#《 visage / the bull. 》

[onpyre]

the minotaur playing airplane with ariadne as a play on bull jumping rites :)

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

hayloft

a/n: so…. i watched twisters…………

summary: “so what you’re saying is that you just came in here seeking shelter from the rain?” a smirk dazzled his features, “out of every shed and every other barn you passed on your way back to the house, you conveniently chose this one which I just so happen to still be in from when you poked your head in earlier,” his gaze briefly dipped down to your soaked through, and now sheer, t-shirt.

warnings: farmhand!tyler owens x farmer's daughter!reader, smut, farmer au, secret relationship, established relationship, bull rider!tyler, rain, sex on a hayloft, kissing, dirty talk, oral, facesitting, manhandling, impact play, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, wrote this in the middle of the night oops, click here for the prequel to this story

word count: 1673

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Rain splattered against the barn door as you fought to tug it closed, droplets whipped your face until the very last second when you finally managed to latch it shut. 

“Hey,” a deep timbre crackled from behind you, causing you to whirl around. 

“Oh, hi Tyler,” a smile couldn’t help but creep up on your features as you spotted the painstakingly handsome farmhand, “what are you doing in here?” 

A chuckle then bubbled out of him as he leaned the long pitchfork in his grasp against a nearby wall.

“My job, ma’am.”

“Of course, right,” one of your hands shot up to wipe your wet face, though without much success as your palms too were completely drenched. 

“Better question is,” he took a step closer to where you stood, dripping onto the dusty barn floors, “what are you doing in here?” 

“Oh, well, I was just coming home from a ride on Blue when the rain came pouring down, so–” 

“So what you’re saying is that you just came in here seeking shelter from the rain?” a smirk dazzled his features, “out of every shed and every other barn you passed on your way back to the house, you conveniently chose this one which I just so happen to still be in from when you poked your head in earlier,” his gaze briefly dipped down to your soaked through, and now sheer, t-shirt.

“Hm,” you hummed through your smile, “yeah, that really is convenient,” neither denying nor affirming his accusation as you then teasingly twisted away from the close proximity his slow stride had created.

Catching the ladder that led up to the open hayloft, you slowly began to climb it. 

“Just what are you doing now?” you heard from behind you. 

“You said you were working,” you glanced over your shoulder, successfully catching Tyler staring at your ass through your jean shorts, “so I’m getting out of your hair.” 

“Oh, is that what you’re doing?”

“That’s right,” you reached the top and plopped yourself down on the planks, “I’m kind that way. So now, just go back to whatever you were doing, lifting heavy things or whatever,” you waved a vague hand down at him in hopes that he would put on a show for you and let you ogle the way his muscles flexed beneath his tight shirt. 

But he didn’t pick the pitchfork back up. 

Instead, he simply blew out a soft chuckle, gazing up at you as a light shake found his head, staring up at your drenched visage just a moment longer before he began to climb the ladder as well. 

A giggle rolled off your tongue as he reached the top, a gentle sound that he then swiftly smothered as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, still balanced on the ladder, clutching onto the sides as he reached you, sitting cross-legged on the floor before him. 

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” 

“Me?” you tilted your lips out of his reach, “I am an angel. I’ve never done anything wrong in my life,” a grin accompanied your jest. 

As he climbed the rest of the way up onto the loft, you didn’t shift away to make room for him, only leaned back on your forearms as he blissfully crawled to settle above you. 

When you raised yourself up to kiss him once more, you only got to taste him for but a moment, only shyly managing to sink your fingers into the hem of his shirt, before he denied you of any more. 

“I swear to god, it’s like you want your daddy to catch us with the way you keep throwing yourself at me.”

Letting out a light-hearted scoff, you said, “excuse me? First of all, it’s raining and even if it wasn’t, he’s not coming down here, not this time of day, and second of all, talk about yourself, sir,” you hooked your legs up and over the small of his back, “you’re the one always stealing kisses from me even when you know he’s around,” you counted, “oh, also that one time in the tool shed? It doesn’t matter that you covered my mouth, he for sure knew something was going on in there,” Tyler’s smile only brightened at the recollection, “and don’t even get me started on the way you’re always looking at me.”

“How do I look at you?” 

“You know how…” you laughed, melting under his gaze, “you’re doing it right now.” 

“Oh, am I?” he acted as if it wasn’t completely on purpose how his eyes undressed you, “I’m sorry, I hadn’t noticed.” 

Leaning down to capture your lips once more, a light squeak then escaped your lungs as he suddenly rolled over onto his back, onto a low pile of loose hay, dragging you along with him.

But as your body rested atop his, completely plastered against one another as his broad hands took their time raking down your curves, a soft chuckle rumbled in his chest and vibrated against your tongue. 

“Oh my god, you’re so fucking wet,” he laughed, playfully giving the drenched denim clinging to your ass a swift tap. 

Pushing yourself up a bit more, you spotted the splotchy stamp you’d transferred all down Tyler’s front. 

“Yeah well, I was just caught in the rain, what do you want me to do?” 

“It really did get you good, didn’t it?” you felt his hands shift and nimbly undo your shorts.

“Mhm,” you nodded, blinking down at him as he yanked your soaked shorts down and tossed them off to the side, onto a hay bale. 

“You mind if I check something real quick?” he playfully asked, scooping his grasp down to curve securely around the plush of your bottom. 

“Not at all,” you smiled before a sharp yelp then suddenly erupted out of you.

Tyler knew he could toss you around like a ragdoll, a skill of his he wasn’t at all shy to lean into, especially now as he yanked you closer, all the way up his frame till he settled you just above his face.

“Tyler!” you laughed, squirming lightly as he pulled you further down against him, letting his nose nuzzle against the sliver of your underwear before he placed a sloppy kiss against them. 

With his wide palms still glued to your butt, a few of his fingers stretched out to catch the hem of your panties and tug them to the side, granting himself the full access he desired. 

As he began to eagerly lap you up, he briefly murmured against you, “yeah, you really are completely soaked,” conjuring a hazy laugh to rip through you as your head tipped back at the pleasure. 

Teasing your little clit till your thighs began to shake on either side of his face, you felt his hands briefly migrate up your back and guide you to collapse entirely above him, bending you forward and letting your forearms land in a soft pile of hay for support. 

His strong arms then scooped back down to your ass, blanketing them around your hips as he brought you even closer to him, evidently not that desperate to let himself breathe any time soon as your all-consuming presence above him was the one and only thing he desired. 

With the way that he devoured you whole, not long passed till you were cumming all over his face, whimpering and trembling against his unyielding efforts. You barely let yourself catch your breath before you crawled back down his form, lazily kissing the taste of you off of his tongue as you worked at freeing his hard cock that strained in his jeans.

Your frame stayed plastered against his own after you sank down upon him, your tits in the soaked shirt smooshing against his chest. With your panties still clinging just off to the side of your cunt, you only let yourself shutter at the stretch a shy second before your trembly thighs raised you back up to find a slow rhythm.

“Fuck…” he groaned, tilting away from the breathless kiss, “ride that cock–, shit, you’re so good,” he nearly hissed at the way you rolled your hips, your silky walls clinging around his girth, “that’s my girl.” 

“Yeah, well I partly blame you for finally explaining to me how exactly it is you ride those crazy bulls,” you spoke about his daring side gig, “how you stay on, tame them.”

“Yeah,” an airy chuckle slipped out of his lungs, “you might just give me a run for my money if I ever get you up on a real one.” 

“I thought that’s what I was doing now,” you smirked down at him as you rocked your hips even further down against his, grinding the length of him dizzyingly deep inside of your pussy. The comment however also earned you a slap across the ass, causing the laugh hiding just behind your lips to finally break free, “hey, I’m not wrong, you are an animal!”

Burying one of his hands into your hair, he uttered against your lips, “well, if I’m an animal, then you’re one too,” nearly growling as he held you close and let himself buck up into you, meeting your slow bouncing halfway, “we’re cut from the same cloth you and me.”

“Yeah,” you moaned, digging your weak hands into his shirt and surely stretching the cotton out, “you and me…”

Tilting your head just far enough back so that he could catch sight of how your eyes began to roll in your skull, he groaned, “fuck, you’re so beautiful… so fucking perfect and warm, tight, fucking squeezing around me so good, and so fucking wet…” a chuckle slipped out of you both at the double entendre, “you messy girl… my messy little fucking girl… you’ll never get to dry off if I have a say in the matter… let you stay just completely soaked for fucking ever and make it so easy for me to just do anything I want…”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[neornuna]

tagdump

[versipellesh]

𝐑𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐀𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞

"Yer look like you're gonna drop dead, baby." Rhett's rumbly voice breaks out through the silence.

It's supposed to be date night but with the current workload you were dealing with you couldn't feel anything but the weighing exhaustion in your bones. The way Rhett looked at you from his spot on your small couch, broad frame filling it up and legs sprawled out was like visage that eased the weariness in you.

"I feel like it." You snort out, a small shake of your head swishing your hair back and forth.

Rhett could see it on you. The same way he got sometimes out on the ranch. The repetitive day in and day tasks that tend to repeat and how it slowly chipped away at your resolve and strength. He didn't like seeing you like this, it made his heart ache and he wanted nothing more to wrap you up in his arms hiding you away from the world until you got better.

"C'mer." Rhett said as he patted his leg.

The gesture had your face hearing up slightly but you couldn't help but follow the simple command. Your feet were moving over the hardwood floors as you crossed the small space of the living room, Rhett's sweats that he had left one time hanging loosely at your hips and pooling at your feet.

You got closer to him standing between his open legs for a moment. You slightly swayed before you were climbing into his lap, legs slotting over his and straddling his broad hips. Rhett let out a grunt of contentment as your weight settled again him. He took a moment for you to find your comfortability against him before his arms slowly encapsulated you.

"Atta girl. I gotcha." Rhett breathed out.

His hot breath caressed against your ear before his chapped lips were pressing against the side of your head. It felt like heaven to be wrapped up in those strong arms of his, the ones that tended to the ranch and the ones that went taunt as he held on for dear life on the back of bull. Yet here they were holding you so close and firm, like you would surely slip out of grasp at any given moment.

