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#shattered to pieces impossible to reassemble
penguinsblues · 2 months
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comfort is suffocating
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elryuse · 24 days
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THE SCENT OF JASMINE FLOWERS
WONYOUNG X MALE READER X GAEUL
TAGS : LOVE TRIANGLE, CHEATING WONYOUNG, LIGHT YANDERE GAEUL, ANGST, HAPPY END, FLUFF
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The city lights blurred past the taxi window, a kaleidoscope of neon mirroring the turmoil within me. Each raindrop hitting the pavement echoed the hammering in my chest. Wonyoung was gone, not physically – she still shared our apartment, a ghost haunting its familiar walls – but emotionally, her heart stolen by a cruel mirage.
Sunghoon. The name felt like a curse word on my tongue. He was everything I wasn't – loud, flashy, the center of attention. Wonyoung, my sunshine, my Wonyoung, had been lured by his supernova glow, leaving me in the cold, desolate space he left behind.
We were the perfect couple, or so everyone thought. Public appearances, stolen kisses on award shows, our social media a testament to a love people envied. But behind the curated feed, cracks had begun to show. Her lingering glances at Sunghoon, the whispered conversations during interviews I couldn't decipher.
I buried my head in the sand, clinging to the illusion of our happiness. Until the day I saw the message. A careless text left open on her phone, a single sentence that shattered our carefully constructed world.
"Meet me tonight, baby. Can't wait to see you again."
The phone slipped from my grasp, crashing onto the coffee table like a gunshot. The once-sweet scent of her perfume in the air turned suffocating.
Days bled into weeks, a hollow space where Wonyoung used to be. Calls went unanswered, texts ignored. The guilt gnawed at her, I knew, her apologies echoing in a phone call that replayed on a loop in my mind. But the words, laced with a desperation I no longer recognized, rang hollow.
My saving grace, my lighthouse in this storm, was Gaeul. Wonyoung's best friend, always a presence on the periphery of our relationship. Now, she was the constant by my side, a silent pillar of support.
Nights were the worst. Sitting in the living room, the echo of our laughter bouncing off the walls like a cruel ghost. Gaeul would sit beside me, a warm presence against the chill that enveloped me. Her hand, a grounding force.
One night, as sobs wracked my body, a flicker of something new sparked in her eyes. Not pity, but a hesitant understanding. A silent confession we both acknowledged but couldn't yet voice.
Wonyoung returned, a broken bird with tear-streaked cheeks. Her apologies were a torrent of words, a desperate attempt to rewind time. But the pieces of our love were scattered, impossible to reassemble.
My heart, once overflowing with love for the girl with sunshine hair, was now a barren landscape. The thrill she craved had left her empty, the excitement a fleeting mirage.
Gaeul was different. Her love was a quiet flame, a steady warmth in the storm. Her eyes held a depth I hadn't noticed before, a quiet strength that complemented my own.
As Wonyoung packed her things, a ghost leaving the life she'd built, a flicker of hope ignited within me. It wasn't the same fierce love I once held for Wonyoung, but it was a spark nonetheless.
Looking at Gaeul, her hand resting on mine, I finally found the words that had been lost, choked by sorrow.
"Gaeul," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "I think… I think I might be falling for you."
The rain outside had stopped, replaced by a sliver of moonlight peeking through the clouds. A new beginning, fragile but hopeful, stretched before me. The love I once had for Wonyoung, a vibrant flower, might have wilted, but from its ashes, a different kind of love bloomed. A quiet love, a steady flame, waiting to be nurtured.
Timeskip
The scent of jasmine, once a sweet reminder of Gaeul's calming presence, now made my stomach churn. It clung to the air like a ghost, a stark contrast to the cloying perfume that filled the apartment when Wonyoung reappeared.
"Y/n," she breathed, her voice trembling like a teardrop. She stood in the doorway, my name a soft plea on her lips. Her blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. The Wonyoung I knew, the vibrant sunshine girl, was gone, replaced by a fragile wisp of a woman desperate for redemption.
"Wonyoung," I mumbled, unsure of what to say. Gaeul was away for the weekend, visiting her family. A selfish part of me, a flicker of the love that still flickered like a dying ember, welcomed this unexpected visit.
"Can I come in?" she pleaded, her voice a mere whisper. I hesitated, the image of Gaeul, her hand intertwined with mine, flashing in my mind. But Wonyoung's watery eyes were too much to bear.
"Just for a bit," I muttered, stepping aside.
She moved like a wisp, collapsing onto the couch I used to share with Gaeul. The scent of jasmine mingled with the heavy perfume, creating a suffocating mix.
"I miss you, Y/n," she confessed, her voice barely audible. "I miss us."
My heart clenched. The memories flooded back – stolen kisses in backstage corridors, whispered secrets under a blanket of stars. But that time had passed, replaced by Gaeul's quiet strength, her unwavering support.
"Gaeul..." I started, but she cut me off.
"Gaeul is kind," she said, her voice laced with something bitter. "But she doesn't understand you like I do."
She took a step closer, her hand brushing against mine. The touch sent a jolt through me, a betrayal of the fragile peace I'd found with Gaeul.
"We could try again, Y/n," she whispered, her voice husky. "Forget Sunghoon, forget everything. We can be like we were before."
Her words were a siren song, a desperate attempt to rewind time. The Wonyoung I once loved stood before me, but the ghost of Gaeul's hurt loomed large.
"Wonyoung..." I began, searching for the right words.
Suddenly, the door creaked open. Gaeul stood there, framed by the entrance, a dark cloud behind the veil of her hair. Her face, usually radiating warmth, was set in a mask of cold fury.
"Gaeul," I stammered, the air thickening with tension.
Wonyoung, sensing the shift in atmosphere, whipped around, her eyes widening in surprise.
"What's going on here?" Gaeul asked, her voice devoid of its usual gentleness. It was a voice I'd never heard before, a low growl that sent shivers down my spine.
Wonyoung, flustered, stammered an explanation. But Gaeul cut her off, her gaze fixed on me.
"Y/n," she said, her voice a chilling whisper. "Is everything alright?"
The question hung in the air, an accusation disguised as concern. The possessiveness in her voice, the way she clung to the words "everything alright" like a lifeline, was unsettling.
"Yes," I lied, my voice thin. "We were just… catching up."
Gaeul's gaze never left me. It was an intense scrutiny that made me feel like a bug pinned under a microscope. The jasmine scent, which once offered solace, now felt like a suffocating prison.
Wonyoung, sensing the hostility, opted for a graceful retreat. Mumbling a quick goodbye, she practically flew out of the apartment, leaving an unsettling quiet behind.
Gaeul turned to me, her eyes filled with a storm of emotions. The love, the possessiveness, the anger – it all swirled together in a terrifying cocktail.
"Don't let her manipulate you again, Y/n," she hissed, her voice tight with barely concealed rage.
I opened my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. The Gaeul I knew, the comforting presence, seemed to have vanished. In her place stood a woman I didn't recognize, a woman consumed by a love that had turned possessive.
The night that followed was a blur of accusations and justifications. My apartment, once a haven of peace, became a battleground. The love triangle that had started with Wonyoung's infidelity had now morphed into a suffocating web of possessiveness, with Gaeul as the spider at its center.
As the sun peeked through the blinds, casting harsh light on the wreckage of the night, I knew things couldn't go on like this. My once cozy apartment, filled with shared laughter and the scent of Gaeul's jasmine tea, now reeked of tension and the cloying perfume Wonyoung had worn.
Gaeul sat on the couch, her back ramrod straight, arms crossed tightly across her chest. Gone was the gentle touch that used to comfort me, replaced by a cold, unyielding demeanor.
"Gaeul," I started, my voice hoarse. "We need to talk about this."
She finally looked at me, but not in the way I craved. Her eyes, usually sparkling with warmth, were hard and calculating.
"What is there to talk about, Y/n?" she spat. "Wonyoung just waltzes back in after breaking your heart, and you're ready to fall for her all over again?"
"No," I said, trying to defend myself. "I just... I don't know what happened last night. It was wrong, and I'm sorry."
Her lips turned into a thin line. "Sorry doesn't fix things, Y/n. You need to make a choice. Me or her."
The ultimatum hung heavy in the air. The Gaeul I knew wouldn't have issued such an order. This possessive stranger felt like someone I barely recognized.
"Gaeul," I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "We haven't even…"
"Haven't even what?" she snapped. "Haven't confessed our feelings? We've been there for each other through everything, Y/n. Isn't that enough?"
Her voice cracked on the last word, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the facade. But the possessiveness remained, a dark cloud clouding her love.
The truth was, it was enough. Gaeul's unwavering support had been a lifeline during the storm of Wonyoung's betrayal. Yet, the way she was acting now felt suffocating. Did I love Gaeul? In the aftermath of Wonyoung's heartbreak, maybe it was a form of gratitude, a comfort zone I'd settled into.
"Gaeul," I tried again, "I need time."
Her eyes narrowed. "Time for what, Y/n? To run back to Wonyoung's arms the moment she bats her eyelashes at you?"
"No," I said, more firmly this time. "Time to figure out what this is, between us. This possessiveness… it scares me."
The anger in her eyes flickered momentarily, replaced by a flicker of sadness. "Is that all I am to you, Y/n? Just a possession to be claimed or discarded?"
My heart ached. The Gaeul I knew wouldn't have spoken like this. The love that bound us, now twisted by her possessiveness, threatened to unravel completely.
"Gaeul, you're not just a possession," I said, trying to reach her. "You're my friend, my support system. But… but this isn't healthy. We both need space."
