artificial lung

ithiliel-the-french-tolkiendil  asked:

Hello :) I loooooove your stories (and I'm very eager to read more of the Silent Song). Could you write something called "Reunion"? :3 I bet you know what I have in mind ^^ Please please please please :3 :3

@ithiliel-the-french-tolkiendil the prompt you sent in February…finally…


Summary: The Force-ghosts get together with some nice popcorn to watch the second death star blow up. Someone shows up just in time to join the party. Angsty…crack?

Serious, but…not…serious?

Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi, Qui-Gon Jinn, Yoda, Mace Windu, Tahl Uvain, Anakin Skywalker, Luke Skywalker

Qui-Gon Jinn keeps an eye on the inter-dimensional rift as he stirs more butter into this newest batch of popcorn. Behind him is a ridiculous scene; a room that could almost be a carbon copy of standard-issue quarters at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, but where one wall should be is instead a translucent barrier, shimmering in the Force.

A barrier between the living and the dead.

This dimension currently exists as a comfortable living area with three Jedi lounging upon sofas and meditation cushions alike (and one making popcorn) but out there…

There is a terrific howl of lightsabers just over the flickering border between the timeless world of the Force and the shadowed durasteel of the Death Star; Obi-Wan stands just at the edge, watching the duel between father and son with an inscrutable expression. The clash of plasma blades paint Obi-Wan’s face in alternating shades of crimson and emerald.

“Staring at them won’t make Luke win,” a baritone voice says.

“Quite right, Master Windu,” Obi-Wan murmurs, stroking a hand over his beard. “But I shall watch all the same.” His eyes never leave the duel, glimmering in the flashing lights.

Qui-Gon pours the popcorn into a bag, conjures a measure of Corellian honey, and sets to shaking the mixture with verve. The shaa-shaa of popcorn against plastifilm mixed with the screaming of the lightsabers almost drown out Mace’s next words completely.

“For stars’ sake,” Mace mutters, “I’ve been dead for about a quarter century now, you’d think he’d start calling me Mace.”

A good-natured harrumph sounds from somewhere behind Qui-Gon. “A Knight of the old guard, Obi-Wan is.”

Qui-Gon pours the popcorn into a bowl just as there is a lull beyond the portal.

“Good. Use your aggressive feelings, boy,” a gnarled voice declares nasally. “Let the hate flow through you.”

“And the prune speaks,” Tahl says, from where she is languidly sprawled across a sofa, feet propped up on one armrest. To a casual observer she would seem relaxed, but her green-gold eyes rest on Obi-Wan.

Qui-Gon stifles a chuckle as he turns around, setting the bowl of popcorn on the low table between the couches.

“Isn’t this a bit early for a celebration?” Mace says, sitting up. “You’re always one for optimism, Qui-Gon, but Luke hasn’t actually won yet.” His left hand grasps his right wrist, distractedly, a phantom memory.

“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” Qui-Gon deadpans.

Not amusing.”

“At all, Qui.”

Qui-Gon raises both hands in surrender to his oldest friends.

“Obi-Wan has taught you well.” The mechanised echo of Vader’s voice has all their heads snapping towards the barrier.

“What’s Luke doing?” Tahl says, suddenly. “He’s deactivated his lightsaber.”

Obi-Wan flicks blue eyes over to her; they are rimmed with moisture. “Being a Jedi,” he says, simply.

“I will not fight you, father.” Luke’s voice is quiet, and determined, and echoes in the Force like a cleansing rain.

Mace frowns, narrowing his eyes at the young black-clothed Jedi standing at the top of the steps. “He’s a shatterpoint,” he says, slowly. Then he straightens, suddenly. “They’re both shatterpoints.”

The Force shivers beneath their feet, awakening.

As the red-green flicker of Jedi against Sith starts up again, the masters drift towards the edge between worlds, drawn by the glimmer of the Force flowing there.

Master Yoda, on the other hand, stays back, gimlet eyes unblinking.

Qui-Gon places a hand on Obi-Wan’s shoulder, and feels the desert-thinned shoulder tremble beneath his fingers.

“Your thoughts betray you, father. I feel the good in you, the conflict.”