"You're really comfy." You mumble out into his shoulder, your face tucked against him as you closed the world off for a moment.

You could feel Rhett's body shake with that deep chuckle of his as one of his hands sprawled out on your lower back, his thumb gentle rubbing circles over your shirt as he just held you for a moment.

"I think that maybe a first for me but I'll take it as a compliment, peaches." Rhett grinned softly.

an: this is purely self indulgent, im hella exhausted with work but being held by a cowboy would fix it all for me

tags: @rhettmotel @lewmagoo

[pupsmailbox]

HORROR ID PACK

NAMES ⌇ abyss. adelaide. alex. allure. alluria. amnesia. amnesty. annabelle. archer. ash. asher. ashton. athena. axe. axette. bates. beal. belial. belladonna. bellatrix. bellow. billy. blade. blair. bleedesse. bloodiesse. bones. bow. briar. brute. bubba. buffy. butcher. cain. caliburn. calyspo. carcass. carna. carrie. carrion. casey. casper. chainette. chains. charley. charlie. chase. chi. chris. chucky. claire. claymore. clear. colt. connor. corpse. craven. cross. crypt. cybre. cynthia. damien. danger. derry. desdemona. dove. dracula. drow. elisabeta. elm. elmira. elvria. em. enigma. erin. eros. ethan. evelien. eventide. falchion. finale. finalis. finn. fleur. freddy. galatine. ghost. ghostesse. gladius. graves. grim. guts. harker. haunt. hound. howl. hunter. hush. ikino. jace. jane. jason. javelin. jekyll. jesse. john. julie. kateline. kille. killer. killesse. killette. killire. killyr. knifesse. knifette. krueger. lamb. laurie. lavender. lenz. lillith. loomis. lorraine. lucien. lucy. machete. mal. malice. massacresse. massacrette. max. maxine. megan. mia. michael. mike. mikey. molar. mors. morticia. mortis. myer. myers. necro. nephi. night. noir. norman. nyx. nægling. obsidian. onyx. ophelia. pandora. pearce. pike. pin. pointe. pointette. pridwen. pyper. quentin. raven. reaper. renfield. retro. revenant. river. roadkill. rosemary. rot. ryker. sabel. sabre. sacrifesse. salem. samara. sawyer. scum. scythe. seraph. serene. sharpette. sharppe. shaun. shelley. sidney. slash. slasher. slashesse. slashette. slashine. slashire. slashyr. specter. spite. survivesse. survivette. sybil. syd. talia. thomas. vein. verity. vesper. visage. viscera. vivo. warden. weaponesse. weaponette. weaponne. wendy. whisp. william. wraith.

PRONOUNS ⌇　aby/abyss. alien/alien. amnesia/amnesia. axe/axe. bat/bat. bite/bite. bla/blade. blade/blade. blood/blood. bone/bone. brain/brain. brutal/brutal. bull/bullet. bullet/bullet. camp/camp. carna/carnage. chain/chain. chain/chainsaw. chainsaw/chainsaw. chase/chase. choke/choke. claw/claw. co/corpse. content/content. copy/copy. cor/corpse. corpse/corpse. cry/cry. cryp/cryptid. crypt/crypt. cut/cut. dae/daem. dae/daer. dark/dark. de/demo. dea/death. death/death. dec/decay. decay/decay. die/die. eldritch/eldritch. elm/elm. evil/evil. fear/fear. fie/fire. fien/fiend. final/final. flesh/flesh. fog/fog. freak/freak. fury/furious. gau/gauze. gauze/gauze. gho/ghost. ghost/ghost. gloom/gloom. gnaw/gnaw. go/gore. gor/gore. gore/gore. gra/grave. grave/grave. gun/gun. gut/gut. hallow/hallow. haun/haunt. haunt/haunt. horr/horror. horror/horror. house/house. hunt/hunt. hush/hush. k9/k9. ki/kill. kill/kill. kni/knife. knife/knife. lash/lash. lethal/lethal. live/live. machete/machete. maim/maim. mallet/mallet. mask/mask. massacre/massacre. med/medical. medi/medical. monster/monster. murder/murder. night/night. no/none. pin/pin. point/point. point/pointy. pois/poison. prey/prey. pyr/pyramid. red/red. reveil/reveil. revive/revive. rib/rib. rip/rip. rodent/rodent. rot/rot. run/run. sacrifice/sacrifice. saw/saw. scream/scream. scythe/scythe. shadow/shadow. sharp/sharp. sharp/sharpen. sharpen/sharpen. sin/sin. slash/slash. slash/slashe. slash/slashed. slash/slasher. slasher/slasher. slice/slice. sly/sly. sni/snipe. sound/sound. stab/stab. stalk/stalk. steel/steel. step/step. survive/survive. survivor/survivor. tear/tear. thon/thon. tomb/tomb. trope/trope. vamp/vamp. victim/victim. voi/void. weapon/weapon. weep/weep. whisp/whisper. wound/wound. wra/wrath. ☠️. ⚰. ⚰️. ⚱. ⛧. ⛨. 🏥. 🏹. 🐀. 💀. 💉. 💣. 📿. 🔪. 🔫. 🕳️. 🛡️. 🥀. 🦴. 🧛‍♂️. 🧟‍♂️. 🧨. 🩸. 🩹.

[blood-mocha-latte]

RARELY SOFT OR CONSOLATORY | 4.7K | RATED T

Merry Christmas (Eve), @sachart! I was your Secret Santa <33. I hope you've had a lovely lovely winter and will continue to have happy happy holidays, and truly hope you enjoy this fic. Your art and kindness is an inspiration, and I truly had the loveliest time creating for you :).

Bill used to think more about his brother. The lack of knowledge about his death and only learning from an accident used to keep him up some nights, mulling over a visage of Henry that never received the letters that he’d still written.

However, now, in the frozen black belly of burnt-down France, he can barely think past Joe Toye’s blue-turning-black toes or George Luz’s red-ringed eyes or a dozen other things that stick out sore along the white backdrop. 

(Bill Guarnere, winter during the war, being out of commission, and winter after it. A reflective.)

READ ON AO3 OR BELOW THE CUT

His stomach hurt. 

A slight exacerbation. 

Everything hurt, but his stomach most of all. Half from being empty, half from being cold, and another half on top of the first two from the goddamn worry. 

Bill was used to worry, too. That was the thing. He was used to worrying about his brothers — for Earnest, at least, and over his Ma for Henry — and used to worrying about the men — he’d thrown up behind a mole hill a few hours after Bull had gone missing. Not his proudest moment, one he kept secret. But one nonetheless. 

He was also used to worrying about pain. About how it felt, and more distinctly, the way that shrapnel had felt, like molten, liquid heat that’s only goal was to burn. 

As it was turning out, the cold burned, too. 

Most notably — or, maybe, most impactfully, at least to Bill — it was burning Joe.

“I’m fine.” Toye, in question, said, face tensely lined with what he wouldn’t voice aloud as he shifted against the frozen dirt of the foxhole, careful to keep his foot stretched out in front of him, leg ramrod straight. Bill just stared at him. 

“Joe, you look like a half-frozen vegetable.” Bill told him. Toye grimaced at him, like the action could somehow be mistranslated as a laugh. “Listen—” He started and winced, having shifted against the wall of the foxhole and alighting the sharp, bitter twang of old wounds all over again. “—there’s extra food with Ramirez, and I think that Skip has—”

“I’m not taking more than my fair share.” Joe told him firmly, not for the first time, uninterested in the rest of Bill’s sentence when he knew it would just be the same thing everyone had been telling him. Bill threw his hands up in the air, and the cold seemed to bite at the tips of his fingers like it was alive. 

“Your fair share ain’t enough, you know that—”

“There’s other guys that need it more—”

“Who? Because you’re the only idiot I see around stupid enough to still be—”

“Thanks, Guarno, but I’m fine.” Joe shut him down, more tense than before, as soon as the words left his lips. Bill shut his mouth with a click, reopened it with something to say on the tip of his tongue, then sighed and closed it again. 

“Fine.” He muttered, pressing his palms to the teeth of the frozen mud in order to pull himself up, shifting his weight gingerly from foot to foot until he feels loose enough to clamber out of the hole. He paused before he did so, however, glancing over his shoulder and watching how Joe watched him, face set in pain. “It’s… I care about ya’, you know.” 

Something in Joe’s eyes loosen, but not in his expression. Still, he says, “yeah, Bill. I know.” With enough gentleness to convince Bill to turn around again, pull himself out of the hole and wince at the sharp complaint of the shrapnel scar at his hip.

He started pushing back through trees and snow without much preamble, not exactly interested in waiting around and watching Toye freeze to death, and found George Luz waiting for him.

Waiting was probably the wrong word, since Bill was certain Luz wasn’t there for him, in specifics, but the other had his arms crossed over his sternum, fingers curled into his own body heat. In the absence and lack of cigarettes Bastogne has provided, he’d taken to running his tongue over his top lip before pulling the bottom one between his teeth.

He tilted his head at Bill when he saw him. A silent question. Bill shook his head, unneeding of preamble, and Luz just closed his eyes, brief, mulling and tired, before opening them again. They were ringed with red, and Bill didn’t have to ask why. Luz had been spending more time with Toye than Bill had, anyways, and even the limited time he had had was enough for his chest to feel tight. 

“Thanks.” He said anyways, voice somewhere between a deadpan that always seemed somewhat light on him and something genuine. Bill just cuffed him carefully on the side of his face before moving down to shake his shoulder. 

“No point in talking to him, I don’t think.” Bill told him. Luz just looked over his shoulder, pulling his bottom lip back in between his teeth. 

“Yeah, well, I think I’ll—” He began. Bill tossed an arm over his shoulders before he could get too far, and George walked with him without much restraint.

“Don’t see how you could get through to him when I couldn’t.” Bill told him, which seemed too harsh to say, but he couldn’t regret voicing when he knew that Luz would just keep trying anyways, with, he was near-convinced, the same results. 

They were both Toye’s friends, and if Joe wouldn’t listen to Bill, he doubted he’d listen to Luz. 

Luz went with him without much fanfare. Ramirez didn’t actually have extra food, not really, but Bill knew that they’d’ve been able to scrape something together between at least a few guys, in case Toye would have actually agreed. 