She stood up abruptly, her movements jerky and tense. "Fine," she spat, the word laced with hurt and anger. "Have your space, Y/n. Just don't come crawling back to me when you realize you threw away the good thing you had right here."
With that, she stormed out of the apartment, leaving me alone with the ghosts of the night and the deafening silence in its wake.
The following days were a blur. Neither Gaeul nor Wonyoung contacted me. The space I'd craved felt more like a desolate wasteland. The apartment, once a haven, felt empty without the comforting scent of jasmine tea or the familiar warmth of Gaeul's presence.
As the days turned into weeks, a strange realization dawned on me. My feelings for Wonyoung, once a passionate inferno, had dwindled to embers. The betrayal had left an indelible mark, a permanent scar on our relationship.
What about Gaeul? The possessiveness that had initially scared me, now felt like a twisted reflection of the love she held for me. A love that, however distorted, was genuine.
One evening, I decided to take a chance. Armed with a bouquet of jasmine flowers, I stood outside Gaeul's apartment, my heart pounding a nervous rhythm against my ribs.
After a long wait, the door creaked open. Gaeul stood there, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed.
"Y/n?" she said, her voice thick with surprise.
I held out the bouquet, the jasmine flowers radiating a comforting scent. Gaeul's gaze softened, a flicker of recognition replacing the initial shock.
"Gaeul," I began, my voice rough with emotion. "I messed up. Big time."
She didn't say anything, but her eyes held a silent invitation to continue.
"I was scared," I confessed, taking a deep breath. "Scared of losing you, scared of letting go of the comfort you offered. But my fear twisted your love, turned it into something unhealthy."
The vulnerability in my voice seemed to resonate with her. A single tear escaped her eye, tracing a glistening path down her cheek.
"I don't want Wonyoung," I continued, my gaze meeting hers with newfound clarity. "The woman I miss is the one who brought me jasmine tea in the mornings, the one who held me through the night when my heart ached. The woman I love is you, Gaeul."
A hesitant smile bloomed on her face, as beautiful as the first flower peeking through winter's frost. She stepped closer, the scent of jasmine mingling with the warmth of her body.
"Gaeul," I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "Can I… can I kiss you?"
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Her eyes fluttered shut, a silent permission. As our lips met, a spark ignited, a gentle flame rekindled by honesty and second chances. The kiss wasn't fiery or passionate, but filled with a quiet understanding, a promise of a future built on trust and love.
The weeks that followed were a whirlwind of apologies, forgiveness, and cautious exploration of this newfound love. We talked for hours, peeling away the layers of fear and misunderstanding.
One evening, as the city lights twinkled outside our window, casting a warm glow on the apartment once filled with tension, I knelt before Gaeul, holding a small velvet box.
"Gaeul," I said, my voice thick with emotion, "You were my friend, my rock, and now you're the love of my life. Will you marry me?"
Tears welled up in her eyes, a radiant smile breaking through the dam. "Yes," she whispered, her voice choked with happy tears.
The following year, surrounded by friends and family, we exchanged vows. The jasmine scent filled the air, a symbol of love, comfort, and a second chance. As I looked into Gaeul's eyes, brimming with love and joy, I knew I had found not just a wife, but a partner who understood the complexities of love and was willing to work through them.
The love triangle that had threatened to tear my life apart had ultimately led me to the one person who truly mattered. And with each passing year, the love we shared, nurtured by honesty and trust, only grew stronger.
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erabundus · 8 months
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@roleplay-abiogenesis2 &&. said... What's this? There is a suspicious oversized box left right in the middle of the road. How big? About big enough to contain a Ren-sized individual, maybe. [100% Accurate Inazuman History Facts Inside] read the words in meticulously applied paint. [NO REN ALLOWED], a signpost nearby informs. [THIS IS OBVIOUSLY A TRAP!] is spelled on a paper sign hanging around the neck of an old man who appears to have been paid to just kind of stand there. Not that someone like Ren would fall for the elementary tricks of reverse psychology, right?
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the  wanderer  stands  motionless  in  the  center  of  the  road,  one  hand  raised  to  tip  back  his  kasa.  he  wonders  if  he  should  be  INSULTED  by  the  display  —  assuming  this  isn't  some  manner  of  elaborate  JOKE,  than  is.  if  the  intention  is  to  inspire  amusement,  he's  still  waiting  for  the  punchline.  do  they  actually  believe  he's  so  foolish  as  to  fall  for  a  trap  so  obvious,  so  juvenile  in  all  of  its  transparency  that  it  quite  literally  includes  a  sign  displaying  its  duplicitous  nature  for  the  world  to  see?  he  has  half  a  mind  to  sweep  this  entire  mess  away  with  a  flick  of  the  wrist  —  shred  it  into  so  many  tattered  pieces  that  reassembly  would  be  rendered  wholly  impossible.  perhaps  that  is  the  only  reason  why  the  faux-saboteur  behind  this  infantile  display  sought  to  include  a  BYSTANDER  in  the  mix.  a  dangerous  game,  if  so;  there  was  a  time  not  too  long  ago  where  that  wouldn't  have  stopped  him.
tongue  clicks  to  shatter  the  SILENCE.  the  wanderer  slowly  resumes  walking,  stepping  carefully  around  the  spectacle  —  he's  not  entirely  convinced  there  aren't  more  traps  hidden  out  of  sight.  perhaps  that's  merely  giving  the  creator  a  bit  more  CREDIT  than  they  deserve,  however.  in  any  case,  he  certainly  isn't  going  to  give  this  sad  display  more  of  his  valuable  time  than  he  already  has.  what  do  they  expect  him  to  do?  sit  in  the  box  like  a  particularly  self-satisfied  house  cat?  the  nerve.
❝  ...  ❞  but  what  if  there  really  is  something  inside  the  box?
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in  an  instant,  he  returns  to  the  scene.  (  heralded  by  howling  anemo.  )  the  wanderer  narrows  his  eyes.  he  isn't  going  to  climb  inside  —  he  isn't  a  FOOL.  so  be  it,  then.  there's  only  one  thing  left  to  do.
he  flips  the  box  over  and  SHAKES  IT  —  violently.
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pinkestmenace · 2 months
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More Thoughts About Dark Meta Knight
After reading @desultory-novice discovery about Moonlight Mansion and it's suspiciously shaped decorations, Dark Meta Knight has been rotating in my mind again and the whole double agent thing still seems pretty plausible to me. Just because Dark Mind was his master doesn't mean he joined willingly. He doesn't strike me as a guy who happily takes orders. Maybe something wrecked 'his' mansion (and potential allies) and Dark Mind preyed on his despair and frustration? And then messed up his mind and memories to make him a servant.
I've talked about this before in my whole "Mirror, Mirror, From the Sky — Who's the Wickedest and Why?" theory and minific, but it's entirely possible he was rebelling with what little autonomy he still had by creatively interpreting his orders or finding loopholes. He did technically cut Kirby into pieces and sent Meta Knight to 'meet his maker'. Malicious compliance, anyone?
Think about it: he does a number of things that are counterproductive to Dark Mind's goal of taking over the Mirror World. Splitting Kirby into four when that would create more problems for them to keep track of? He's never shown antagonising Shadow Kirby. He was able to defeat Meta Knight, but didn't kill him. Instead he locked him up and shattered the inner Dimension Mirror. But not only does that keep Meta Knight locked in there, it also kept Dark Mind locked in there with him! If Dark Mind were to question his loyalty, Dark Meta Knight could easily spin that as "Look, Master. I have an offering for you. To show my devotion I'll let you have the honour of killing my counterpart." and secretly saddle Dark Mind with a dilemma.
After all, Meta Knight's sword (which may or may not be Galaxia) is shown to be highly effective against Dark Mind. Now Dark Mind has to either:
Risk being hurt by Meta Knight while disposing of him. (Thereby weakening him enough for DMK to break free or finish the job!)
Stay quiet and hidden. (And thereby allow DMK some breathing room to hatch his own machinations!)
Then there's the matter of the Mirror Shards. Instead of grinding them into dust or keeping them on him and hiding where Kirby would never find him, he spread them through the Mirror World and left them with the bosses. This makes life harder for Kirby, sure, but not impossible. (Almost like it's a gauntlet to test him...hmm.) He even lets Kirby have a shard himself. He wasn't unconscious after being defeated. He warped away and left that shard behind of his own volition. Almost like he was fine with Kirby reassembling the mirror.
After all, the half-repaired Dimension Mirror stands practically unguarded in the Central Circle the entire game. At any point he could've returned and shattered it again. But he didn't.
Which makes it all the more tragic that he ends up being trapped in that mirror when he somehow comes back to life. Beaten, humiliated and trapped, and for what? Doing what little he could to protect his world, something he never asked to be responsible for?
I don't think Dark Mind was too happy with him for this, though. Dark Meta Knight's max HP when you fight him in the mirror is reduced from 60 to 48 and he becomes much more aggressive. And this time he shatters instead of warping away. Almost like he was already hurt from being punished and then forced to give everything he still had to prove his loyalty.
Grrraaaahhhhh, I crave DMK backstory! I am so normal about him!
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bookaddict24-7 · 2 years
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RECO OF THE WEEK!
I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter by Erika L. Sánchez
Synopsis: 
“Perfect Mexican daughters do not go away to college. And they do not move out of their parents’ house after high school graduation. Perfect Mexican daughters never abandon their family. But Julia is not your perfect Mexican daughter. That was Olga’s role. Then a tragic accident on the busiest street in Chicago leaves Olga dead and Julia left behind to reassemble the shattered pieces of her family. And no one seems to acknowledge that Julia is broken, too. Instead, her mother seems to channel her grief into pointing out every possible way Julia has failed. But it’s not long before Julia discovers that Olga might not have been as perfect as everyone thought. With the help of her best friend Lorena, and her first kiss, first love, first everything boyfriend Connor, Julia is determined to find out. Was Olga really what she seemed? Or was there more to her sister’s story? And either way, how can Julia even attempt to live up to a seemingly impossible ideal?”