“There is no conflict.”

“Liar,” Obi-Wan whispers, so softly to be barely audible.

Qui-Gon tightens his grip.

Across the shimmering barrier, Father and son throw words back and forth; the Jedi stand silent, watching.

And then the world erupts in a shower of sparks as Vader hurls his lightsaber at Luke, who stumbles and falls as the catwalk he was standing on is sliced to shreds.

Mace mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “Skywalkers and their methods,” but then the cold chamber in the Death Star falls silent, save for Vader’s breathing, and the Force shudders.

Vader speaks, Vader senses, and Vader…

“Sister. So you have a twin sister. Your feelings have betrayed her to me.” Vader turns in swirl of shadow, and the barrier trembles at the weight of his anger.  “Obi-Wan was wise to hide her from me. Now his failure is complete.”

Obi-Wan makes a noise, behind a hand clamped over his lips. He does not look, in this moment, like a master.

Tahl moves silently to Obi-Wan’s other side, and wraps a bronze-skinned hand around his wrist.

“If you will not turn to the dark side, then perhaps she will.”

Luke’s change is like a torrent of pitch that hammers into the air beyond the barrier and paints the world black.

Qui-Gon flinches, and feels Obi-Wan flinch with him.

The screams of Luke and Vader’s lightsabers do not compare to the screaming of the Force, now.

And then it happens.

Vader goes down with an inhuman howl as Luke’s lightsaber cleaves through his wrist.

And the Emperor laughs.

Luke is shaking as the Emperor speaks.

“He’s about to shatter,” Mace says, quietly. “But I cannot see how.”

The Force roars into a crescendo. It will fall, or it will fly.

It does neither.

It sings.

“You’ve failed, your highness. I am a Jedi, like my father before me.”

Qui-Gon closes his eyes. He knows what will come next, even before the Emperor speaks.

Lightning flashes behind his eyelids, agonising white-rimmed blue, like Luke’s eyes, Anakin’s, Obi-Wan’s, his-

The screaming is worse.

It echoes back, back, twenty years and more, to graceful halls scored with blasterfire, and young voices shrieking in terror as blue-painted soldiers descend upon them, with a shadow at their head-


Under Qui-Gon’s fingers, Obi-Wan is deathly still.

The Force stirs at their feet, and whispers at them to open their eyes, and see.

Qui-Gon becomes aware there are hushed footsteps behind them; he turns his head, and is met with the vermillion eyes of Kit Fisto; the kindly face of Ki-Adi-Mundi; the gentle smile of Luminara Unduli, and face after familiar face, filling the chamber and beyond; Jedi come to see the culmination of their hope.

It is not the dark that gives Vader the superhuman strength needed to carry a Sith to its death, when lightning burns away his artificial lungs and heart and limbs; it is light from ten thousand Jedi, watching, and waiting.

The assembled Jedi sigh, and fade away, as Luke scrambles towards his father.

It is suddenly very quiet, in the chamber connected to the living world.

A single word breaks the silence.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs. “Anakin.”

Yoda steps up beside his four students, and watches with both hands on his gimer stick.

The five Jedi stand guard, throughout the sobbing and the agony and the sheer determination that allows Luke to drag his father down to the closest hangar bay.

And then Anakin speaks, and Luke listens, and Darth Vader’s helmet is pulled away.

Obi-Wan lowers his head into both hands when he sees Anakin’s face - or what is left of it.

The others turn away. This is a moment too private, and too full, for anyone other than father and son.

Qui-Gon pulls Obi-Wan away from the barrier, and in a moment, the scene beyond it has flickered away into a field of stars, and there, in the centre, hangs the second death star.

And then suddenly there is a sixth Jedi among them.

Obi-Wan raises his tear-streaked face from his hands and stares at his former apprentice.

Anakin - not looking a day above twenty-three - startles, glances around him, meets Mace’s gaze and flinches away, and then decides to stare at his own feet instead.

Qui-Gon pushes Obi-Wan into a seat, nudges Anakin over to him, and stuffs the bowl of popcorn between them.

“My children are stupid,” he says, clearly. “And they need to eat.”

The second Death Star chooses this moment to blow up. Spectacularly.