Luz turned to him as they hit the slight slope where some of the others had dug in, mainly Perconte and Skip. He looked tired, more tired than Bill had ever seen him and more beat down than some of the guys in the regiment. “Thanks for tryin’, Bill.” He said, seeming genuine, and Bill just shrugged.

“Joe’s my friend.” He said, didn’t tack on the so are you, and hoped that it was understood. He still didn’t understand, entirely, why Luz had asked him to check up on Toye, but figured that it had to do with having more guys on board leading to a likelier chance of the goddamn moron accepting more help. 

Roe may have gotten him new shoes, but Bill doubted that frostbite was the sort of thing to be cured with a dead mans worn down leather.

They parted ways, after that. Bill went off to find Babe or Buck. Or maybe Lip.

-----

Bill didn’t write very many letters anymore. Earnest couldn’t read, and Henry was dead, and, as much as he hated to admit it, he had trouble trusting his ma, anymore. 

He didn’t understand, why she wouldn’t tell him that Henry was killed. Why they wrote letters back and forth about nothing for five months and he wrote one sided letters that never reached Henry for five months and nothing ever came of it until he had to learn about Monte Casino from Pat Martin. 

Still, he was trying to be dutiful, and he tapped the blistered, frozen end of his index finger against the letter he’d been trying to write for the better part of a week before lowering it, slight, with a huff. 

It was hard to focus, out here. Not a lot to talk about, anyways. Nothing he wanted his mother to know about, at least. 

It was still early in the day, at least when a watch was counting, but the sky was dark from a combination of an early setting sun and clouds of artillery fire, and Bill carefully folded the already ripped and freezing letter before putting it back into his pocket.

Compton was asleep next to him, barely moving. Bill would even doubt that he was breathing, if not for the white clouds that hung intermittently in the air, neatly suspended.

Careful not to wake him up, Bill pulled himself out of the grave and turned, careful, on a knee. He bent down enough to grab his rifle and pack and, glancing around for half of a second, set off. 

He was looking for Lipton, mainly because Lip probably had something for him to do and, if he didn’t, at least would put up the effort of attempting to find something. 

Navigating through the forest mainly on memory, Bill paused, for half of a second, when Toye’s voice caught on the icy shards of the air for half of a second before dispersing. 

“‘S not going to work.” He said, sounded tired, and there was an exhale of breath that didn’t seem to belong to him, equally tired but maybe more determined.

“It might.” George Luz retorted, voice hoarse. “It might, so I’m not gonna stop—”

“George—”

“Joe.” Luz’s voice again, but firmer, less like himself in how little room he left for any type of humor. “Please.” 

His voice broke on the word. 

Bill hesitated in place, boots shifting against the snow for half of a second, unsure of whether or not to move on. If Luz was still trying to convince Toye to eat, or at least take some semblance of more rations than the other guys, then Bill should be there, he felt. But this felt like something different, more intimate, somehow, and he wasn’t sure about how to intrude. 

It felt like maybe he wouldn’t need to, since the silence from the foxhole stretched on for too long, carried by the stillness of the frozen air, until Toye said, voice lower, rougher, “fine.” 

Luz sighed, a quiet, heavy and relieved sound, and Bill shifted, started walking away. 

He still had to find Lip, anyways.

-----

Two days later, it was December 25th, and there wasn’t much fanfare. 

Earlier in the day, they had talked about it briefly. Malarkey had said, rather glumly, that he didn’t think Christmas could exist, here, and Bill had decided to agree with him and move on. No use dwelling when there were better things to complain about.

However, but and in spite of this, when it was dark enough out again that Bill thought it may be midnight at four in the afternoon, George Luz pressed a cigarette into his palm and said, “Merry Christmas, Ghonorrhea.” 

Bill just blinked down at it. “You’re shitting me.”

Luz, apparently mistaking Bill’s bewilderment at his ability to save a cigarette out here, just shrugged. He turned against the foxhole he’d dropped into to present the gift to Bill, sliding down to sit next to him and pressing their shoulders together for warmth. “Nah.” He said, rather dully. “It’s Christmas.” 

Bill snorted a laugh. It was sort of happy. A bit of an in-between, half-hearted amusement that was only funny because of who told the joke. “You give smokes to everyone?” 

“Everyone I could.” Luz agreed. When Bill looked over at him, his eyes were closed, head dipped back against the frozen wall of the foxhole. The tip of his nose was blue. 

Bill shifted, patting down his pocket with numb fingers until he found his lighter. 

It was almost out, as Bill had taken habit to flicking it on and off for temporary warmth once the nights had stretched darker and smokes had run out, and it took him four tries to correctly spike the wheel and get the cigarette to catch. 

Once it did, he held it out to Luz. George just shook his head, pushing Bill’s hand back towards his own mouth. He didn’t say anything, and Bill just shook his head before taking a drag. 

“Hell, I’d think you’re dying.” He said grimly, perhaps slightly ironic. George huffed, like it was any sort of particularly amusing. “Giving up a smoke and then refusing to share it.” 

The laugh he got for that seemed rather real. Luz shifted enough for them to be further apart but still share warmth, propping an elbow onto his knee as he pressed fingertips to his lips, as if in memory. 

“Nah.” He said around his hand, quiet, but still amused. “It’s… I shared one earlier.”

He looked vaguely embarrassed. Bill watched him, close, for half of a second before shrugging. 

“Alright.” He said, ambivalent. “I’m not gonna complain.” 

The tip of Luz’s nose was still tinged with blue, but his face looked almost red. Bill chalked it up to the cold and left it at that. 

-----

Bill used to think more about Henry. The lack of knowledge about his death and only learning from an accident used to keep him up some nights, mulling over a visage of his brother that never received the letters that he’d still written.

However, now, in the frozen black belly of burnt-down France, he can barely think past Joe Toye’s blue-turning-black toes or George Luz’s red-ringed eyes or a dozen other things that stick out sore along the white backdrop. 

Among those things stand sound. 

When he was younger, his mother had once told him that he could hear a bell ring from five miles off and come running to see the what for. Now, in war, it turned out to be very much the same. 

He’d come to his friends when he’d heard them laughing, he’d come to them when he heard them swearing, and he didn’t have to think about it for very long at all before coming to his friend when he was calling for help. 

That was all that he remembered, for a long while. 

I gotta get up. 

-----

The slow hobble back to America started in France, and the hospital that was just outside of Foy was crowded, smelled putrid, and was still somehow cold. 

In spite of that, Toye was running a fever, and the dots of crystal that ran along his brow made Bill more worried than the fact that he couldn’t feel anything below his belly button. 

“Y’think George is alright?” Joe asked him, his words slurring in strange places and vowels drawing out in others as his voice dragged along the line of incomprehensible. 

Still, Bill could understand him, and just coughed. He was thinking of his friends, too, of Babe and Malarkey and Muck and Penkala and Compton and Lipton and hoping they were alright.

He reached out clumsily, clammy palm knocking against Toye’s too-dry one in a gesture he hoped was comforting. 

“Sure.” He said, patting Toye’s hand again. “He’s on a lucky streak, ain’t he? Never been hit.” 

He couldn’t move his neck at all, some sort of numbing, absent ache that had settled in between his vertebrae on the transport over here. They’d already put him through one surgery, and he hadn’t looked down since. Didn’t know if he could, didn’t want to. 

Joe was worse off, though, was nearing delirious, and he coughed, once, the noise almost as dry as bone, and said, “I miss him.” 

Bill… Bill didn’t know what to say to that. 

He kept his hand on Toye’s and listened to other wounded men cry.

-----

Once, when he’d been a kid — maybe eight or nine years old — he’d walked with Henry down to the local pound. 

It was a miserable place, smelled like vomit and piss and was run by a mean old woman with an even meaner mug, and Henry hadn’t let him get too close to the bars that held the dogs back as she walked them through the halls. 

Looking back on it, Bill didn’t know why she even let them do that. They clearly weren’t gonna get a goddamn dog. Maybe she was bored.

At the end of the hall, where one of the lights had stopped working and it was easy to tell something with the electricity had been fried by the smell in the air, there were two dogs, grown and skinnier than sticks, pressed together with big eyes and bigger teeth.

Pack bonded, the old woman had excused with a wave of her hand, like it was a disease without any cure. Can’t get one out without the other. Giving them another three days before it’s lights out. 

Bill didn’t like to think of the pound. It made something underneath his skin crawl.

Still, the words pack bonded probably had meaning. 

They somehow stayed together from France and into England, beds together and everything. 

The hospital in England was much nicer than the one in France, and although Bill was sure being back in the States would be better, the warmth of the hospital made the subsequent, subsisting ache of his leg and hips and back die out, somewhat. 

Joe’s head was bent over his work, nose almost touching the paper as he traced over the same words he’d already written out twice.

Ages ago, Bill probably would have poked at him for it, but now, that type of entertainment has vanished, as intangible as being sick. 

Since getting out of France, Joe had been writing out a letter every Saturday without fail, and always did so at least three times. 

Would write out the letter clumsily, triple-check the spelling, wait for the ink to dry, and then write the exact same thing out again, and a third time for good measure. 

Bill didn’t necessarily get it. Joe didn’t have the neatest handwriting, but it’s not that bad. Still, he didn’t say anything, and Joe didn’t look up when there’s a clatter on the other end of the hall.

They’re still mostly bound to the bed, January becoming a friendly greeting of wet ground and cold air that makes walking so soon after everything nearly agonizing. Both of them — most of the time, at least — want to get moving, but it could be worse.

Joe sat upright and slouched in his own bed, bad leg stretched out to the side as he wrote on the tray that a nurse had brought around about a week ago that he just kept re-using. The second letter he’d rewritten was by his elbow as he redid the third with ink-stained fingers. 

It was a bit ridiculous, Bill thought, since he always trashed the first two letters. Only ever writes to one person consistently. Still, he didn’t say anything. 

He missed his friends, too (Babe, Malarkey, Compton, Lip. Didn’t want to think about Skip or Penk, anymore), but not with the same devotion that Toye seemed to miss George Luz. 

Bill didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t look to closely at it, either. 

He didn’t want to. 