___
Check out my short review here. 
Add this book to your TBR on Goodreads here.
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Have you read this book? Would you recommend it?
___
Happy reading!
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Hispanic Heritage Month: Fiction Picks
Celebrate the beginning of Hispanic Heritage Month (September 15th - October 15th) with one of these fiction picks! 
I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter by Erika L. Sánchez
Perfect Mexican daughters do not go away to college. And they do not move out of their parents’ house after high school graduation. Perfect Mexican daughters never abandon their family. But Julia is not your perfect Mexican daughter. That was Olga’s role. Then a tragic accident on the busiest street in Chicago leaves Olga dead and Julia left behind to reassemble the shattered pieces of her family. But it’s not long before Julia discovers that Olga might not have been as perfect as everyone thought. Was Olga really what she seemed? Or was there more to her sister’s story? And either way, how can Julia even attempt to live up to a seemingly impossible ideal?
A Long Petal of the Sea by Isabel Allende
In the late 1930s, civil war grips Spain. When General Franco and his Fascists succeed in overthrowing the government, hundreds of thousands are forced to flee in a treacherous journey over the mountains to the French border. Among them is Roser, a pregnant young widow, who finds her life intertwined with that of Victor Dalmau, an army doctor and the brother of her deceased love. In order to survive, the two must unite in a marriage neither of them desires. As unlikely partners, they embrace exile as the rest of Europe erupts in world war.
Gods of Jade and Shadow by Silvia Moreno-Garcia 
The Jazz Age is in full swing, but Casiopea Tun is too busy cleaning the floors of her wealthy grandfather’s house to listen to any fast tunes. Nevertheless, she dreams of a life far from her dusty small town in southern Mexico. Yet this new life seems as distant as the stars, until the day she finds a curious wooden box in her grandfather’s room. She opens it - and accidentally frees the spirit of the Mayan god of death. In the company of the strangely alluring god and armed with her wits, Casiopea begins an adventure that will take her on a cross-country odyssey from the jungles of Yucatán to the bright lights of Mexico City - and deep into the darkness of the Mayan underworld.
Sabrina & Corina by Kali Fajardo-Anstine
In this magnetic story collection, Kali Fajardo-Anstine breathes life into her Latina characters of indigenous ancestry and the land they inhabit. Set against the remarkable backdrop of Denver, Colorado – a place that is as fierce as it is exquisite – these women navigate the land the way they navigate their lives: with caution, grace, and quiet force. This volume is a moving narrative of unrelenting feminine power and an exploration of the universal experiences of abandonment, heritage, and an eternal sense of home.
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gcldfanged · 6 months
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Tseng knew that, beside himself, the closest person to Veld had probably been Jae-hyo. Sometimes he wondered if he hadn't been intended to take over leadership for years before he did, if Veld would have wanted Jae to do it. As they stood now, Tseng doubted Jae would be able to hold up under the pressure. And... He was glad he didn't have to shoulder it.
Tseng didn't talk about Veld anymore. But...
"Here." He sets a gun down on Jae's desk. "I was going through some old storage. It was his. Its yours now, if you want it."
He doesn't say the name. Veld had changed his weapons out around the time he'd lost his arm - his new ones better fitting the prosthetic. This was a remnant of the time before that.
He recognizes it.
It was a beautiful gun- 10mm auto that combined a long slide and extended barrel for improved velocity with a high magazine capacity. Jae can even remember it's impossible weight between his knobby fifteen year old hands, not loaded but otherwise intact- Meant to familiarize himself with the real deal and not some toy playing at being a real weapon.
But it had been a hard sell.
"You want to be like me? Here. Go paint the town red," Verdot had said, dismissive as he loaded bullets into a magazine and pushed it across the length of the table. Jae stared at the gun, recalled the way he'd watched the elder man take apart and reassemble it from pieces. He picked the gun up in his dominant hand and pointed it downrange, keeping his index finger off the trigger. Uses the tip of his finger of his supporting hand to feel out the tip of the bullet to determine if the magazine is facing the correct way from a tactile standpoint- so he can do it even in the dark. He pushes the magazine in firmly with the heel of his hand, just like he'd seen Veld do it the night previous. He pulls the slide back and releases it to load the chamber, but does NOT follow it up with a forward push the way the movies make you think you need to. The child looks back into Verdot's hazel gaze in a challenging fashion, as if to say "Well?" and moves to the adjacent window, supporting his wrist with his left hand as he fires at a line of empty parked cars across the asphalt, shattering driver's side windows, windshields, and side mirrors. He puts the safety back on and gently sets the pistol back in front of the elder male, who is clearly shocked, but there's a certain gleam in his eyes that makes Yoon's chest swell with pride.
The agent stares down at his former mentor's sidearm dispassionately, taking it between his gloved hands as though it's made of cracked glass.
Jae-hyo's thumb releases the slide and he points the barrel at Tseng, staring at the carefully applied huazi on his forehead, stone-faced and silent.
Then he smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his feline eyes, releasing the grip so it flips magazine side up in his outstretched palm.
"You sure you don't want it? They don't make 'em like this anymore, y'know. You could've gotten a pretty nice chunk of change from an avid collector..."
His lips form a tight line and he strokes a finger along the muzzle slowly, thoughtful.
"Thank you. I'll be sure to take good care of it."
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yaldev · 11 months
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Sky God
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MB was content, if guilty. Hers was a modest life of peace without toil, sustained by the collected donations of a cult long crumbled. There was no malice in her neglect, only despair: their god was an old rock, and once Deft was reassembled, what was there left to do but wait for the sign? So they waited, waited until even MB recognized that the foretold Flood was a misinterpretation.
This state of affairs lasted until an hour before her death, when she awoke from a spell-induced nap—one of two spells she knew—and found the world was ending. She dug through drawers for her keys, fired up the old all-terrain vehicle, and rolled her eyes at the meaningless religious baubles dangling from the rearview mirror. The truck started with much difficulty—it sounded as rusty as it looked—and charged toward the apocalypse as fast as traction would allow, breaching the Ashlands one last time.
These weren’t the Ashlands as she knew them. The ground was still dust, but it had an uncharacteristic moisture that clung to her wheels. She rolled down her window, and the air was less sterile. A physical relief, a rational panic. As the Flood closed in the Southern horizon glowed with violent pinks and reds, the clouds shifted by the all-destructive waters below. By the time she was close, the soil was damp with mystic waters.
Even if MB forgot the way, it would be easy to find. The Ashlands were so deserted, so devoid of the breath of life and wind that the treads from her last departure were still visible. They marked the way to the center of her cult’s operations: the machine that reassembled the pieces of a dead god. But as she approached the ground that housed the device, she caught other tracks along her ancient path, headed the same way. Others had been here. Had the cult of Deft continued in her absence? There was never anything to do out here but build sandcastles, weep for the folly of mankind and have lung cancer.
MB’s suspicion was confirmed when she found empty land where the machine once was. Her heart sank. Yet the moon was still here, a spherical boulder with obvious hairline cracks. If the cult survived her abandonment and whisked away the contraption, surely they would have taken the moon with them. This was the work of scrappers, who would have torn the mechanism to pieces and sold it for raw material. MB didn’t know whether that made her feel better or worse.
MB stepped out of her truck, felt the ground squish under her shoes, wetting her feet. The machine’s only purpose was analyzing the shards and fitting them with each other. To be reborn, Deft needed a spell, needed mana to fill its cracks and mend its injuries. MB knew the spell. She’d learned it for her disciples, but she’d never studied the magical arts, nor the Aethereal sciences. The source of her power was a faith she had no longer held.
Her toes stung. Gone were the flakes of ash: the wastes were submerged in a shallow puddle of liquid chaos, eating away at matter, at History, at her ankles. If the machine was gone, then Deft was the last evidence of the significance MB once held. She owed it to herself to put this sky god where it belonged.
MB rose a hand to the heavens, digits moving in accordance with an ancient sign language. Deft was about more than her. This was for her vanished congregation, to whom a promise was made when the impossible Flood would strike. And more than that, it was for the ancient progenitors before them, the extinct believers in a great bird, the Master of Wind and Rain, for whom the celestial object closest in the world, most vigilant in its watch, was named. She felt their pain in her heart, balled in her fist, creeping up her legs.
The line ran from ancient sages to princes and kings to the greatest bastion against Pelbeean tyranny. There it shattered into a hundred stone fragments lying in Original grass, and watched in silent awareness while Yaldev, absent its rightful ruler’s protection, was brought low. The line ran through the hands of every lunatic who built the machine, dug up the pieces, and brought every pebble back together.
Determination wasn’t faith, but it was close, and in the midst of a sorcerous armageddon it was enough. Her nimble fingers had pulled the tides up through the cracks, suffusing the rock with the stuff of potential, tying its body in the shape it bore in life with a metaphoric thread made real. The biggest shards flew first, the smallest last, and above the inspired gestures of its final disciple, the moon was rebuilt.
The winds above MB were torrential. Almost immediately her god rolled away in the sky, hurtling North. That was the direction of town, but also Origin. She wanted to go with him, but her truck was slow, and her legs were melting into protoplasmic goop. Only the waves had a chance to keep up, so MB stifled her whimpers, conjured herself a spell-induced nap, and splashed forward.