Mace waggles the intact fingers of his right hand in front of Anakin’s face and takes a handful of popcorn, which he then flings at the barrier.

A passing TIE gets a viewport full of popcorn before being blasted to smithereens by a pursuing X-wing.

With what seems to be a gargantuan effort, Anakin looks up and meets his former master’s eyes.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, voice breaking, “I’m so sor-”

Obi-Wan grabs a fistful of popcorn and smashes it into Anakin’s face.

It is almost a punch.

Anakin gags on a mouthful of popcorn and stares, wide-eyed, as Obi-Wan’s image flickers and re-coalesces into what General Kenobi looked like, at the height of the Clone Wars. No older than thirty-five.

Obi-Wan begins to smile. His auburn beard cannot quite hide it.

Anakin swallows. “Oh, you are so-”

Qui-Gon smashes a cushion into the side of Anakin’s head. It explodes (the cushion, not Anakin’s head) and rains Nubian duck-feathers down on all their heads.

Yoda begins to massage his temples. Mace seems to come to a decision, and reaches for a pillow the same time Tahl slips behind a sideboard and emerges with a bottle of Corellian champagne.

And then popcorn is flung into the air, and there is laughing and shouting and crying - mostly crying - and beyond the barrier, the remnants of the second Death Star glimmer like a second veil of stars over the diamond-studded cloak of the galaxy.

When they appear as a line of blue-hued figures, hours later on the forest moon of Endor, Obi-Wan has to reach over to pluck a feather from Anakin’s cloak.

If Luke is surprised, he does not show it. His smile shines bright enough for ten galaxies.


Thanks for reading whatever that was (the product of a wish not to write something cliche and whatever my imagination decided should happen). Mace Windu in that, I think, was more Samuel L Jackson than anything else. Reblog as you like!

This is like. The second-most crack thing I’ve ever written.

My fanfic masterlist (I usually write far more seriously than this, I promise)

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Who Would Follow a Sparrow?

Concept: The dragons the Shimada clan can summon are from the spirits of their ancestors.

Genji swore when the clan tried to have him killed he’d never be able to summon one again.

Genji kept a tight grip on his sword as he sat against his bedroom door. He ignored Angela’s insistence of a check up. He ignored Reyes’s demands for a report. He ignored Jesse’s gentle voice asking if he was okay.

No, he was not okay. He just summoned a dragon. A dragon had come from his blade during battle.

That should be impossible.

Keep reading

excess-of-cats  asked:

I have a cyborg character with artificial internal organs (lung, heart, etc.). She's a swordfighting adventurer so she tends to need a lot of repair. What's the best way for her cyberdoctor to repeatedly access the inside of her ribcage?

Ohhhh duuuuude so much Rule of Reality.

What’s the Rule of Reality, you ask? Stethy knows! Stethy?

[Image: an adorable anthropomorphic stethoscope. Text: Aunt Scripty’s Rule of Reality: You Break It, You Bought It]

Thanks, Stethy!

But what does this mean?

It means that this blog is based on human beings and 21st-century medicine. Once you’ve crossed either of those boundaries I’m no longer useful to you, because my knowledge falls away as you exit either of those parameters.

Essentially, once you’ve chosen to break the “human” category, I’m not so useful!

You’ve chosen to build a cyborg character, and that means you’re responsible for figuring out how that works. Do they have to do an open chest surgery every time? Does his skin unzip and his chest open with servos? Do they do everything with a wifi update?

It’s up to you. The power is yours!

xoxo, Aunt Scripty


Patrons are seeing crazy things like the freaking future. Wanna try it?

Free eBook: 10 BS “Medical” Tropes that Need to Die TODAY!  

Aphelion Zine Preview - “Trenches”

Pre-orders for the @aphelionzine​ Voltron writer’s zine start today! This zine has a lot of wonderful content made by very talented contributors and a wide range of Voltron ships to choose from! It was wonderful getting to write for it, and I really hope you guys check out and support this amazing project! 

Below is a preview of my contribution!