-----

When they finally get back to the US, it was still cold, but in the same way that everything felt cold, now. Same way that everything ached. 

Still, Toye snorted a short laugh when Bill flipped a handful of sand at him, and then used the wire-and-wicker side of his wheelchair to get a hold of it and dump him into the sand.

Bill swore, startled as his elbow hit the soft, heated surface, and he kicked more sand at Joe with his remaining leg before maneuvering back around, smacking at Joe’s bare shoulder.

Toye was unperturbed. 

He had, frustratingly, infuriatingly, and perhaps traitorously, taken to the wheelchair like a fish out of water. His own chair, a few yards back, had been easily abandoned, and Bill envied him only slightly for the coordination that seemed to come more naturally to him. 

“You’re a bastard.” He said to Joe, who just shrugged. 

He was wearing a white undershirt, but the waist of it had ridden up enough for the thick, rubbery scarring of old shrapnel and flak surgeries to still show. 

Bill was dressed nearly identical, down to the too-warm slacks pinned at the bad leg and bloused at the good one. 

“Any word from the Airborne?” He asked, as had become half-hearted tradition since mail-call had begun with more regularity since winter had begun to wane into a precariously hopeful and no less bloody spring.

Bill just grunted, shifting around in the sand for half of a second in order to tug the thin stack of letters out of the pocket he’d initially shoved them into. 

“One from Malark, one from Liebgott, of all damn people. And…” He trailed off, dropping the last letter onto Joe’s lap without having to address it. 

Technically, there’s two from Luz, although the envelopes have been secured together with a fraying piece of twine. Bill counted it as one, anyways, and went about tearing open the letter from Liebgott. 

Toye opened Luz’s letters in much of the opposite way, carefully working open the edges. It always drove Bill up the wall to watch, so he looked away again. Out at the sparsely occupied beach, the water, back to the handwriting in his lap. 

They were still on hospital grounds, out here, with the only other people around other men with similar problems. Bill doubted that Joe would have come out here at all if that hadn’t been the case.

“Any news?” He asked, something along the dip of his throat itching for a cigarette as he dipped his hand into his pocket to fish out a pack and a lighter. 

Joe just hummed, the sound low, more focused than he usually was. “Nah.” He said, quiet. “No news. Boring.” Contrary to his words, the corner of his mouth was curved up into a smile that Bill hardly ever saw.

Bill just snorted, pushed at his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah.” He said, dry and rapport in an effort to remain guileless. “War’s a real boring affair, y’know. Real boring.” 

“Real boring.” Toye agreed, toneless. 

“Real boring.” 

Bill flipped over Liebgotts letter. Something about swimming trunks. 

There was extra space at the bottom of the page, and, after fishing briefly for a pen, Bill wrote out ASK YOUR DAMN MA in big block letters and made a note to return to sender.

-----

It was cold most nights, and this one was no different. Still, the walls and windows did most of the work to keep the cold out and the rest unphased him, nothing as worse as it had been even a year ago.

Fran laughed as he pretended to dip her, and then nosed at his cheek playfully when she was righted once again. 

Pressing her lips to the spot before pulling back just briefly enough to glance over her shoulder, she says, “I think that the lights on the wall are going out.”

Bill taps lightly at her calf with his left crutch but still looks over at them, squinting against the blinking soft reds and greens of them. “Guess so.” He said, not really being able to tell but trusting her anyways. “Want me to fix ‘em?” 

“Nah, someone else will get them.” She let him turn her around again. When she shook her head, a curl fell into her face and Bill brushed it back with two fingers. She smiled at him, brilliant, and Bill snorted and looked away. 

The Christmas party that they’d pulled together had turned into somewhat of an Easy Co. reunion, with enough guys close enough to Philadelphia being able to drive or take a train down to the tiny conference room they’d rented out with whatever savings they had to go to waste. 

Johnny was dancing with Pat about five feet from them, and Fran pulled his focus back to her by patting him on the side of his face. 

“Joe okay?” She asked, by way of conversation starter, and Bill blinked at her. 

“Joe? Joe’s fine.” He said, turning around to locate Toye and prove his point before pausing, frowning. “Huh.” 

Joe had — grudgingly, if the letter and short phone call had been any tone indicator — come out from Hughestown for the party, and had been sitting in the same place for about an hour. Turning around and finding him absent was new, but Bill just shrugged. 

“Probably moving around.” He dismissed easily. “Y’know, stretching out the muscles, and the like.” 

Fran just hummed, stepped back half of a step in a silent request to be spun again. Bill did so, and, after listening to her laugh, realized that he didn’t know where Luz had went, either. 

For being further away, Luz coming to Philly had been easier to convince and swing than Toye, the man as easygoing as ever and brushing off Bill’s grudging offer to assist in travel with a simple statement of planning on being in the area anyways, and then not elaborating. 

The music switched and a Sinatra song came on. Fran crossed her eyes at him, playful, and Bill did so back before forgetting all about it. 

-----

Bill didn’t even think about it until later.

Franny was talking to Pat about something-or-the-other after announcing she’d gotten tired of dancing, and, with Johnny and Babe wrapped up in some sort of conversation that Bill had decided he wanted no part in, he’d started down the hall in order to find something to fix the lights with. 

Old habits must die hard, however, or something within Bill must, because he heard George Luz’s laughter — quieter than usual, and maybe more breathy — and paused, leaned against the wall. 

“Just come back with me.” 

Toye hummed back, the sound turned up at the edges, and Bill shifted between his crutches and the wall. “I already got the ticket.” He said, like a fine point. “That’s good money to waste.”

“Give it to Johnny. He said that they were lookin’ to see more of Pennsylvania before getting back home.”

When Bill turned around the corner, just enough to see the sight beyond it but not be spotted in return, he blinked. 

Luz’s back was to the bleached brick of the hall, otherwise empty, head tilted back against it. Toye, leaning heavy against one of his crutches while his other arm wrapped around Luz’s waist, had bent his head enough to press his forehead to the others cheek, Luz’s hand carding through his hair, keeping his head in place. 

Bill blinked and stepped back again. 

“That’s not a bad idea.” Toye said, sounded warm and not entirely grudging. 

“‘Course it’s not, it’s mine.” Luz said back, like a joke. “Plus, that gives us — what? An extra day? Half of one?” 

“Could have a whole lot more than that if you moved.” 

“Impatient, impatient. Three more months, right?” 

“Three more months.” Toye said back to him, the last thing uttered before a lull in sound. 

Huh.

Bill beat it.

-----

He couldn’t say that he never really understood Joe’s whole relationship with Luz. 

He felt like it was a friendship, but deeper, somehow, than the others in the Airborne (at least that he knew of) and the scene in the hall — which he now moved briskly away off, keen on not being caught — had lit up some other thought in him about them that he decided to not look at too closely.

And maybe that was the best way to go about the whole thing, in a way. Don’t look at it too closely. 

Toye seemed happy, and so did Luz, and Bill didn’t want to think about what their friendship was, exactly, so the best way to go about it seemed to just not think about it. 

-----

By the time he made it back to the room, Sinatra was still playing, and Fran lit up and waved when she saw him. Bill waved back and made his way over to her, still thinking about the hallway. 

“Find the right stuff for the lights?” She asked him, staying seated but turning at the waist as he leaned against the wall beside her. 

“Nah.” Bill said, then paused. He looked across the floor at the still blinking lights and then shrugged, reached out enough to press his fingertips to her shoulder. “I think it’s probably fine. Just don’t look at it too close, I guess.” 

Fran just leaned into him. “If you say so.” She said easily, but didn’t seem to mind either way. 

-----

(Three months and two weeks later, Fran is sorting through their mail. 

“Huh.” She said absently, flipping a letter over to examine the blank back before turning it back again. “Guess George Luz moved down to Hughestown.” 

Bill was sitting opposite her at the table, painstakingly writing out thank-you letters to Christmas cards received. “It say why?”

“Guess he got a job down there. Good for him, I suppose. If it pays better, and all.” 

Bill realized after half of a second that he was smiling, somewhat. “Yeah.” He said, tapping the side of his nose absentmindedly. “Good for him. Pennsylvania’s better than Rhode Island or Massachusetts, anyways.” )

[howlingday]

jaune is spiderman au) jaune confronts the red huntress while having to be on a call with his grandpa who keeps telling him that since he's a superhero he should be pulling more bitches, like that red huntress lady! she's hot as hell and totally into him. or that iron fist girl with the gauntlets! she's stacked as hell! or even that reaper girl, she's cute enough! maybe the mercenary chick weiss? or that asguardian girl nora! he could totally pull a goddess of thunder! he just needs to have confidence and ask them out. huntsman is regretting answering the phone on speaker mode

Chapter 3 - Greater Responsibility

Today was not Jaune's day, for more than one reason. To start off, he found out he was failing some of his classes. Adding to that, he was caught up in some schoolyard teasing and was forced into a curfew, wherein he was to stay on schoolgrounds for the next two weeks. Thankfully, Professor Ozpin was kind enough to allow Jaune to attend the school fieldtrip to the Vale Police Department, which was perfect because although Jaune Arc was grounded, the same could not be said for

THE HUNTSMAN SPIDER!

Sneaking off from the group to go to the bathroom, Jaune was able to sneak his way around to find the evidence room. Now he just needed to figure out how to-

"HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING OVER THERE?!"

"Ack!" Jaune whirled around to find a woman in a white uniform, glaring down the hall at him. "S-Sorry! I was just looking for the bathroom!"

"Bull!" She spat. "This isn't some playground, kid! This is a police station, and unauthorized access is punishable pretty severely!"

"Um, I-"

"Just let him go, Bree." A man behind her said with a shrug. "Not like he was hurting anyone. Here, kid, I'll tell ya where to go."

The woman sneered, hissing under her breath. "You got lucky, kid."

'Lucky is right.' Jaune watched the woman stomp away. He looked to the man who had a more relaxed visage. 'These uniforms don't look like police.'

"Um, excuse me, but are you not police officers?"

"That's right." The man nodded. "We're specialists from Atlas. We're here on a special project with the police. You didn't hear it from me, but there's a lot of nasty business going on in town, and Atlas is itching to get in there and help out our friendly neighbors in Vale." Suddenly, the man's eyes took on a darker tone to match his words. "So don't go starting any trouble tonight."