Deft soared through the heavens toward the lands that killed him. This he had to see.
---
Yaldev is a sci-fantasy worldbuilding project by Ulysses Maurer, with art by Beeple. By looking at narratives, stylized loredumps, bad poetry and little details, we'll witness the story of a planet filled with magical power, the nation which tried to conquer it, this empire’s dramatic collapse and the new world which emerged in its wake. Along the way we'll meet the characters who live here, and we'll explore questions about nationalism, rationalism, the natural world and the quest to master it. For all stories in chronological order, check out the pinned posts at r/Yaldev!
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hellpontifex · 1 year
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‘ i sowed the seeds. i’ll prune the mess. ‘ for Riley!!
ANSWERED ASK    —    for @vihilum​ ( RILEY )
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        A LAUGHABLE PROMISE.     often does optimism blind, a thick curtain separating fantasy and acceptance. how very human was it, to insist that the shattered pieces of calamity could be at all reassembled.     
“    the thick vegetation of your shortcomings will prove impossible to abate. the soil is already lubricous with blood    —    the fault on your shoulders. can’t you feel them? fetid vines, snaking up your ankles. it is only a matter of time before you are haled into the dirt to choke on your sin.    ” 
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howtofightwrite · 2 years
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How viable are whip swords in actual combat? I know things like the Urumi existed in real life, but would something like the Sword of the Creator from Fire Emblem 3 Houses be feasible? I feel like that's probably a fantasy-only weapon, but they sure do look cool.
The difference here is that the urumi exists, and, as far as I know, that's as close as reality has ever gotten to a whip sword. The other real examples would be multi-section staves (usually, three section), and various flails.
Fire Emblem's Sword of the Creator isn't possible. Meaning, from an engineering standpoint, it would be impossible to build the weapon using modern technology. It might be possible at some point in the future, but even then it would be more of a novelty.
The issue with the Sword of the Creator is that it's a segmented blade which snaps apart into multiple segments. These segments need to be able to separate enough for there to be play between them when the sword is in whip mode, but latch together securely enough that it will function as a sword in combat. That's not possible with non-magical means. So, you have a weapon where, "if it was real," it would snap apart, unpredictably, in combat. To put this in technical terms, "that's a very bad thing."
This isn't a problem with the in-setting item, because it's a magical (or, at least pseudo-magical) artifact. So, being able to instantly fuse or shatter the blade, and convert it into different modes is plausible enough.
This biggest issue for viability with weapons like this, and this includes the Urumi, is the danger the weapon poses to its user. There's a real risk of the sword bouncing off an object, and whipping back on the user. With enough skill and experience, you can mitigate this, but it creates a significant skill floor, that makes the weapon impractical for general use.
Obviously, the Urumi does exist, and weapons that pose a significant danger to an untrained user are defensible worldbuilding. (Lightsabers come to mind.) It's also possible that the Sword of the Creator is actually intelligent, or at the very least, guided by its user, to the point that it isn't really a whip, and more of a, serpentine weapon. Again, this plausible for magic (or technology from the other side of Clarke's Law.)
Are weapons like this viable in the real world? Not really. There's no way to engineer a sword that can break into pieces, and then reassemble itself with anything even approaching the needed level of stability. You may be able to make a display piece, that exhibits the behavior, and that would be a piece of visually interesting art, but it wouldn't be a usable sword.
Incidentally, these are the same issues with Bloodborne's Threaded Cane. Visually, it's an amazing weapon, but, completely impossible to produce, and actively dangerous to the user.
In fiction, weapons like this are pretty easy to excuse if they offer enough entertainment value to the audience. It's not a coincidence that both of these examples are from video games, and so you're presenting the audience with a visual spectacle. Like you said, they look cool, and I fully agree. You're also presenting the audience with a play experience (which unique to games), and that can also help to sell the audience on a weapon, even when it's not particularly plausible. However, it does make translating weapons like this from a visual media into written prose particularly tricky, and outside of games (whether that's tabletop or video games), being able to simply provide a power fantasy to the audience isn't, necessarily, going to be enough to sell them on a cool new sword, no matter how awesome it is in your mind.
-Starke
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calumxkisses · 3 years
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Sweet Creature | c.h.
pairing: calum hood x reader
genre: angst to fluff
warnings: i think implied smut?
summary: request - Heeyyy, can you do one, where they have a big fight and they are in quarentine, and they stop talking to each other, and the sleep in different rooms, with cal... kiss from brazil 🇧🇷
a/n: this is one of my favorite song! let me know what you think about it! i hope you enjoyed it ;)
you should read this imagine while listening to: sweet creature
“What the hell is wrong with you?” a scream comes out of your lungs. Your face has turned red, your head hurts and you feel your heart pounding. Your throat is now dry and you feel your nails sticking into the palm of your hand.
What Calum notices, however, are the tears running down your face and the pain behind your eyes. What hurts him the most, though, is knowing he is the cause of your pain. He would like to hug you, tell you that he is sorry, that he loves you and that he doesn't even remember why you are fighting, but his pride prevents him from being the person he would like to be. The person you are in love with.
“All you do is whine.” he screams out, rolling his eyes and letting out a snort.
This discussion was the straw that broke the camel's back, filled by being forced to stay at home, by a canceled tour and canceled parties but, above all, by the concern of a world that is in chaos, with a fatal virus that spreads like wildfire.
He is worried, he feels the burden of not having to disappoint anyone, of being a good person who says the right things, of being a child who cares about their parents who live on the other side of the world and cannot go to visit, reassure, and that he can only see through a mobile phone screen.
“I have a right to be angry, you know that, right?” Your voice calms down a bit, but anger still runs through your veins. You walk up and down the room, with one hand on your forehead and being careful not to step on the broken glass of the fallen vase.
Calum has spent the last few weeks in the studio, out in the garden practicing, or locked in a room, anywhere but with you. He preferred to wake up early and go to sleep late, feel cold instead of holding you and skipping meals to avoid being with you.
For the first time in days, you get a good look at him: his hair has grown, as has the beard surrounding his face, he has terrible dark circles and the vein on his neck comes out prosperous, underlining how much he is screaming.
You felt abandoned, alone, left on the sidelines, and your feelings were amplified by the impossibility of going to someone, just to escape from that situation, to be held by someone else or just to talk over a coffee with a friend.
The only thing you could have done, was to ask him why, what you had done to deserve such treatment, and to spend some time together. And that’s where the scream started.
Tears roll down your face and you run your hand under your eyes to wipe them away. If you didn't notice them before, now the pinch caused by their wake has become hard to ignore.
“Are you going to cry now? God, you’re making me regret being with you. I really wish you weren’t born.”
Calum feels the pain it caused you before even reading the expression on your face. He puts his hand in front of his mouth in hopes of being able to block the words, but they have already left his lips and have come straight into your ears, getting stuck under your skin and breaking even the last pieces of the broken heart you have left.
His words hit you like a bolt from the blue. Arguing often leads to saying unthinkable words and among all the things you've been yelling at each other in the last hour, some bad words have certainly escaped, but nothing so terrible.
You feel a pain in your chest never felt before, deep and intense, and even the tears stop flowing. You inhale deeply, seeking relief in a breath of air and waiting for your body to react in any way, all is better than feeling full of pain. The room starts spinning, your head feels full and empty at the same time, and your legs struggle to bear the weight of your body.
Calum carefully scans your face, looking for any reaction from you to understand how much your mind has absorbed his words. His stress, his worries have led him to be a different person and the fear that you may leave him has terrified him, but his insecurities have done the opposite of what one expects, making he walk away from you and treating you coldly, and now he fears that he is really on the verge of being alone, with his broken heart in his hands, ready to mend every wound himself.
You didn’t deserve this.
“I can’t do this anymore. Not with you.” You whisper, lifting your face and looking him straight in the eye. The words he used, the coldness of his tones and the loneliness in which he left you have piled on top of each other on your chest, making it difficult for you to even breathe. You need time, space, whatever helps you figure out what to do.
“What do you mean?” He asks in a shaky voice. His eyes are glossy, his hands are shaking and his face has lost color. His heart carries so much goodness and you know it wasn't his intention to hurt you, but his words were like stab wounds and you need to take care of them now.
You don't want to leave, and not because you can't take a plane, but because Calum means too much to you and leaving is not an option to consider. If it ever ends up between you, after all you've been through, it should be in a more dignified way and not because of a stupid fight and insincere words.
“I’m going to sleep in the guest room for a while and then we’ll see what to do.” Is all you can say and all you can do.
“So you’re not leaving?”
“I don’t think so, at least not now.”
Silence.
And that silence means everything and nothing.
You pick up the pieces of your shattered heart and, after casting one last look at the boy in front of you, you take refuge in a room that doesn't belong to you. The air in the guest room is different, you can't breathe the love that characterizes every corner of yours and Calum's and even the sheets seem different, cold, painful. You put a hand through your hair and lean on the door, slowly sliding towards the floor and letting go of your frustration.
Calum closes his eyes and puts his hands to his face as his body slumps onto the sofa behind him. The house reigns in silence, the only audible sound is your sobs in another room and, before he knows it, he starts crying too. He doesn't care about wiping his face or stopping the moans that come out of his mouth, he deserves to feel awful and humiliate himself like that, the guilt is devouring him and he just thinks about how he wishes he could disappear, to make your life easier.
When you first met, he knew you were the right person from the first look you gave him. Behind your eyes, deep in the irises, there was a whole world, made of kindness, love and joy. You had your demons, but the strength you emanated made it clear that you were able to overcome them, even without knowing it. A world that he wanted to discover, with delicacy and patience, and in which he wanted to live.