  • Title: Trenches
  • Ship: Sheith
  • Rating: Mature
  • Word Count: 9,980
  • AO3: commodorecliche
  • Summary: The Romanche Trench is a desolate and harsh place. It takes a certain kind of person to be able to live in one of the most isolated parts of the Earth, but it’s the life Keith chose. As a deep sea diver, he has been biologically modified to withstand the hostile environment as he helps maintain a research rig at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean. When his unmodified crewmates must return to the surface for decompression, a new diver named Shiro is sent to the rig to help him. Faced with another human who has chosen the same desolate life as he, Keith must come to terms with the fact that he may have missed human company more than he believed and that Shiro may be just as starved as he is.

Fic Preview: 

Keith stands in the airlock and tries not to think about his crewmates’ earlier comments. That sort of attitude is par for the course, at this point. He hits the release valve for the airlock and braces for the influx of water that’s about to come. Rover hovers patiently at his side. Keith knows that this process doesn’t bother the damn machine: why would it? But for Keith, it’s agony every time: a solid two minutes where his body believes that it’s drowning.

No one told him when he took this job that the abyss would swallow his breath every time he had to go to work.  

The room begins to depressurize with a sharp hiss, and his lungs follow suit. He exhales and steels himself: he can feel the weight of the ocean outside, aching to burst in. The intake ports in the bay open and water begins to creep into the room—it’s slow at first, but it rises faster with every passing second. Once the water is up to his waist, the cells of his diveskin begin to adjust and compensate for the sudden temperature change. It clings to his skin like paint and he can feel every fiber changing. The water continues to rise, and the diveskin shifts and expands between his toes and fingers to form artificial webbings.

When the water is up to his chest, the port on his side begins to open—Keith prepares himself to drown.

The first rush of seawater stings like a motherfucker. It burns his insides as it floods through his body. His artificial lung kicks into gear, adjusting and overpowering his other lung’s breathing capacity. His second lung is barely biological anymore, but it’s still more human than the other. It fills with water and suffocates while the artificial lung tries to remind Keith’s mind that he isn’t dying. His brain is only human though.

Once his head is underwater, the nictitating membranes under his primary eyelids take over. They sheath his eyes in milky whiteness and adjust their translucency to match that of the water.

It takes precious seconds, when moments become eternities, before his body realizes that he hasn’t actually drowned. Keith can feel the machinations of the artificial lung whirring in his chest. It filters the ocean water as it flows through his body, and extracts its oxygen so his body can function. The pressure of the water around him is close to uncomfortable—it’s only the adjustments the Garrison made to his bones and organs that ensure his body doesn’t turn to jelly beneath the immense weight of the ocean.

With his eyes adjusted beneath the milky membranes, Keith peers through the water to find Rover. The gizmo floats beside him now; its ports are covered and small propellers are poised at its sides so it can move through the water.

Keith taps at his ear to check his comm.

“Pidge, do you read?” he asks. His voice sounds broken, uneven—a consequence of the mechanical device installed on his vocal cords that allow him to speak despite the water coursing through his body.

“I read you. Proceed.”

The bay doors open and Keith sees nothing but the vast, empty darkness of the open ocean. If it weren’t for his lids and the modest headlamp on his head, there would be nothing but blackness to greet him. Blackness and God knows what else that lives in the abyss. Keith doesn’t wait for Rover; alone, he pushes himself out of the bay and into the nothingness that lies beyond.

The problem: More than 3,200 people are on the waiting list for a heart transplant in the United States. Some won’t survive the wait. Last year, 340 died before a new heart was found.

The solution: Take a pig heart, soak it in an ingredient commonly found in shampoo and wash away the cells until you’re left with a protein scaffold that is to a heart what two-by-four framing is to a house.

Then inject that ghost heart, as it’s called, with hundreds of millions of blood or bone-marrow stem cells from a person who needs a heart transplant, place it in a bioreactor – a box with artificial lungs and tubes that pump oxygen and blood into it – and wait as the ghost heart begins to mature into a new, beating human heart.

It’s most likely years off, but it’s a pretty sure bet it will happen.