Jaune gulped. "Er, yes, sir."

"Great! See ya round, kid!" Having completed escorting Jaune back to the restrooms, the man walked away with the same grin he wore when he met Jaune. Something about him made Jaune's spider-sense flare up. Though not as much as-

"MISTER ARC!" Professor Goodwitch shouted. "Need I remind you that you are on CURFEW for your misconduct?" A couple of student giggled at how Jaune shrunk into himself. So far, the only win Jaune had was the location of the evidence room. It wasn't much, but it was at least something to start with, right?

--------------------------------------------------

"You're going out tonight, too?"

"Yeah." Pyrrha nodded, pulling out her new outfit. Black wasn't able to convince her to stop, so the two agreed to help The Red Huntress become a proper vigilante. Tonight, Pyrrha would begin another night of patrolling with Black and learn the ropes. Whether or not ropes were actually included, Pyrrha wasn't sure. "Just for a few hours."

"Are you sure you can trust this guy?" Nora asked, watching Pyrrha put her arm into the sleeve. "For all we know, he could be a pervert trying to kidnap you."

"I don't think so." Pyrrha shook her head. "Something about the way they spoke about the White Fang made me think that they meant what they said."

"Well, if you need me, I'm gonna be hanging out with Ren tonight." Nora shook her scroll. "Just give me a call and I will drop everything to come help you!"

Pyrrha giggled. "I appreciate the offer, Nora, but I don't think I'll be needing it."

"Buuut~?"

"But if I do need help, you will be the first one I call."

"Aw, thank you~!"

--------------------------------------------------

"Is Jaune going to call again tonight?"

"Mhm."

"You should really tell him the truth, you know."

"Mm."

"Will you at least tell him his grandma loves him?"

"...'course, honey."

--------------------------------------------------

"Hey, Grandpa!" Jaune said into his earpiece.

"Evenin', Jaune," his grandfather replied, "you just missed your grandma. She love you, y'know."

"I know, Grandpa, and I love her, too."

"So, what mischief are you up to tonight?"

"I'm not up to any mischief, Grandpa." Jaune answered. It wasn't so much mischief tonight as it was a misdemeanor. Or maybe it was a felony. He hoped it was the former.

"Oh, really? So there's no plan to break into police headquarters at all?" Jaune was quiet all of a sudden. "I'm retired, Jaune, but I still have friends on the force. They said there was a kid who went wandering away from his class. I take it that was you?"

"Um... I please the fifth?"

"Plead, Jaune, and that's only in court. Y'ain't been arrested yet." The two Arcs shared a laugh. "Speakin' of pleasin', any chance of you bringing a girl over for the holidays?"

"I'm not really looking for a date, Grandpa."

"And that's why you're up to mischief in the middle of the night. Wouldn't happen if you had a girl to keep you company."

"That's not true."

"Oh, yeah? Where's your roommate?"

"He's back in the dorm, hanging out with his-" Jaune stopped talking, partially because he was unsure of the two's relationship status, and also because he knew he was walking into a trap. He didn't need spider-sense to see that. "Back in the dorm."

"Uh-huh. Y'know, I hear there's a vigilante group out there. Maybe you could join up with them?"

"Really? This is the first I'm hearing about it."

--------------------------------------------------

"I'm in." Black softly said as Pyrrha dropped in behind them. "...Roger." They turned to their red-headed pupil. "Your form could use some work."

"Any pointers?" Pyrrha asked.

Black placed a finger to their covered mouth. Pyrrha's eyes widened and pursed her own mouth shut. Down below, a few police officers milled about, working the late shift on little more than coffee. Pyrrha followed behind Black, noting how they walked with big strides starting on the heel and rolling to their toes. Pyrrha noted how her costume, no longer her normal fit of just red goggles and a cape and now tightly hugging fit of a red body suit covered by light yet sturdy polymer that flexed as she moved, all courtesy of Black's partner, Fencer.

Fencer, for their part, seemed much more animated than Black, making gestures and vocally exasperating. They wore a white fencing outfit that made her digitally camouflaged while moving, completed by a shaded helmet and voice modifier. She was polite to Pyrrha, but would often chide the other members, notably the other two on communications with Black. She'd yet to meet them, but Pyrrha assumed she had yet to earn her keep on the team. Less chance of exposing everyone that way.

Black came to a stop at a corner, holding up her hand with the palm facing out. A low growl came from them, putting Pyrrha at unease. She leaned a bit closer out and saw someone moving around in the evidence room. Black gave Pyrrha a glance then shifted her hand into a pointing two fingers and waved the pointed digits at door. Pyrrha nodded and approached.

Getting close to the door, she tenderly touched the door handle.

--------------------------------------------------

'Spider-sense going off?' Jaune thought, his body tensing. 'But I don't see anyone.'

Jaune knew better than to doubt his ability and ducked down.

He'd found what he needed already. Since the murder was recent, Snipe Hunt's evidence was readily available. The bullets found at the scene of the crime came from a 500 magnum, more hand-cannon than pistol, but still easy to carry concealed. His grandpa had one, and he even let Jaune fire a couple rounds. Guns were never his thing anyways. It couldn't have been him, but who else could have fired a gun like this? This was a question to ask later when he wasn't under attack.

"No point in hiding." A familiar voice came. "We already got your little friend."

'Little friend?' Jaune thought. Nobody was with Jaune when he came in. That meant...

"I'm gonna count to three, and I want you to walk out, nice and slow. One. Two."

Jaune opened the door, finding the man from before holding a tied-up woman under his boot. She was wearing a red cape, red bodysuit, and red goggles. The only thing that wasn't red was the light brown armor on her chest. Keeping his hands up, he pushed the door and walked out.

"Oh, so you're that vigilante that's been skulking around lately?" The man said with a bemused grin. "Was wondering when I'd get to see ya." He pressed down on the woman, making her grunt. The wire wrapped around her pulled taut, making her whine.

"Stop!" Jaune stepped forward, holding his hand out.

"Stop?"

"Look-" Before Jaune could speak any further, he felt something tug against his leg.

"Look? Stop and look? Sounds like something you should have done a long time ago."

Spider-sense throbbed like crazy. It felt like there was danger everywhere now. He noticed a gleam and realized there was wire everywhere, thin strands all closing in on him. Keeping his arms up, he was ironically nabbed in a web like spider silk. However, the way in which was caught only surrounded his upper body, thanks to him ducking just in time with one leg bent and the other extended behind him. It started to burn as muscle began to stretch like they hadn't been before.

"Hm." The man hummed. "Wasn't expecting you to be that quick." Jaune pushed himself to both feet, wires sliding up and digging into his gut. "Good thing I've got a friend who's quicker."

Jaune charged, arms held up to cover his face, only to be knocked down by something moving as fast as lightning. He rolled on the ground and stood up, only to be knocked down again. Roll, stand, knock down. He rolled a third time, stood a third time, and turned on his heel catching the lightning bolt off-guard. Turning his body in mid-air, he crashed into the woman in the white uniform from before.

"Get off me!" She shouted, trying to push Jaune off. In the struggle, the wires slid up over Jaune's arms but caught themselves on each other, making the strands tighter and harder to move than before. Jaune suddenly felt his spider-sense go off again, this time focusing on behind. He tried to move, but the woman underneath him kept him held in place.

SHIKT-KREEEEEE!

Something sharp tore through Jaune's bindings, almost digging into his suit. He heard an awful screech against the back-plate of his armor. However, this was Jaune's chance as shoved both arms out, smashing his fists into the woman's chest, knocking her hard into the ground and Jaune to his feet.

"Finally, some breathing room." Jaune sighed. "Next time, try pizzas WITHOUT anchovies."

The woman, furious, spun to her feet and bolted for Jaune. However, as she charged head-to-head, he was able to dodge to the side. There was a loud crash as the woman tripped over something and slammed into the wall. He looked behind him and winced.

"Sorry about that." He offered to the unconscious woman. He turned his attention to the man in white. "So, was that enough for you?"

"Yeah, it was."

"Huh?" Then the man let go of the wire and backed away from the vigilante woman. The wires came loose enough for her to pull off. "That's it? You're just... letting us go?"

"Yeah. I've seen enough." He reached to his collar and spoke into it. "This is Specialist Ebi. Exercise complete. Recovering Specialist Bree for treatment." There was a beep and a response from the other side of the radio. "Looks like it's your lucky day, kid." The man known as Ebi said as he walked over to the woman known as Bree. "But that lucks gonna run out in about three days."

"Three days?" The red woman said. "What happens in three days?"

"Nothing too special, but, uh, if I were you, I'd hang up those costumes and let the big kids have their fun."

"Big kids?" Jaune asked. The woman then gasped.

"Atlas..."

"Lucky guess." He picked up Bree. "Hopefully your luck keeps rolling. Because eventually," he turned the corner, but not before saying, "your luck's gonna run out."

Jaune stood there, his body tense. There was no spider-sense to warn him of danger. No, this fear was something far away, yet close enough to bypass his senses. Shivering out his fear, he reached down and helped up the woman.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine." She said. "He just... caught me by surprise."

"Careful with the puns." Jaune jokingly warned. "I know... a guy who likes puns enough to fight for them."

"I'm sure you do." She brushed herself off. "You seem... familiar. Have we met before?"

"Uh, nope, I can't say I've ever met a woman in a red skinsuit." Then a thought came to his head. "Say, uh, do you want to team up? This Atlas thing in three days might be some big trouble. Y'know, strength in numbers and all that?"

"Well-"

"Red." Jaune turned to see his 'friend' from the bank.

"Oh. So you're with them?"

"Do you... know each other?" The woman asked.

"Now." The figure growled.

"I'll... let you go." Jaune stepped away. Walking down the hall to the room with the window he entered. Along the way, he passed the mysterious figure in black. "Go easy on her. It's her first day, right?" Jaune got a glare in response, making him walk faster.

--------------------------------------------------

"And what happened next?" Nora asked, interrupting herself to scrub her teeth.

"Then Black was quiet for 20 minutes." Pyrrha said, from the doorway. "You ever have that friend who's mad at you, but doesn't say anything to let you know they're mad?"