But what he feared most was bringing darkness into the light you emanated, turning your smiles into tears and your heart into a mass of sharp pieces.
He had told you, while you were eating some heated pizza on a rainy morning, your legs were on his and your face on his shoulder. And you had caressed his face, wiping away the dirt on his lip with your thumb, assuring him that you would have love him anyway and that you would have happily shared some of your light, and then you had kissed him, and that kiss tasted like tomato sauce and love, a combination you still love with all your heart.
And now, the only thing he can do, besides pitying himself, is wondering if you're regretting sharing your joy with him, if you'd rather stay full of light instead of welcoming his demons. And he fears your answer is yes.
Duke rubs his face on his leg, asking for scratches but also showing his affection. He doesn't know what happened and Calum wonders if the dog, who loves you more than any other person has crossed the threshold of your home, would look at him differently knowing that he broke the heart of the person he loves most.
If so, as his mind is trying to convince him, he couldn't handle it. He would not be able to live knowing that he has let down another being he cares about. Because he cares about you, but it is difficult for him to show it, the fear of rejection is stronger than he would like.
So, he lowers himself a little and gently strokes the dog, hoping to be able to receive that affection he is so afraid of losing.
As Calum's world shatters before his eyes, you take care to gently reassemble what's left of yours. You're still on the floor, getting up takes too much energy and a motivation that you can't find.
How you feel about the guy down the hall cannot be described in words, there is no way to describe what his gaze makes you feel, the way his words reassure you or how his love warms your heart up. It just works like this. Your love does not need big gestures or difficult words and never like now, it is better to absorb the silence and be lulled by the air.
Perhaps it would have been better to remain silent, let the cold of his words slip on you and learn to live in the loneliness in which he left you, but you couldn't go on like this. Not fighting would have meant not caring about him or your relationship and that's exactly the opposite of how things are. He had to know how you felt and what you were missing.
The sweet sound of his voice or the warmth of his skin are essential for you, not only on a love level, but in the daily routine of your life. A routine that had changed, which was no longer full of joy and smiles, light and perfume, but of demons that wandered undeterred around the walls of your home, ready to bring the cold into your souls.
And that routine, once full of love, was now non-existent. No more words had been said between you, no meal had been eaten together and your bed had forgotten what love meant. The stars, ever present witnesses of the passion that surrounded your bodies, were now always absent, covered by gray clouds and black skies. Even the moon, which guards all lovers, shone with a paler and more blurred light.
The moon gave way to the sun, the grass grew and the days alternated on the calendar. And yet, it seemed to you that you were still still that afternoon. Sure, breathing had become less difficult and the tears had stopped flowing on your face, but even in the middle of spring the coldness brought chills on your body.
You have no idea what he is doing, occasionally you see the shadow of his shoes behind the door of the guest room or you hear broken melodies coming from the studio, but his face becomes more and more unknown.
You spend your days studying, working, playing with Duke or reading your favorite books. You wake up late and go to sleep early, hoping to feel less lonely.
The truth, however, is that you miss him immensely, like water in the desert or milk after eating spicy food. You need to be able to get lost in his eyes or just hold his hand. The headache meds don't work like his kisses on your forehead, and no number of blankets could bring you the same warmth that a hug from him gives off.
You feel so pathetic to need him by your side, but after so many years of loneliness, he was able to convince you that you were worthy of being loved just like everyone else and, specifically, that he would love you more than anyone else. And he had done it, always and anyway, for the sake of the joyful news and the bad of your depression, he had always been there, ready to show you that you were worth it.
He wants to do it, he wants to continue to hold you and to tell you how beautiful you are, how honored he feels to be the keeper of your heart and the champion of your love, but he believes that no apology would bring serenity to your sky.
What is he supposed to do? No words would express the humiliation he feels whenever he thinks back to your fight and his behavior, no hug or kiss would bring love into your broken heart.
He spent his nights awake, the insomnia caused by his thoughts was making it impossible for him to live. The table seemed too big and the bed too uncomfortable, the bass was always out of tune even as he spent hours adjusting its strings and no melody seemed catchy enough to lift your mood in the other room. He knew that when you were sick, listening to him play brought some peace to your troubled world, but now no sound would chase the bad weather away.
None of his gestures would be enough to show how bad he feels. Nothing can express the pain he feels and the regret of his words.
However, 3 years of relationship is enough for him to know what makes you smile. There is one song in particular, in the immense repertoire that is your music library, that you love to hum and listen to when the silence is too loud.
So, wearing his best shirt and trying to fix the clump of his hair, he sits down at the piano in the living room and, after taking a deep breath, he tries to voice his thoughts.
Sweet creature
Had another talk about where it's going wrong
But we're still young
We don't know where we're going
But we know where we belong
And oh we started
Two hearts in one home
It's hard when we argue
We're both stubborn
I know, but oh
As you put down your favorite book after reading it again, Calum's sweet, broken voice spreads throughout the house, bringing a sense of comfort to your heart. You can hear the pain behind his voice, and even though you know your wounds will take some time to heal, the words he screamed at you lose their value. One part of you is still angry but the other, curious and in love, wastes no time getting you out of bed and walking towards the room.
The piano overlooks the garden, the sun shines above and illuminates all the plants. Duke is chasing a butterfly, its tail wags quickly and some leaves are stuck in its fur. Calum has his back to you, his back leaning slightly forward as he looks outward, but his mind wanders somewhere else.
You lean on the door jamb that separates the two rooms and close your eyes, letting yourself be carried away by the music and breathing regularly, giving your body respite from all the accumulated stress.
Sweet creature, sweet creature
Wherever I go, you bring me home
Sweet creature, sweet creature
When I run out of road, you bring me home
Sweet creature
We're running through the garden
Oh, where nothing bothered us
But we're still young
I always think about you and how we don't speak enough
Calum watches the garden as the lyrics of the song automatically come out of his mouth. He was never good at playing the piano but, during the nights spent away from you over the years, he promised himself to learn all your favorite songs so he could sing them to you whenever you needed them.
And while Duke rolls around in the grass, he can't help but think about the thousand picnics you had on that same lawn, the laughter you shared and all those moments when he always fell in love a little more looking at you.
And even if the song doesn't belong to him, he can still feel every single word and a small tear falls down his face.
And oh we started
Two hearts in one home
I know, it's hard when we argue
We're both stubborn
I know, but oh
Sweet creature, sweet creature
Wherever I go, you bring me home
Sweet creature, sweet creature
When I run out of road, you bring me home
You take a few steps forward and, after taking a deep sigh, sit next to him. Calum winces at the contact but his face turns into a big smile after seeing you. He doesn't know if you're still mad at him or if his singing worked, but being able to see you again after so many days spent in agony brings a sense of peace to his messed up world. He knows that this song is not enough, that he will have to prove a lot more to you - even if you will probably forbid it - but knowing that he has you there, frees him from a weight that he carried inside.
And as usual, there is no need for words, he just needs to feel your head resting on his shoulder to know that you have come back to him. And when your hands touch his, he feels at home again.
Almost automatically, your hands begin to move to the rhythm of the music and your fingers touch the keys of the piano, accompanying Calum in the melody, just as he taught you.
Duke is rolling in the grass, the butterfly now forgotten, and his happy face is illuminated by the sun. It seems that the sky has returned to shine too, not just your eyes, and the pieces of the puzzle fit together perfectly again.
I know when we started
Just two hearts in one home
It gets harder when we argue
We're both stubborn
I know, but oh
Sweet creature, sweet creature
Wherever I go, you bring me home
Sweet creature, sweet creature
When I run out of road, you bring me home
You'll bring me home
There was no need to talk to him, or to explain, risking losing you was necessary for him to understand that something was wrong, that he had to find the right path, that you can risk skidding, the important thing is getting back on track.
“I am grateful to your mother for bringing you into the world, but even more grateful to you for being a part of my life. I'm sorry for what I said, I didn’t mean it. I love you and I always will.” He whispers, placing his hands on his thighs, as soon as he finishes singing the last words. His words are sincere, you can perceive the displeasure behind his tone and you know he believes what he says.
He kisses you on the forehead and, taking your hand in his and squeezing it, he rests his face on your head, closing his eyes and absorbing the silence, a cautious silence, full of peace and fresh air.
“I love you too.” You whisper back, closing your eyes in turn and letting yourself be lulled by the peace and serenity found. You know that everything will be fine, that even if you’ll have other fights, you will always find a way to get back to each other.
-
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Text
From the Dining Table
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader, Sam Wilson x Reader
Summary: Sam decided to visit the Reader and her daughter in the months following Steve’s death.
Word Count: 2k
Rating: T
Warnings: a child, mentions of infertility, mentions of a miscarriage, talks of pregnancy, mentions of loss, death, feelings of loneliness, depression, grief
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Y/N looked exhausted.
Sam watched from his seat at the kitchen island as she bounced the crying infant in her arms, trying to soothe little Sarah Rogers. The bundle of pink was screaming her, upset at everyone and everything. Y/N smiled at him apologetically, holding her child with one arm while the other went to work grabbing a bottle from the fridge.
"I don't know if you can tell, but I wasn't her favorite parent." Y/N tells Sam, only joking slightly as she pops the lid off the bottle with one hand. She cradles her daughter carefully before giving her the bottle, silencing her cries. A smile stretches across her face, happy that her child's cries had stopped.
Y/N had been dealt a bad hand by the universe.