Researchers believe the human hearts, just like the animal ones, won’t be rejected because they’ll be custom-made using the recipient’s stem cells. That means future transplant patients won’t have to take anti-rejection medication and won’t have to put up with the side effects that accompany those drugs: an increased risk of high blood pressure, diabetes and kidney failure. They won’t have to undergo dozens of heart biopsies. And they won’t have to worry about the pain, time and expense of a second transplant.

“I’m here on a training program at the hospital. When I am done, I will take what I have learned back to Papua New Guinea. This is a way Singapore is sharing expertise with the region.”

“What are you learning?”

“I’m a perfusionist. When someone has a heart bypass surgery, the heart is stopped for a while. My job is to operate the machine that takes over the job of the heart and lungs - the artificial blood pump which keeps the patient alive.”

Mind blown.

Genosai Drabble Fic !!


“Huh?” The pyjama clad male spoke in a drawl, eyes glued to the manga in hand. Not that he meant ill, but his nonchalant tone left the cyborg discouraged. How was he to appropriately, umm… As you’d call it, ‘confess’, if his master didn’t engage? Eyelids fluttering, he tried to hush the nagging thoughts, seeking serenity among the tides. With a heavy exhale, steam was excreted from artificial lungs, metallic joints stirring discord. His physicality had been finely tuned, bestowing upon him the qualities of a lethal weapon, yet his structures were manipulated by anxiety? The many times he sparred the most fearsome beasts, yet he barely shook an inch? Love really was something else.

“Hey Genos, you okay?”

Oh crap. Now he loathed his sensei’s ignorance a tad less, wishing he’d avert those prying eyes – it made him feel borderline translucent, exposing his flustered gears amidst the throes of love. If it were possible, his core would pound what remains of a ribcage, thrumming in unsteady rhythm. Damn Saitama’s soft lips, how they twist in inquisition, almost pursed in a deliciously tempting curve. His skin was surely smoother than porcelain, glowing even beneath the artificial lamplight. His analytical tendencies weren’t helping, scanning every visually detail there was to soak in. He had written it all countless times, scribbled with reckless abandon in the name of ‘research’. More like homosexual adoration.

“Uh… Genos?”

Shit. Oh shit. He’d been staring now, hadn’t he? If he didn’t opt to take action soon, this might fall to the name of disaster.

“My apologies, sensei. I was thinking over some calculations, regarding the ratio of disaster between this year and last. We stand in the face of adversary now more than ever. The number of Demon threats alone have increased by 38%, leaving at least a quarter of civilians injured and-“

“Twenty words or less, Genos.” His tone implied a deeper meaning, one that differed from impatience. It’s as if he sensed the cyborg’s dishonesty – not that the statistics had been forged – and knew he was hiding something.

“… Sensei, there is a more pressing matter I’d like to discuss.”

“Shoot.” He shrugged, letting the open manga fall idle upon his lap.

“Have you ever experienced romantic attraction?”

“Errrm, no? Not really into dudes or girls. What’s up with the question anyway?”

Synthetic saliva had welled in his gullet, more steam emitting from his ventilation shafts. Of course, sensei was far too busy a man to ever-

“Forgive me, Saitama-Sensei!” He threw himself to the floor beneath, knees supporting him in a humble bow. Being so self-conscious, he felt it necessary to bear his soul, informing Saitama of his treacherous affections. “I’ve regarded you with thoughts most inappropriate! For a disciple to regard his master with affection – that of the intimate kind – I must surely be brought to shame! I let it envelop my senses, like a weakness of sorts, and was foolish enough to think you might…”

Love me too.

The words hadn’t come to form, caught between a tight-lipped sob as an oily substance dirtied his face. Trembling in the wake of an emotion rarely embraced; the sickly sensation of complete and utter sorrow. He was a lost cause, wrapped tight around the man’s little finger, left to writhe beneath the pressures of vulnerability. Had he just squandered the only successful relationship since the passing of his relatives? He was doubled over, steel digits clawing helplessly at the hardwood as if seeking purchase. He wanted it to swallow him up, to hide from the mistakes made as an expense of weakness. It was all too much, how everything crumbled like aged concrete, beaten by the elements as time ticked on-

Genos.” Came the stern reply, a hand now promptly cupping the dip of his shoulder. “I said I wasn’t into dudes or girls. I didn’t say anything about cyborgs, right?”