Nora spat into the sink. "Nope~! Renny and me are so close, we can practically read each other's minds~!"

"I can almost believe that." Pyrrha said with a giggle. Her mind then began to wander. The vigilante who saved her. He was sturdy, but there was also a kindness to him. Something of a gentle giant. A smile crept to her face as she imagined teaming up with him.

"Ooh~! Thinking about Jaune again~?"

"Huh?" Pyrrha blinked. "Er, y-yes. Yes, I think I was."

[piristephes]

Helios most bright drove to the west, the wind-dancing nymphs turning golden as His visage crossed their threshold. The all-seeing eye of his contemplated His sister silver-clad armor on the horizon as the blue-heavens turnt purple and pink. A hand waved in the air, the sound of bulls and horses of flame guiding the yoke of day and night. Brother and sister, the most beloved titans alike In splendour.

português:

Hélio brilhantíssimo dirigiu-se ao oeste, as ninfas no vento dançantes vestindo ouro de súbito, conforme sua visagem cruzava seu limiar. Seu olhar onividente contemplou No horizonte sua irmã de prateada armadura, Conforme o azul-celeste tornava-se púrpura e rosa. Uma mão acenava no ar, o som de touros e Cavalos chamejantes guiando o jugo do dia e da noite. Irmão e irmã, mais amados titãs iguais

Em esplendor.

[ekman]

– “Prends-moi la main, Martial. Je sens qu’elle arrive... Elle est déjà là.” Émile était devenu pâle comme un enfant fiévreux, le teint cireux et le regard de moins en moins mobile. Martial l’avait soulagé de son bardas, puis défait les boutons de sa gabardine. Derrière le tissu percé, son gilet et sa chemise étaient rendus poisseux d’un sang épais. Il respirait très mal, mais ça ne s’épanchait plus.

– “Ça va aller mon Émile, n’aies pas peur.” À genoux dans ce trou de mortier, hors de vue des tireurs allemands, Martial était perdu. Une minute plus tôt, Émile, qui cheminait devant lui, s’était effondré comme un sac de linge, pile quand la détonation d’un Mauser avait claqué sèchement au loin, là-bas vers l’Est, du côté des barbelés fridolins. Plaqué au sol, il avait tout juste eu le temps de le prendre par les brêlages pour le tirer dans un trou d’obus. Que faire si loin des lignes ? Pas la peine de gueuler au secours. À un mètre de profondeur, derrière la terre retournée, personne n’entendrait. Et pas de fusée dans la musette. “Pas la peine, y se passe plus rien ici”, lui avait asséné l’adjudant Bollard avant le départ vers l’avant-poste du Lieutenant Dutray, avec des instructions écrites et un sac de ravitaillement. Mais pourquoi un de ces crétins de Boche avait fait feu ? Des jours que la pétarade avait cessé ! Merde, pourquoi ?! Merde, merde et re-merde !

– “Martial, t’es toujours là hein ?” Martial savait que sa voix allait flancher. Sa vue était entrain de se troubler. C’est que dans sa grosse pogne si froide de boue et de pluie, il sentait la fine main d’Émile plus froide encore. Il se racla la gorge. “T’inquiète, j’ai envoyé une fusée, les secours vont arriver. Ça va aller vite, ils ne tirent plus en face.” La tête d’Émile glissait doucement sur le côté. Martial la redressa et se pencha sur son jeune copain de tranchée. “Merde, Émile, tu vas pas lâcher maintenant. Six mois qu’on traine ensemble ici à déjouer tous les mauvais sorts. Partout on raconte que ça va se terminer, tout ce tintouin, ce merdier. Si c’est pas aujourd’hui, ce sera demain, ou la semaine prochaine, mais guère plus je te dis...” Émile esquissa un sourire. “C’est bête ça, alors. On devait rentrer ensemble pour que je te présente ma sœur.” Il y eut un temps. “Elle est jolie, tu sais, la petite Charlotte.” Martial sentait les larmes creuser leur chemin le long de ses joues, inondant chaque contour de sa barbe sale. ”Oui, elle est gironde ta frangine, mon Émile.” Sa respiration s’arrêta d’un coup. Martial eut le réflexe de secouer le tirailleur de seconde classe Émile Gandin, mortellement blessé d’une balle au poumon.

– “Tu dois pas partir, Émile ! J’entends les gars de la Santé qui arrivent, dis donc ! Respire, bon sang !” Émile eut une inspiration brève et un peu de lumière revint dans son regard. “... et mes parents, Martial. Je suis sûr que tu plairas à mon père,. C’est un dur à cuire, comme toi…”

– “Arrête de causer. Repose-toi, là. Fais pas d’effort, respire bien.” Martial plongea son regard dans celui d’Émile, 22 ans. Il s’imprégna de l’image de son jeune visage, si affreusement pâle. 

Il vit assez nettement l’instant où le dernier souffle de vie passa entre les lèvres du mourant, faisant gonfler quelques petites bulles de salive rosâtres. Un très léger voile apparut à la surface des yeux d’Émile, quelque chose de ténu mais de définitif pourtant. Le signe qu’il venait de partir, de quitter ce trou de terre molle qui mêlait la chair des soldats, l’acier des obus et toutes les larmes de toutes les douleurs. C’était le 10 novembre 1918, quelque part dans le Nord de la France.

J.-M. M.

[sqyyadina]

i've just finished reading dune: messiah, and while i am completely and utterly crushed that jessica doesn't appear once, i really appreciate that i get to be the one to decide what happens with her! so please, i offer you a little drabble about what i believe happened to jessica during the 21 year gap between her time spent on arrakis.

i should note that i have read about 100 pages of children of dune, so her appearance there has definitely influenced these headcanons as well!! also, i sort of blended movie and book here, i do hope it makes sense!!

spoilers below if you have not read the second book!! <33

Jessica returns to Caladan, hoping to find peace and stillness. And, perhaps for a year or so, that is what she finds. She returns to the great castle, finding her calm once again, sitting in her beloved silence, pleased that she has no devotees begging at her feet, no cinnamon-spice to burn her nostrils. She only has the drumming of rain, and with each drawn breath, she’s met with the sweet dampness of castle walls, the aroma of spiceless fish prepared in the kitchen she’s filled with staff. It was her first action upon arrival. Jessica feels no need for countless guards, for maids, for the weaponsmasters or computer-brains once roamed these very halls. She’s perfectly happy to clean for herself, to keep only the few Fremen amazons that Paul had insisted keep watch, as much as she protested. She has no need for a watchful eye, for weapons in the home. What she does need, more desperately than she needs air in her lungs, is a good meal. She’s not eaten anything of real substance, real protein with a flavor other than melange, in three years’ time, and it’s taken a toll on her body. What was once plump with life now sticks tight to bone. Over three years in the deep desert, worries of her children’s survival, of propelling them into the light, into Godliness, and nearly all Jessica could think about was having a decent meal to warm her stomach.

She spends her first days on Caladan preparing the home, but soon begins to break free. When the Duke ruled these halls, Jessica was rarely offered escape. She left the stone compound so few times she could count them on her fingers. Now, she moves freely through the stalls of vendors, over cobblestone pathways and up the hiking trails that her feet always longed to stumble over. Here, she’s not shot down by bewildered gazes, grabbed roughly by hopeful hands reaching out for the touch of her healing skin. She’s just as any other citizen of Cala City, dipping her toes in the multitudinous rivers, visiting the southern continent’s wine country for a restful trip. She’d once been so envious, overhearing maids speaking of their weekend events, their trips to watch the Salusan Bulls, how their husbands had bought them fine jewelry crafted from pearls found on the northern shores. Jessica had always been furiously jealous, though she’d never show it, always wanting to keep an air of contentment, of minimalism, of being completely and entirely pleased with her life.

Now, little by little, she’s begun to allow herself emotions. Though, she’s burdened by the horrible words that have always oppressed her, always forced her into pure indifference. She’s haunted by her own face now, a horrid reminder of days passed, of the evils still weaving their way on Dune. Every time she looks in the mirror she’s met with the glowing blue eyes, the ink-needled skin, the Litany Against Fear. A constant reminder that her very emotions are ruining her mind, that she shouldn’t do what it is to be fundamentally human, to feel. She’s grown to hate her own complexion so much that one of her very first actions upon Caladan was to rid the castle of anything in which she may see her own reflection. There exist no mirrors, and the only time she may chance a look at her own visage is in the windows at night, a ghostly, blurred apparition of a woman, a woman she no longer recognizes. One she no longer wants to recognize.

She hates the horrid tattoos, and on her worst nights, the nights in which she cannot fall asleep, cannot stop the thoughts of war being waged in her children’s names, she can’t stop herself from scratching violently at the ink. She sobs her prayers into the night, begging to whatever God may be out there that she will be rid of the ancient Fremen writing, that her skin will revert to its blankness. She scrubs the skin with a rough cloth, causing little effect to the lasting tattoo, but irreparable pain to the already sun-damaged flesh. When she wakes, the tears that fall only irritate the skin more, forcing her into another lapse of pain and hatred of that pain itself, creating a maelstrom of hurt, starting the cycle again.

Not only is she haunted by her own being, but Jessica finds herself possessed by the water of life, by the centuries upon centuries’ worth of memories, of death, of grief, of love lost and children aged. She carries the weight of these memories throughout the day, as though she is Sisyphus, pushing years of sorrow up a hill with no peak in sight. Her dreamlife is only worse than her waking hours, often forcing her awake in a fright in the middle of the night with no comfort, or choosing not to sleep at all. It begins to take a toll on her when she nears her second year, pent up with a lack of rest, with fear for her children who rarely contact her, who face so many evils, so many stars away. Jessica soon finds herself in the same state in which she once inhabited the castle, downtrodden and perpetually miserable, barely surviving.

She is gifted little humor in her days sulking, but when a letter (her preferred method of communication, she's rid the castle of any last technology, even shields) arrives from Arrakis detailing the emperor’s newest law which dictates that a certain Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam is to be executed dare she ever lay foot on Arrakeen or Caladan soil, Jessica allows herself a small chuckle. Though she feels entirely conflicted in the matter, as she’s spent her entire life begging for the woman’s approval that has, and will, never come, Jessica does not relish in the promise of her death. It causes a brief moment of glee, the knowledge that she will never once see her own mother again, will never face the agony of her own features reflected back at her, only in the shape of a disapproving frown. She will never see her mother again, and though she’s never seen the woman as a mother, nor the man as a father, she feels a sickening sadness over the fact that she will never know a parent’s love in this lifetime.