Steve and Y/N had tried for years to have a baby. Both of them had desperately wanted a family, wanted some slice of normalcy in their lives. At first, in that first year they were married, it had been fun, playing that guessing game each month. They weren't seriously trying then, just letting whatever happen to happen. Then as one year turned into two, they got a little more serious about the whole thing. Both of them did everything they needed to do-they got tested to make sure everything was working right, did everything the doctor told them to do. Dozens of false positive pregnancy tests had plagued them in those first two years, constantly getting their hopes up old to rip that all away. Trying in the third year was halted by the Sokovia Accords and the team fighting each other. Y/N and Steve both thought it would be a bad idea to try to have a child while they were on the run, so they stopped their efforts. The fourth year had brought heartbreak when Y/N had actually gotten pregnant for the first time, but lost the baby before she was twelve weeks along. They tried a few times in the fifth year, months after Thanos had snapped his fingers and wiped out half of the galaxy. It had felt wrong though, to be trying to bring life into the universe when so much loss had just occurred. In the span of the five years that everyone was gone, Y/N had been told she was infertile. She just had to grin and bear it, helping Pepper and Tony take care of Morgan whenever they asked. Steve and her just sort of gave up, not wanting to deal with all of the heartache for the rest of their lives.
It was towards the end of their ninth year of marriage, their ninth year of trying to have a baby, someone smiled down upon them. As an early Christmas gift, Steve and Y/N received a positive pregnancy test. They were incredibly cautious, doing everything to the 'T' to make sure that they child would be okay. And in August, Y/N gave birth to a beautiful baby girl- Sarah Rose Rogers, named Sarah after Steve's mother. Things were great until October, when they had to fight against Thanos one last time to make things right and Steve decided he would much rather go back in time to be with Peggy, coming back an elderly man.
He died a few months later, right after his daughter turned five months old.
"How are you doing?" Sam asks quietly, not wanting to disturb the hungry child. Y/N sighed softly, looking up. She had deep dark circles under her eyes, clearly showing that she hadn't been getting much sleep. Her cheeks didn't look as full, making Sam wonder if she wasn't eating.
"I'm surviving. It's definitely difficult, trying to balance everything." Y/N replies, her eyes glancing back down at her daughter, "It's-Everything is all new to me. Most of the time I think I'm doing everything wrong."
"When was the last time you slept?" He questions, shifting on the bar stool. Sam felt guilty. Steve had asked both him and Bucky to look after his wife and child, to make sure that they were doing okay without him. Sam hadn't. He had other things to deal with-such as trying to readjust to this new world and talking to his family-so checking on Y/N had slipped his mind. Yet as he looks at her, taking in every little detail, Sam knows that he should've been calling her more, should've talked to her more.
"I can't sleep." She answers honestly, leaving out the 'without him' that was sitting on the tip of her tongue. Y/N had been so used to sleeping next to Steve that she had found it almost impossible to sleep without him. She fights the urge to yawn as she continues, "Besides, it gives me time to take care of things around the house. There's always a ton of laundry to do and I have work -"
"Woah woah hold on, you're supposed to be on leave, Y/N." Sam announces, raising an eyebrow at her. Y/N continues to feed her daughter as she glances up at him, her lips pressed tightly together.
"I'm not going to sit here and twiddle my thumbs, Sammy. I-I need to keep myself busy." Y/N replies, her voice wavering. She withholds the words that want to follow. I don't want to think about him. Sam turns his head, his eyes landing on a box sitting in the table that sat in the kitchen. A layer had dust had gathered on top of it. It probably hasn't been touched since it had been placed on top of the table. Written across the side of the box in black ink was PICTURES + RIBBON BANNERS. Things from the funeral, he realizes, left in the box to collect dust.
"Are you going to therapy? Like we talked about?" Sam questions, his voice a lot softer, like he's talking to a child. Y/N's shoulders seemed to slump and her mood starts to sour. She looks down at her daughter, who is blissfully unaware of what's happening around her. When Sam asked if he could come over, she should have assumed that he was going to act like this but she didn't. Y/N had thought he was just coming over to visit, but then again that should've raised some alarm. Like everyone else after Steve was put in the ground, Sam had left to live his life. Y/N had to struggle with being a new mother and living without Steve all by herself. No one offered their help or checked in to see how she was doing. The only one who she talked to was Rhodey, but that's because they worked together.
"You thought about him didn't you? That's why you're here. Something reminded you of him and then you thought of me." Y/N replies, the emotions leaving her voice, "Because if you did care, you would've called or texted or something."
"Y/N-" He starts, but Y/N quickly cuts him off, pulling the now empty bottle away from her daughter's mouth. Sarah looks up at her mother, her little hands rubbing at her eyes. The baby shifted in her mother's arms, trying to get comfortable. Y/N carefully puts the bottle into the sink.
"No, no don't try to tell me that you came here on your own volition, Sam. You don't text me, you don't call, you don't try to talk to me for a few months and all of a sudden you want to drop in?" Y/N sighs, shaking her head, "I-I appreciate you coming here, I really do, but don't waltz in here suddenly concerned over me."
They stay silent for a moment. Sam knew she was right. He had kept himself busy and as the days passed by, Y/N and what she might be going through slipped from his mind. It wasn't until last week when he was asked by someone about how Y/N was doing. He knows that he should've been making sure she was okay. Y/N had been one of his closest friends before Thanos snapped his fingers. He had watched her and Steve's relationship blossom and bloom. Hell, he had been Steve's best man at their wedding. He should have been right there for Y/N, should have been her shoulder to cry on after Steve had been buried, should have helped her take care of Sarah, but he hadn't. He had decided to run away, leaving her behind, leaving her to reassemble the shattered pieces of her life by herself. Sam had gotten to move on with his life. Y/N couldn’t.
"I'm sorry. I know that should've called and made contact after the funeral. I know that I should've come by. I just..." Sam sighs, his eyes focused on her, "I didn't know what to say to you. I wanted to help, wanted to console you, but I-I just couldn't. I didn't know how to tell you that everything was going to be okay when I didn't know if it was going to be okay."
Y/N doesn't respond. Instead of looking at Sam, she casts her eyes on Sarah. The child yawns, stretching in her mother's arms. Sarah had her mother's eyes, but had her father's blonde hair. It shined softly in the light as the baby curled up against her mother. Sarah was all Y/N had left of Steve, her last reminder of how much she loved him. But as she looked at her sleepy daughter, she felt that familiar pang of heartache, the same one she would get every time she looked at Sarah because she was reminded that Steve had abandoned this sweet little baby, had abandoned Y/N to make a family with someone else, someone who probably didn't have to try for years to have a baby with him. Y/N wanted to direct all her anger towards Steve, but she had started to think about what things she might’ve done wrong, even though Y/N knew that there was nothing she could have changed to make Steve stay. He was the one who made that choice, he was the one who decided to leave, so he should be the one she was mad at, not herself.
"I-I've been doing everything I'm supposed to be doing. I go to therapy. I take my pills. I started working again so I have some sort of normalcy. I make sure Sarah is okay, I try to be the best mom I can be for her. I do everything I am supposed to do and still-I still feel bad. I feel so fucking bad all the time, Sammy." She suddenly announces, tears starting to pool in her eyes. Sam can feel his heart splinter in his chest as she continues, "I just-I don't understand why he left. He-He told me that he loved me every day and that he loved Sarah and I just....Why would he leave us?"
Sam didn't know how to respond to any of that. He didn't have an answer for her. He didn't know why Steve would leave his family. The whole situation confused him as well and left him with a bad taste in his mouth. The man who he had thought Steve was, that man wouldn't have just up and abandon his wife and infant daughter. No, that man would happy, over the fucking moon that he had a family. The Steve Sam knew wouldn't have left behind his wife and child to make a family with someone else, with someone who already lived a good life. Sam didn't understand what could have happened in those five years that would make Steve do that.
Instead of saying anything, he stood up and walked around the island. Sam carefully pulled her into his arms, making sure sweet little Sarah didn't get squished in between them. The infant looked up at him, probably wondering who the hell he was. Sam held the two of them in his arms as Y/N cried, her shoulders shaking with her sobs. Her child rested in her arms, completely unaware of what was going on.
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Don’t Be Scared, I Love You
Summary: JJ is shot and Emily's world stops spinning
Tags: whump, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, fluff, protective emily, NO mcd
Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Jennifer Jareau 
Word Count: 1.7k
Masterlist // Read on AO3
Emily has always been skeptical of ‘slow motion’ disaster moments. She’s been an active government agent working in the field for over a decade — that’s to say, she’s witnessed her fair share of tragedy — and it’s never quite that dramatic. But when a bullet from an unsub’s gun embeds itself in JJ’s shoulder, for a split second, Emily is powerless to react.
She’s stuck in time: JJ falls slowly to the ground, her hair spreading behind her in a golden halo, and she barely registers the gunshot coming from Derek’s direction, the kill shot that takes down the man she hates the most in the entire world at this exact moment. Blood pounds in her ears as a sinking feeling of dread pools in her stomach, a cold kind of fear spreading through her body and freezing her joints, her muscles, her mind. There is only a singular thought circling through her head:
I can’t lose her.
It’s only when she hears JJ whimper in pain that she snaps back into action, protective instincts clicking into motion as she throws herself down at her fiance’s side, barely registering the impact the cold concrete has on her knees, only focusing on the beautiful woman fading in front of her eyes. Immediately, she lays her palm on the gunshot wound, applying deep pressure in an attempt to quell the bleeding. It’s the right thing to do, she knows it will save JJ’s life, but continuing feels almost impossible when JJ cries out in pain, her face crumpling.
