voice sounded very small on the other end of the line.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Why...Gods. Why are they doing this?”

A dozen political and economic reasons came to mind, but after wading through water stained red with blood, Ignis could only shrug. “I don’t know.”

They sat in silence for several moments until she caught him. “What about you?”

“What?”

“You mentioned all the others. What about you? Are you hurt, Iggy?”

“I...” What could he say? That it wasn’t serious? That it wasn’t permanent? Even in the absolute best case, neither of those things were true. “It’s not life-threatening.” He knew that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy her, but part of him needed her to coax it out of him, to ease him into this new reality.

“Ignis.” Valeria’s voice was quiet, concerned. “Tell me what happened. Please.”

Ignis took a long draught of his Ebony, trying to steel his nerves. He wasn’t keen on reliving what had happened down at the pier, but knew the sooner he did, the sooner he could start to move past it. And Noctis was going to need him when he woke up.

“We were evacuating the citizens on the lower levels of the city. The Empire - well, as I said, their attempts to shoot down the Hydraean caused much collateral damage. I remember the flash as the mortar exploded, the Imperial craft in the distance...then everything went dark. When I next awoke, I was here, at the First Secretary’s estate.”

“Oh, Iggy...” He was glad she couldn’t see him like this - weak, blind, bandaged up - but part of him wished she were here, by his side, holding his hand and assuring him it was all going to work out in the end. He had to be a certain way for the others - they needed him to be a step ahead, to be in control, to have a plan. With Valeria, he could just be what he was - terrified and in pain.

“Did you...did you hurt your hands?” she asked. “Is that why Prompto was on your phone?”

“No.” If only he’d had enough time to react, to bring them up to protect his eyes. But both his arms had been full, carrying that injured woman and her son. “It, ah... It went off near my face.”

“Oh my Gods, Ignis...”

Ignis tried to keep his voice level, clinical. “Barely a concussion, which was quite lucky under the circumstances. And I’m told the sight in my right eye should return after the swelling goes down.” That wasn’t entirely accurate; the medics had told him his vision might return in some capacity. But he had to be optimistic until he had a reason to be otherwise.

“And...your left eye?” Valeria asked. Her voice was shaking.

It throbbed in response. “They managed to save it, although it won’t do me much good.” He heard a noise that sounded like a sob on the other end of the line. “Val? Val, please don’t cry. Not for me. I’ll be alright.” His days of throwing knives might be over, but if he got his vision back on his right side, he would be fine. Mostly.

“But it’s not alright. You’re hurt.”

“And it could have been much worse.” He recalled the sensation of drowning with a shudder. If Gladio hadn’t found him when he did, it was likely the Hydraean’s waves would have swept him out to sea for good.

“You don’t have to do this, Iggy,” she said. “You don’t have to be strong for my sake. It’s okay to be sad, or scared, or...whatever it is you’re feeling. You can tell me.”

Ignis took a deep breath to center himself. “Thank you, Val.” He was scared. He was absolutely terrified. “Could you just...just tell me about your day?” Take me somewhere else for a while.

“Of course, Iggy. Of course.”

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