And when that death does come, accompanied by the news of the death of her only son, the Kwisatz Haderach, Muad’dib, the Mahdi, Paul… Jessica feels herself break down more than she ever has before. She’s never allowed herself to feel scared, to feel truly sad, heartbroken. Not even when her duke died did she allow herself many tears. Both Bene Gesserit and Fremen saw tears as weakness, so when both mother and son leave this plane, Jessica struggles to understand what to do with herself.  It's now that she turns to her Sisterhood. The Sisterhood that once cast her aside, deemed her only as failure, saw her hopefulness as weakness. When all other family is lost, it is a sister that one looks towards. She leaves the castle with only one bag under arm, a few garments tossed in through teary eyes, unsure exactly of what she’s brought. It doesn’t matter, as she’ll spend her next years behind veil and skirt, once again becoming the walking shadow that once followed the duke.

Jessica turns to the Sisters in isolation on the Eastern Continent, knowing well that any attempt to return to the Bene Gesserit base would be surely denied, her mother’s word too cherished there. So she ventures where she once promised herself she never would, to the convent across the sea, where the women live in silence, with only gentle nods of recognition to keep each other company. Though, when she arrives at the doors of the convent, she is not at all met by the wicked old Bene Gesserit crones one would expect. Here, in fact, she finds women nearer her age, and though they are unable to communicate, the sadness behind the eyes give Jessica and understanding of their stories, a shared past of heartbreak and forced hands. She is unsure of the nature of these women, be they witches or spinsters, hermits or spies, but she does not care. She lives with them, weaves with them, creates a home for herself on the island. It’s here that she heals, that she finds family to fill the darkness that had once covered that path in her heart. It’s in the convent that she finds real sisters, be they Bene Gesserit or not.

She allows herself to mourn, to regain her strength, and, eventually, finds her way back to the Chapterhouse. She imagines that, after five or so years, the Sisterhood has moved past the death of a Reverend Mother, a woman whose only notable work was done for an emperor long dead. When she does arrive on the planet, Jessica is feared. Revered, even. The youngest witches cower in her presence, stutter when speaking to her. Though she is filled with a renewed sense of self, a certain calm that had never once graced her heart, there’s an itch towards power, some distant voice telling her to grip to this, to ride it through, to become the woman they think you are. So, though she comes with innocent enough intentions, it is not long before Jessica’s ego is overwhelming. She is the mother of the Kwisatz Haderach. She is the one who pulls the strings, who allows the motion of the universe. She raises the moons over Arrakis and hangs the stars in the sky. She is mother of both God and Saint.

Though she does not fall as far into Godhead as her son does, is not worshipped as St. Alia is, Jessica is imbued by a sense of power, a pride in which she has never felt before. It is she the one who chooses to return to Arrakis after over twenty years, not influenced by mother or son or duke. For the first time in her life, though it has taken her until her hair carries specks of white and the tattoos have long faded, she makes her own decisions. She is Reverend Mother because she wants to be.

[afterredlights]

You know what, there is a possibility that we will have a Sainz-Norris strategy again. George is firmly behind them, and he has two options: quickly overtake Lando and put some distance behind him, or do not defend from Max.

And here is why I think George will pick option number 2, or in this case his Best Chance To Survive.

I think Carlos will love to help Lando somewhat, not only because he is nice to the people he likes (giving more space to Lando and Fernando, when overtaking and all that stuff) but also because he wouldn't want to be challenged by George in that Mercedes, which has shown to be quite the opponent in this track as seen in the FPs.

In this case, Carlos helps Lando -> George can't overtake, Carlos and Lando are safe

But, Carlos also said, "...win with Charles tomorrow." in the Post-Qualifying interview. Due to that statement, I believe he would be more concerned on catching Oscar ASAP, getting that P2 and holding it 'till the end. This would inevitably put Oscar under pressure, and Lando (who Carlos helped with DRS to throw off George) would then receive team orders to put Carlos under pressure instead, effectively letting Oscar go.

Carlos wants P2 -> attacks Oscar, Lando has to help his teammate -> Carlos is fucked, can't get that P2, probably even drops to P4

In the scenario above, both George and Carlos would be screwed over, one after the other. Hence why, I believe George should let Max pass because it would be much easier for him in the long run (I hope). Think about it.

If George let Max pass him, and gradually catch up to Lando in P4, Max would fight tooth and nail to overtake that McLaren. George can reap the benefits of not being in the wall due to defending from Max, as well as the possibility to overtake Lando if the McLaren exhausted his tyres too much in the fight against Max.

Also, because of that fight, it's not impossible for George to overtake Max either (again, tyres, all sorts of crap that Red Bull continuously deal Max with). Wowza, he'd get DOTD just for that, me thinks.

But to be honest with you, I just want Max to overtake both McLarens and get that podium in that slippery as fuck car :) I'm willing, happy, even! If Charles is crowned in Monaco, give Ferrari a 1-3 finish with Max seething and setting fastest lap because he's had enough-

I just want Max to come back to his roots, we all miss you and your haunting visage, Mad Max!

[secret-smut-sideblog]

The Phoenix

Lavellan x Blackwall

PG-13 - confrontation, implied abuse, fear, guilt, implied torture, (explicit) eye injury, longing, tenderness

The trial to judge her lost love upon her, she must make heavy choices with new eyes...

Masterlist, Prev Chapter

-

"Focus."

She pushed it forward with eyes wide. Fingers held on the taut string. The circle of her spectral sight rushed to the target.

Suddenly, it was as clear as if she had stood within arms reach. Releasing the arrow into the dead center of the ring, far down in the ravine.

"That was 80 yards!" Bull whistled.

She smiled as she lowered the bow, wind whipping her hair. Heir's hand came to her shoulder, making her jump. Her sight still far ahead at the target.

"You are vulnerable while you deal death, shadow. Stay in dark or have another shield your sides."

"Shooting blind." She laughed. Her vision reformed to rest around her and her teacher's face took up shape again within it. Like eyes pulling from the horizon. Not so different, she found.

"Yes, you are twice as deadly and just as susceptible now. Keep mind of yourself. Keep training."

"Thank you, death-guide." She leaned her head into Heir's shoulder, and the assassin's head leaned into her shoulder in turn. A silent Dalish show of great respect.

Learning to wield her blind eyes was invigorating in a way she hadn't anticipated. Just navigating Skyhold was a new journey, using her memory to keep track of the surroundings outside her scope of vision. Her sense of cardinal direction had always been strong from navigating forests, and sound and smell filled out where her vision couldn't extend. Certain of her location by the sound of revelry at Herald's Rest and the smell of hay from the stables.

The stables...

She couldn't bring herself to go where he had been yet. Certain that the scent of him soaked in every fur would overwhelm her.

"Hey, Sunshine." Varric's voice. "Josephine sent me."

She stepped towards the sound and his ghostly visage took up again.

"Ah, sorry. Forgot you couldn't see me." He stepped a little closer apologetically.

"We're all getting used to it." She smiled.

"The distance..." He remarked thoughtfully. "Hold on. Say when."

She held still, watching him until he dissipated from her vision after several backward steps.

"There. You're gone."

"Interesting. That's about nine tall paces. But it extends in a circle, right?"

She nodded, and Varric slipped behind her back. He held up his fingers.

"Two. One. Three." She recited.

"Hot damn." He laughed.

"Advantages and disadvantages." She agreed.

"And it works in the dark?" He pulled a messy journal from his belt.

"It does. Am I going to get a rough draft?" She teased.

"Shit, you really can see me." He laughed.

"You were here with something?" She reminded, turning towards him if only to be polite.

"Oh! Right..." His face fell. "He's here."

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes heavily as she released it.

"Want to walk me back?"

"I'd love to." He smiled, offering his shoulder to her palm.

Quiet reverent chatter rose in her wake. A few whispers behind hands. A new title had cropped up: The Blinded Light. At least they weren't calling her Herald as much.

"I have to know..." He led as they walked.

She smiled ruefully at him.

"Brown. Like a warm brick home."

Varric placed his hand under his heart where the color of him radiated invisible to his eyes. Giving a permissive little smile.

"Damn, I was hoping for red."

-

Sitting on the throne would never stop feeling unnatural. Made even more uncomfortable by the circumstances she was about to face.

As soon as the great door groaned opened, she stood again. Searching the ground for where his form was about to take up. The shift of feet and clank of chains made her heart ache.

Josephine's eyes were steady on her in sympathy. Stepping forward to announce the trial.

"For judgment this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Rainer..."

He finally appeared in front of her. Head bowed and led forward by two guards.

She pressed her palm to the hollow between her ribs. An old self soothing she had carried since childhood. Stifling a shaken breath.

"Formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall."

The guards shoved him at the base of the steps. The same steps he had led her down from countless times.

His eyes held down.

"His crimes..." Josephine gave her another look of soft apology. "Well, you are aware of his crimes."

"The decision of what to do with him is yours."

"Thank you, Josephine."

She nodded, and stepped out of her sight again.

There was a whole gathered party of those who attended to watch his trial.

But in her eyes, in her world, it was just them alone.

Two people who had loved each other so dearly. Now stood on the precipice of opposite cliff edges.

She stepped down to the ledge of the stairs. Staring at the fine shifting sand of his face. How different, but wholly the same he was in this light.

"I hate this." Her eyes watered behind the blindfold. How badly she wanted to touch him.

"You should've left me. I was ready." The growl of his voice both soothed and spiked ache in her heart.

"Your hands are dirtied now. You're a criminal like me." He accused darkly, finally looking up at her. His brows briefly creased in confusion at her missing vallasin.

"Do not speak to her that way." Josephine commanded. The cold poison of the tone sent a shiver up her spine. "I ordered your retrieval. Her hands are clean, and I'd remind you of the condition she was put in to delegate that power to me in the first place."