“Jayje, Jayje, baby,” she says desperately, at a loss for words for a moment, “hold on for me, okay? Hold on. You’re doing so well. Oh, God, I love you so much. Hold on for me.” Vaguely, she hears Derek calling for a medic, but every iota of her attention is on JJ.
Deep blue, disney princess eyes meet hers. This is half a relief — JJ is still conscious, she can hear her, she hasn’t lost too much blood yet — and half a curse — JJ’s eyes have always been expressive. Right now they are conveying the pain of the worst agony one can inflict on another, and they are completely coloured with terror. Terror Emily has no way to diminish, no way to ease. How does one refute possibly the most rational fear there ever was?
She can feel herself crying. She vaguely hears the rest of her team around them, but right now her entire world has shrunk down to this moment, to the woman she’s going to marry next year, to the woman she longs to have children with. This is not altogether uncommon. Emily’s world frequently shrinks down to comprise only JJ: when they’re in bed together, small moments when they catch one another’s eyes across the bullpen or in a meeting, evening walks down the brightly lit streets of the city they love so dearly. It’s never as painful as this.
Derek has taken off his top and is moving Emily’s hand to place the balled material over the wound. He takes over applying pressure; Emily only notices this because it means she can focus the entirety of her attention on JJ’s face and not the profusely bleeding hole in her shoulder. The crimson blood dripping from her palm only serves as a reminder of how close she is to losing the love of her life. To being single again, a widow, a hopelessly miserable, never-to-recover, bereaved shell of a human being.
“Emily,” JJ whispers, and she’s crying, too. Her face is not hiding a single emotion raging through her, and while Emily usually finds JJ’s wobbly chin endearing, right now it’s purely agonising. “Emily, I’m scared.”
Emily has to bow her head for a moment and heave a single, shoulder-wracking sob that seems to tear though her throat with the same violence of the bullet that tore through JJ’s shoulder. She blinks the tears away and sniffs once before looking back up at JJ and offering her a watery smile, the absolute best one she can muster, and uses her clean hand to gently comb her fingers through her blonde hair, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead.
“Don’t be scared,” she whispers tearfully, brushing her thumb over JJ’s damp cheekbone, “I love you.”
“Don’t leave me,” JJ whispers back, tears still spilling down her cheeks, as they hear the sirens of the ambulance and a medic rushing into the warehouse, the floor of which will forever bear the stain of her fiance’s blood.
“I won’t,” Emily says through sobs she can no longer contain, “I won’t, darling, I’m here.”
“Promise?” JJ asks, visibly fading just as the paramedics arrive and ask Emily and Derek to make room.
“I promise, baby,” Emily cries earnestly, moving away just enough for the EMTs to do their job, just in time for JJ to completely lose consciousness.
⭐️
The hospital waiting room is warm, but Emily feels cold.
She stares blankly at the wall in front of her, a merciful sort of numbness taking over her body, leaving her far less frantic than the emotional wreck she was in the warehouse. It’s a kind of quiet far from peaceful, but she doesn’t have the energy to care. Her hands are so cold covered in JJ’s warm blood.
Spencer desperately tries to get her to come to the bathrooms and wash it off, but Emily refuses, just in case this is the last thing she has to remember JJ by. In which case, she has revolved to forever have a stained right hand as a permanent mark of her crippling grief. She will be branded by her devotion to JJ, and by the end that devotion came to.
Her only thought is of W. H. Auden’s poem Funeral Blues. It was read at her uncle’s funeral a few years ago. What a funny thing grief is: she could grasp the concept of such emptiness and utter misery filling your life after the death of a loved one, of course she could, but she’s never tangibly understood that kind of grief. She does now, and JJ — as far as she knows — is still alive. If she does lose JJ, though, she knows for an absolute fact that her life will forever lack meaning, lack purpose, lack joy.
Pour away the ocean, indeed, she thinks. Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Emily knows, academically, theoretically, the damage a bullet can do. The shoulder is a complex weave of nerves, muscles, bones, tendons, and arteries; really, it’s one of the most complicated pieces of human anatomy, so, naturally, a gunshot wound in that particular area is far from desirable.
Spencer tells her as they’re waiting that the amount of blood JJ lost indicates that instead of the bullet hitting the incredibly delicate network of blood vessels, which would have led her to bleed out in minutes, it instead shattered the joint. This is good news and bad news. JJ is still alive. But she will need reconstructive surgery. She may never regain full range of motion. She will need months, maybe years of physio. Emily doesn’t know if this is what she wants to hear or not, but she vaguely appreciates that Spencer is falling back on his academic knowledge of an incredibly emotional situation as a coping mechanism.
Not that anyone really doubted it, but Spencer is proved right by the doctor that comes to greet the family of Jennifer Jareau six and a half hours after they arrived.
“Ms Jareau’s humerus was shattered, and her clavicle and scapula did not get off scot free, either. Luckily, the bullet missed her large axillary vessels, which is the most consolation I can offer you at this stage,” the doctor explains kindly. “We’ve stabilised her condition through surgery in which we did our best to tidy her shoulder, but she will be needing a total shoulder replacement in the very near future. Though, I understand she resides in DC and is in well-enough condition to be transferred there for the major operation and ensuing recovery.
“I understand… Emily Prentiss is her next of kin?” she asks, consulting her clipboard.
Emily nods blankly, the reassurance that JJ is alive beginning to settle in, weaving its way into her heart.
The doctor smiles empathetically. “I can take you to see Ms Jareau now. Her sedation will be wearing off any minute.”
The world gradually stirs back into colour as Emily lays eyes on JJ, very much alive, blinking sleepily in her hospital bed. Her gown is carefully tucked around the bandage on her shoulder and the fabric sling her arm has made its home. She’s ever so pale, sweat beading on her brow from the pain, but she’s alive. Emily will not have to recite Auden in a Church built for a God she doesn’t believe in while the only person that made her believe in anything lies in a coffin. Alright, she thinks as she walks into the room and sits down next to JJ’s bed, the moon can be unpacked. The sun reassembled.
As JJ manages a smile, though, reaching her good arm out for her fiance, craving physical comfort and affection, Emily thinks that the stars don’t need to be relit. The one in front of her, broken as she might be, long as her journey to recovery is certain to take, is bright enough to put all of them to shame.
Emily can’t help but break down in tears of gasping relief as she clasps the hand JJ’s outstretched for her, gripping it tightly and bringing it to her face, kissing it gently before pressing it to her cheek as her crumpled eyes leak pitifully.
“Hey, don’t be scared,” JJ murmurs in her croaky, post-surgery voice as she echoes Emily’s words some seven hours earlier, “I love you.”
Emily can’t help but laugh happily through her relieved, messy emotion at that, leaning forward to press a warm kiss to JJ’s slightly chapped, pale lips.
“God, I love you so much,” she promises, so much sincerity behind her words that JJ tears up in response. “I’m gonna be here through every step of the journey ahead, you know that.”
“Yeah, I know that,” JJ whispers, as her face contorts, emotion twisting her throat in knots. “I never doubted it for a second.”
And, well. Doesn’t that just say everything Emily needs to hear.
Clasp me close in your warm young arms, While the pale stars shine above, And we’ll live our whole young lives away In the joys of a living love.
- I Love You, Ella Wheeler Wilcox
@strippersenseii @criminalmindsvibez
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ajokeformur-ray · 4 years
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Runaway // Patrick Verona x Reader // comfort.
Dedicated to @loveletterstoledger​. Short, I was just randomly inspired by our DMs so it’s only right I dedicate it to you, darling! Haven’t written for Pat for a while so might be a bit shit idk lmao enjoy!💗
Summary: It’s a... bad day. You need your gentle koala. He’s there.
Warnings for swearing. General reader. We all need this right now.
Word count: 1,015. (I know, it’s so short. But.)
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Today was... a bad day. 
That was all that you had told Pat an hour ago and you had left it there. 
You didn't want to talk about it. You didn't want to worry about it. You didn't even want to feel it. You just wanted to be left alone by everyone and everything. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. Everything was just too much and you needed to breathe and you couldn't and -
"Whoa, Y/N. Breathe, love."  As if he had sensed your distress was Pat in the room. He looked so relaxed to all who didn’t know him. But you did. You knew him and you could see the way that his jaw had set, the way that his chocolate eyes were fixed firmly on your face, the way that his fists flexed by his sides... he saw you and you watched him looking back at you.
So closely was Pat paying attention to you that he saw the exact second that your carefully maintained ceramic mask, the face which you put on every day, slid off your face and shattered all over the floor, never again to be put back together. But you would be. You would be reassembled as Pat would, with a gentle touch and reverent words, cradle your broken pieces. His love would be the gold which glued the cracks of your heart back together. He would patient with you and, oh, so lovingly would he nurture you back into yourself.
Never did Pat ask for you to be more than you most naturally were in any given moment. He never wanted you to be anything but your own self, whomever they looked like, and in your relationship was there a very real element of authenticity. You both said “I love you” and other such sweet but true things as often as you felt the need to. You both hugged and kissed each other, or not, as often as you wanted to. You were both yourselves and during moments like this, when you were aching to be anywhere else, to be anyone else, Pat was able to reach into the murky and uncharted depths of your psyche and help you to break through the surface of the water. You couldn’t speak, brought were you to the moment where words run dry. So instead could you only look at Pat, all the pain and every other emotion you were feeling right at the forefront and laid bare were you to be seen and accepted by him. 