So perhaps he told a little white lie in spite of his own affection, using such a rebuttal to his advantage. Hey, he never was the sort of man to confess, nor was he willing to throw himself in the line of fire. Genos had plenty of girls yearning for him, so what was he to expect?

Certainly not a hefty compound of metal weeping at the thought of rejection.
Rejection from a bald, reasonably ‘average’ guy to be more precise.

“… S-Sensei?”

“Yeah Genos, I like you too.”  

An RotJ AU where Anakin survives, and he’s basically like “I’m willing to give up my power and my political ideals and the Dark Side for my children’s sake”. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still value power, think democracy is stupid, and want to tap into the Dark Side very badly.

When he’s in critical condition, he gets medical treatment he didn’t opt in for. Including: more advanced artificial lungs that free him from his suit, more advanced synthskin and prosthetics, and a practical removal of excess scar tissue that he sees as superfluous cosmetic surgery. He’s not happy about it, and comes up with a bunch of excuses as to why – but it’s really because he thinks he deserved the suit.  

He’s also a curmudgeonly asshole who doesn’t remember how to deal with people in a way that doesn’t involve giving orders/Force choking them when they fail and/or annoy him. He works for the fledgling New Republic because it makes Luke happy and because it’s the only way Leia will even talk to him, but he not-so-subtly encourages Leia to manipulate the Republic military so that she can install herself as Empress of the Imperial Remnant. She’s not amused, to say the least.

His attitude towards all the people who are after his execution and/or trying to assassinate him is basically “come at me, bro”.

When he’s reunited with Ahsoka, the first thing she does is punch him in the face.


(x)Part 1 (x)Part 2 (x)Part 3

 One year Later

 Y/N coaghed, her cheeks pale and sunken, eyes closed as she fought hard just to stay awake. Lukes hands reached hers, taking the frail one into his strong ones so that both covered it, bringing it to his lips and setting it back down. A soft song played in the background, and Luke’s phone buzzed but he didn’t answer. A ventilator was pushing artificial air into her lungs, florescent lighting lit the room. Y/N had a soft smile etched on her face, occasionally humming to the song or asking Luke to help her take a sip of water. Luke would sing softly along whenever he deemed it fit, or would fix the ‘Lily’ necklace that fell on her elevated collarbones, talking to her to keep her mind off the pain or the idea that the surgery had failed, bringing news on the band and siblings and anything else he could think of. Sometimes she would respond back, but most times she’d just stay silent and gave a weak smile. It didn’t seem like enough but it was sufficient enough to keep both parties motivated.

 Lately she had been colder than usual, she could tell by how she always needed Luke’s beanie for her bald head and a knitted blanket made by her mother when she was a child before her mother had passed away from the same cancer she had developed. Luke knew because every time he touched her skin it felt like ice and because she shivered when her shoulder slipped out from under the covers. They had started binge watching “How I Met Your Mother” together whenever she was emotionally there enough to pay attention, as a part of a last-time effort to fulfill as many of her wishes as possible. Luke held onto hope that Y/N would pull through the lymphoma, that her immune system would fight for her as much as she did. That the doctors would find a miracle drug that could help her, a new one that was different that from the thousands of others they had tried. Something that would save her. But deep down he knew the doctors wouldn’t and that he would have to get used to life without her within days time. She just didn’t have anything left for her.

 It was selfish of him to think, but at the dead of night when he fought to close his eyes, he would pray to keep her longer, to have more time with him when he knew she was hurting so bad. Whether he was sitting right next round to her reading her a story or being forced to sleep in the bed that was supposed to be shared with her he wished he had more time. The nurses would tut their lips softly and look upon the two of them in pity, a ring lying on the edge of her finger after they eloped because she didn’t want to die knowing they were never married. Even today, Y/N hummed when she could to the soft song but everyone knew she couldn’t actually sing. She could barely even talk. And so Luke did all the talking, his eyes flickering to the heart monitor to her right’s irregular beats and the way she heaved for breath. Almost two hours had passed at this point, and it was 11:37 at night, and the boys were picking up food to try and avoid the room of sickness, and Y/N had never struggled to seem happy as much as she had in these past two hours. When they opened, her eyes seemed almost glazed over, and when they were closed, they seemed destined to never open. Luke couldn’t stand to see his love in so much pain. “You can go to sleep,” He choked out, his blue eyes watery as he struggled to stay calm. 