Pat cooed in love and in understanding and he was by your side in seconds, his strong and warm arms reaching out for you even before he was fully beside you. He didn’t ask you if you were okay. He could see that you weren’t. He didn’t ask you to talk to him. He didn’t ask anything of you in this moment. Pat only stood there with you in his arms, your face pressed into his body as your mask well and truly disintegrated with little hope of it even being replaced for a good few hours. Tears sprung unbidden to your eyes and they fell upon Pat’s shirt like rain. He felt them fall, he felt you crumble, and he only stepped closer into you. He only held you tighter, as if his firm grip upon you could hold your scattered remains together long enough for all of the love which he held for you in his impossibly big heart to fuse those same pieces together, leaving nothing in its wake but gold as evidence of your hardship. 
Pat stayed with you, he stayed, and that meant more to you than anything else he could have done in your hour of need.
As your tears slowed, though they did not stop, Pat pulled back from you just enough so that he could cup your face in his hands. The calloused pads of his thumbs wiped away your tears and the look of empathy and of love on his face threatened to make you break all over again. Indeed did your breath hitch and Pat’s hands tightened on your face in response. He ducked his head so that he could look at you. “You’re not fine, are you?” It was obvious but Pat still felt the need to speak. He knew that you loved his deep and rich voice. WIthout waiting for you to respond, he continued, “C’mon, I think you need some cuddles, don’t you?”
You smiled. How well he knew you. 
Pat’s eyes lightened as he took in the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. “There’s my Y/N. C’mon, koala time.” His hands trailed down your face, down the column on your neck, down the curve of your shoulders, down... with a pointed tug on your hand and your body on fire, Pat walked with you to the bedroom with only one thing on his mind: being there for you, his Y/N, the one person who accepted him wholly without question or hesitation. No matter how dark things became, no matter how rough everything was, no matter how much you wanted to run away from yourself and from your current situation despite how literally impossible it was to do so, Pat would never leave your side. He would be there for you through the good, the bad and the ugly, and never would he stray from your side, from his home. For home is not a place, sometimes it is a person and they happen to be you, his Y/N. You weren’t okay and you probably wouldn’t be for a while, but that was okay; you had Patrick and he had you and together was there nothing you couldn’t overcome. Love is the greatest weapon of them all and the two of you keep yours fully locked and loaded at all times.
True to his nickname, once Pat had you in bed comfortable and cosy, surrounded were you by blankets and your favourite things and your Patrick, he clung to you like you were the last tree in the forest.
Patrick Verona @jokersspookyhyena​​  @itsthejoker @royaleclownx    @tsukiakarinobara    @arianatheangelworld  @antonija89 @hotpacino  @call-me-harley-quinn  
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readingwithravens · 3 years
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Book Review: I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter by Erika L. Sanchez
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As an AFAB Latinx, this book made me feel so many things. I think mostly, it made me angry because it made me remember.
How I heard about the book: Browsing through Goodreads
Summary (from Goodreads):
Perfect Mexican daughters do not go away to college. And they do not move out of their parents’ house after high school graduation. Perfect Mexican daughters never abandon their family. But Julia is not your perfect Mexican daughter. That was Olga’s role. Then a tragic accident on the busiest street in Chicago leaves Olga dead and Julia left behind to reassemble the shattered pieces of her family. And no one seems to acknowledge that Julia is broken, too. Instead, her mother seems to channel her grief into pointing out every possible way Julia has failed. But it’s not long before Julia discovers that Olga might not have been as perfect as everyone thought. With the help of her best friend Lorena, and her first kiss, first love, first everything boyfriend Connor, Julia is determined to find out. Was Olga really what she seemed? Or was there more to her sister’s story? And either way, how can Julia even attempt to live up to a seemingly impossible ideal?  
My thoughts:  This story was one of the heavier stories I’ve read and while its a fictional character it addresses so many very real things. Mental health, racism, classism, misogyny, abuse and toxic behaviors, grief and loss. My initial thought to a lot of these things is to get upset because having experienced a majority of those behaviors growing up and now through years of healing and unlearning I understand how so many of them are ingrained in mexican culture. I really did love the main character growth and loved that she was finally able to go to therapy, get the help she needed, communicate with her mother and chase after her dream.
Overall: Very emotion provoking for anyone who can relate to trying to move forward in life only to be met with resistance and learning to overcome despite it.
Recommendations: Definitely a heavier read, so for those looking for a heavy thought provoking read.
Rating: 4 out of 5      
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How Long Will You Stay With Me?//Obi Wan X Reader Forever series: Part 9
Summary: You heal from the painful news of your planet. (I’m so bad at summaries.) 
Word Count: 1K
Warnings: ANGST! but fluff as well! talk of depression, healing from trauma, some ROTS spoilers, a tik tok reference, typos and bad writing! 
A/N: So thinking this was going to be about 500 words I said it was going to be an epilogue....I was wrong! I can’t believe we are at the end of the series, thanks to everyone who enjoyed it and I hope you like the ending! I did make a post going into more detail about the series finishing here.
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The lazy evening sun danced across the ornate designs of the Jedi temple floor, bathing it in the soft colors of sunset as the sweet sounds of music echoed through the room, creating a sense of lazy serenity. 
You sat with your back against the cool wall, legs crossed, next to the small Twi’lek padawan you’d met so long ago, your treasured instrument placed in her small hands. Watching with the calm eyes of a mentor as she fumbled with the uke.
“Good, and if you put your finger down here,” you showed her the right fret and string. “You’ll get a G chord.”
“Like this?” She asked as she strummed. 
“Perfect! Both your faces lit up in unison in appreciation of her small triumph.
Several months had passed since the discovery of the devastating news regarding Earth. You had spent roughly four weeks of that time curled up in the apartment, reeling from the emotional blow that had shattered your heart. 
The grief of your loss had overwhelmed you, consumed you until you were nothing but a hollow shell attempting to reassemble the impossible puzzle that was your emotions. Day after day was spent in bed, trying in vain to gather yourself enough to get up and take care of things. But your grief weighted you down like an anchor, preventing you from fleeing the inner purgatory you resided in. 
Obi wan was by your side the entire time, reassuring you without judgment or pressure while also giving you the space you needed to heal. You couldn't count all the nights he had spent holding your numb  body in his arms until you the relief of sleep washed over you. His support and love meant everything to you.
But with time, you began to heal. Slowly, and with the assistance of the friends you had made in the past year, you began to put together your pieces, assembling yourself, reintroducing things you loved back into your life. You took up training again, spent time with the younglings, even let Anakin teach you how to pilot a speeder. (Something Obi Wan was not very happy about.) 
You knew in your heart and soul that the solemn weight of your tragedy would always remain with you, but you also knew that you had the strength to keep it from defining you. 
It was moments like this that helped, sitting here with someone so young and bright, taking a deep breath with the evening sun shining on you and passing on the things you knew. It was a gentle reminder that you were a part of something bigger than yourself, something beautiful and all encompassing.
As you and the padawan talked into the night, your laughter filling the almost empty temple, the sound of echoing footsteps against the marble floor reached your ears.
“Ah, thought I might find you here.” Obi Wan said as he appeared in the large door frame, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “It’s quite late you know, rather past time for all padawans to be in bed.” He teased.
“Oh, you can be such a downer Master Kenobi.” You shot back with equal teasing affection. “Besides, a little music before bed is good for the soul.”
“And so is getting enough sleep, why don’t we get you to the dormitories?” Obi suggests to the young girl. With a sleepy sort of smile, she places the uke back in your hands and gives you a quick hug.
“Thanks for teaching me some stuff Master y/n.” You were pleasantly taken aback by the title but accepted it with glee nonetheless.
“Sure thing! Now, get to bed.” 
You waited by the speeder for obi wan, hugging the uke in your arms as you watched the ships overhead, trying to count them as they flew by, an impossible task. You only gave up when you noticed a familiar figure approaching you.
“Hi there.” You said with a goofy grin as he neared the vehicle.
“Seems you’ve grown quite popular with the younglings, I’ve heard many requests to learn more of those ‘tik tok’ dances.” You laughed as he got in the driver's seat of the speeder.
“I’d like to see you try some tik tok dances.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” He chuckled, starting up the speeder and gently soaring into the horizon. As he took off into the streaming highways of the city, the two of you sat in a comfortable silence, letting the evening breeze brush over you. 
You snuck a glance over to your partner, letting your eyes take in every feature of him. His beautiful focused eyes that you could swim in for hours, His coppery hair, gleaming in the sunlight, his soft lips that you couldn't get enough of, and the dashing beard you had grown so fond of. Your thoughts drifted to all the other things as well you. His caring compassion, the way he held himself, how he fought so hard for what he believed in. How he fought so hard for you. 
Stars, how did you get so lucky?
“Hey.” you said, Your voice drifting over him like a soothing melody. 
“Yes?”
You moved your hand over the console to gently grasp his, letting your thumb lazily draw circles on the back of his hand. “I love you.”
He turned to you with pure adoration in his gaze as he too remembered all the both of you had been through. “I love you too.” 
                                                           ***
It had all happened so fast. In the blink of an eye the war was over, Anakin had fallen, and the empire had risen. It was almost impossible to wrap you head around the shock and grief. 
You stood next to Obi Wan, cradling baby Luke in your arms as you stared out at the tatooine sunset, the glowing desert light washing over you. Moving your gaze from the sunset and to Obi Wan, you could see the tired sadness in his eyes. Yet, behind it all, there was a hint of something else, something that you were feeling too. 
Hope. 
As long as you were with him, you knew you would have hope.
He took his eyes off the horizon to glance down at you and the bundle in your arms, a soft smile gracing his face at the sight of the sleeping baby. He then brought his gaze to, reaching his hand up to brush across your face.
“How long will you stay here with me?” He asked. You grinned at him, leaning into his warm touch.
“Forever.”
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