 She forced a small smile and looked at him with a gaze mixed of longing and love. “Baby, I know. I sleep twenty hours a day,” Her voice was scratchy and every time her soft lips lifted, the sound of air could be heard from her lungs.

 A single tear ran down Luke’s cheek. “No,” A sob broke from his lips. “I mean, if you’re hurting you can go to sleep-sleep,” He gripped her hand for dear life, running his thumb across her palm like it was the last time he ever would. “I don’t want you to stay for me.”

 “I know what you meant,” She closed her eyes to avoid his gaze. “I’m okay, really. It’s not too bad.” 

 “You’re lying. You’re doing that thing with your nose like you always do.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, the one that felt ice cold to the touch yet always burning hot. “ Don’t stay for me.” 

 Y/N opened her eyes softly, the lighting of the hospital making her squint before she saw her crying husband starring back down at heart and she bit her lip. “You give me so little credit,” Both of them stiffled a laugh through water tears that they cpouldn’t stop from falling. “Maybe it’s not my time quite yet. Maybe I have a little bit more fire under my ass,” The stiff science told both of them that she didn’t, and a single finger under her chin that pressed her view to him forced tears down her eyes. “Luke I’m scared.”

 Luke felt his chest tighten and his lungs collapse. Yet he managed to force out a weak smile. “You’ll be great. Be singing with Kurt Cobain like a champ.” 

 Her hand squeezed his as she lapsed into another coughing fit, before she blinked slowly and locked eyes with Luke Robert Hemmings. “I love you so much.” 

 Her eyes closed and her breath was steady, before Luke leaned down to kiss her softly, and she kissed him back for only a few seconds before letting go to breathe once more. His hands held her right softly but firmly between his because he would never let her go. “I love you too. I love you so damn much,” More tears threatened to fall but he kept them sealed as if not to ruin the peace. Her head, her beautiful, beautiful head, lay resting on the best pillows Luke could find in an angelic kind of way. She wasn’t humming anymore but he knew she was still awake. His eyes closed, and he felt almost at peace with himself and with her and with everyone else in the world. He pressed his lips to her knuckles, continuing to trace patterns into her hand. The lights were only slightly dimmed, allowing the moonlight from outside to flood the small room. 

 A long beep filled the room and Luke broke into a sob, holding Y/N’s hand to his forehead with his eyes refusing to open, ignoring the lack of struggled breath, ignoring the lifelessness of the fingers between his. The door rushed open and doctors flooded the room, attempting to pull him from Y/N, and he refused to open his eyes while his sobs got louder and louder. Heart wrentching cries broke every heartstrings in any one who had the misfortune of hearing them when they decided to let him be and try to revive Patient 4379. They pressed into her chest once, then twice, then three times. “Clear!” The motion only made him cry harder and cling to the hand, feel the cold of the ring on her fingers. Press one, press twice, press three times. “Clear!” The room went even more silent than before, with only the beep and sobs. A doctor cleared her throat. “Time of de-” 

 The door was pushed open again and Luke felt two hands reach his shoulders. “Luke, mate you gotta let go. We gotta get you out of this room,” Michael’s voice filled the room, and his fingers pried Luke’s off of Y/N’s, pocketing the ring to give to his heartbroken best friend later. “She dead Mike. She- sh-” Luke lapsed into sobs and his band mates pulled him from the room and attempted to close the door before he heard the words but they echoed in the back of his head as the hinges shut almost in time for him to miss them. 

 “Time of Death- 12:03 am.” 


Holy shit this was so hard to write. I am so sorry. I feel like this was terrible. Special shoutout to @starlight-xxxx For requesting (I’m so sorry about your mom). Please tell me what you thought of this and tell me if the links for parts 1-3 weren’t working, (if they’re not just look in the master list) love you all lots. Reminder that you can always request or just ask me anything. -Carter Anne 💕