His eyes fell in shame. Speaking to the ground again. "Apologies, lady ambassador."

"Don't apologize to me." She led as she stepped back again.

"Vella..." He looked up at her.

The mournful call almost crumpled her heart.

"That is not my name. It..."

They couldn't speak truly to one another here, and she refused to be false with him.

"It hurts too much to use." She hushed in Elvhen.

He shook his head, his brow furrowed in despair.

"Why am I being spared?" His eyes met hers with incidiary guilt again. "What becomes of me now?"

This was the easy part.

There was no other way her heart could lean.

"You're free."

"It cannot be that simple." His eyes lowered again, shaking his head in anger.

"It isn't. You can atone as the man you are, the man you've been to me, and nothing less. I will not permit you to fall into your own lie in my stead. I was true to you the entire way, and I ask you to be true to yourself now."

"You would accept that?" His eyes narrowed in soft disbelief, still skirting her gaze. The sight he thought she perceived him with far different to the one she wielded now.

"And what I used to be?" He finally met her shielded gaze fully.

He stepped up the first few steps with tentative hope.

"I lied to you about who I was, but I never lied about what I felt."

How she already missed the slight blue in his eyes. She tried to hold the color in memory, to still see it inside the steel of his tender gaze.

"You have always carried my heart. I leave it in your hands now." His voice gave the slightest shake.

She stared down the cliff face. Pebbles skittered under her feet.

How easy it would be to jump. To fall to the death of it. All their pain choked love left a dignified death. Shattered on the sorrow slicked rocks far below.

It would be the most honest way. To sever the cord of their tangle. A clean cut. Free to lick their wounds in the privacy of their own strife. So much had been shattered already. It would be kind to let the rest topple over the edge.

Her hand pressed hard to her ribs. The vertigo swimming in her belly.

She stepped back from the edge.

"I want to walk with you again. I want to know you. To be with you. But it's going to take time for me to trust you again. Would you wait with me?"

"I would wait until time ended." He hushed.

His eyes fell once more. "But I don't know how to be with you as Thom Rainier."

She stepped down to him. Pulling the blindfold from her eyes.

His breath stilled. Staring at the blinded cloud of her eyes in despondent shock.

"I will have you as you are. But if you ever. Ever. Come to me with violence like that again..."

Her eyes narrowed in certainty. Letting her venomous words ring true.

"I refuse to live in fear of an angry man in my home. Not ever again. I will slit your throat first. Understood?"

He nodded. Guilt tight in his shoulders.

"Okay." She whispered. Cupping his cheek in her palm.

"We'll take it one step at a time." She sighed.

He leaned into her hand with tightly closed eyes. Rising a chained hand to cup her forearm.

She rose on tiptoes and planted a soft kiss on his lips. He pressed into her kiss with renewed passion. The weight of it profound against her tender touch.

He stepped back quickly, seeming to remember their agreement. Staring up at her blind eyes as gratitude and deep sorrow danced in equal parts behind his gaze. Giving her a little toss of the head as he retreated that pulled a small smile from her.

Bowing his head one last time, he turned from her. Shoulders heavy with his own burdens. Stepping into the world beyond her.

-

"This is an eluvian."

She stepped forward, staring up at the expanse of swirling glass. A glowing iridescent river trapped in a deceptively flat plane.

"I heard you've taken up the moniker 'Vella' again?" Morrigan crossed her arms, staring at her wonder with appreciation.

"It's easier for the others." She rose a flat palm to hover just outside of the sliding color. "It doesn't hurt like it used to, anyway."

"I can see the color of it." Vella sighed. "It's powerful magic, isn't it?"

"Correct." Morrigan smiled. "An artifact stolen from your people long before their empire was lost to human greed."

"I can feel it." Vella smiled. Smoothing a hand over the frame. A pleasant tingle in her palm.

"I thought you might. Though you've diverted the full power of your gift, the Pantheon still favors you."

"I suppose I should be patroned by Ghilan'nain now." She sighed. How weary she was to the meddling of gods. "Solas has implied as much."

"Ah, yes. I've heard you've been traversing thine dreams with the apostate. He is correct, the blind goddess of navigation is more suited to your circumstances. But elven gods have never given up their mortal holds graciously."

"They've started wars over far less." Vella agreed.

"It is so refreshing to speak to the educated. Come. Let us travel."

Morrigan's hands wound back and pushed forward. Beckoning the mirror open with a gust of heavily laced wind.

"It's a portal!" Vella smiled wide.

Morrigan smiled slyly, stepping through. Disappearing behind a ripple of indigo water.

That drop in her belly that moving between rifts pulled as Vella stepped through. She had heard of veil jumpers long ago and wondered how they could stomach it so often.

"Ah!" She shielded her eyes as the plane filled fully around her.

"You can see here..." Morrigan led, curiosity tinged in her words.

"It's like this in dreams too." Vella blinked rapidly, letting her hand fall. "All color and horizons again."

"Fascinating. And still no call of Dirthamen?"

"No. But I think if I stayed too long, he would fill me again." She marveled at the misty stretching scenery. "It's kind of beautiful here."

"I agree." Morrigan looked out at the standing sea of dead mirrors. Guarded by bare antler branched trees.

"If this place once had a name, it has long been lost." Morrigan smiled slyly at her again. "How familiar."

"I'm going to miss you, when you move on." Vella smiled.

"I may miss you too." Morrigan sighed with aggravated endearment.

Vella stepped forward, holding out her arms to let the mist comb through the dance of her fingers. Places like this always felt familiar. Something achingly close to a home, though she could never place why.

"This is a place I call the Crossroads. A between of realms, a nexus of traveling. It is an unnatural place, but you seem to find it agreeable."

"I'd like to stay for a while. Is it safe to visit on my own?" Vella looked over her shoulder at Morrigan's smile of soft disbelief.

"Does your lineage have a history of traveling?"

"My father's side all died quite young from madness. I know little of my mother's side. Father refused to speak of her in his grief. But I still carry her silver with me."

Morrigan looked her up and down, clearly questioning her lack of jewelry.

Vella extended her tongue, giving a cheeky smile around it.

"Oh the Chantry despised you, didn't they?" Morrigan laughed.

"They made the wound, but I got to close it." Vella offered easily, a sparkle of mischief in her voice.

"My father said once that I took after her. Maybe she did know of traveling. Gods, what I wouldn't have given for a place like this when I was in the wilds. Years it would've saved me."

"But I imagine your journey made you much more capable. The wilds have a knack for that." Her voice confident in experience.

"I never would've become a rogue." Vella agreed. "I wouldn't have learned the harsh of winter, how to hunt, how to fall into shadow. How to kill with mercy or malice."

"But we're here for a reason." Vella waved her hand affably. "I've taken us off trail. Please, go on."

"Well, to answer your question, I am uncertain if you should linger here alone. Though, perhaps someone familiar as you seem to be could safely do so. And yet, Corypheus seeks to wield this place to reach the Fade in the flesh. To tear down the ancient barriers."

"Of course." Vella sighed. "Warping Elven artifacts for personal gain is a favorite past-time of Magisters."

"Naturally." Morrigan smiled, beckoning her back to the swirling mirror. "Desperate men make easier prey, sister. And you've made Corypheus quite so. I shall enjoy working together when you are prepared."

Morrigan stepped through, striding with confidence.

Vella paused in her momentary isolation.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and called out a fox cry to seek kin.

It echoed far into the mist. Almost seeming to double back to her.

She smiled wide and stepped back into her world of greys once more.

-

The stone of guilt in his belly was so heavy that it should've pulled him through the earth. That he could move at all was an affront.

The eyes that followed his trail to the turret cut into his skin with deserved slashes. Skyhold, in its entire, was against him now. Not only for what he had been, what he had done, his past fair incentive to distrust him. But the added injury of what he had put her through. Their people's adoration of her made the torment he had unleashed upon her personal.

He had tried to approach Cullen, if just to thank him. If he hadn't been there... If he hadn't arrived when he did...

But the man reviled him in such a way that he commanded him from his office. Only giving one rage tight sentence in his dismissal.

"What you did to her is unforgivable, pray to the Maker that you can atone."

His nightmares had been taken up only by that terrible moment. Playing over and over with worse outcomes.

Just the fear in her eyes when he had tried to scare her away was enough to ache in his heart for eternity. The way she had scattered back, raising her forearm to shield from the ghost of a strike. He had nearly fallen to knees to apologize, to beg the terror of him from her eyes.

But then she had been forced up high onto the tips of knees, eyes so terribly wide in silver. Seeing beyond with her lips fallen slack, face wrenched up to the damp ceiling.

Then she started screaming.

The sound reverberated in his nightmares. When she started begging in the words of his victims. Grasping at her throat for a noose that had long since rotted away.

With the terror of dawning horror, he understood.

She was not only seeing it. The dog. The Calliers.

She was experiencing it.

He had been utterly helpless behind bars. To shout for her. To beg for her. To not take the pain that he had caused. Not her. Please, not her. Shouting to the Maker for it all to stop. To stop it in the way he hadn't then.

When she had pulled her dagger from her side, he began slamming his shoulder into the door. Begging her to stop. Calling for her again and again as his body crashed into iron. Unable to keep the blade from her.

He couldn't help. He couldn't even reach her. Not in body or words. He had to watch through repeated blows of his shoulder as the blade entered her cheekbone. Blood spilling river down her chest. Dragging up. Splitting the lower of her eyelid.

Then Cullen had sprinted to her. Knocking the blade away. Catching her just as her mind finally gave. Blood pouring from her eye, her nose, the hollow of her ear. Cupping the back of her head just as it was about to crack into the stone floor. Gathering her tightly seized body to his chest. Kneeled in the aftermath of his crimes.

That replayed behind his lids every time he fell to sleep with new, more terrible ends. Where Cullen hadn't arrived. Where she hadn't screamed loud enough. Where he was forced to watch the whole way.

He had taken up her habit of pacing to keep from sleep. Looping small circles in his cell all night like a kenneled mongrel. The guards preferred his circling to the scream of his night terrors anyway.

Of everything he deserved, he couldn't accept forgiveness, not this soon. He was grateful that she hadn't accepted him back with fully open arms. That she had chosen to keep some distance. It allowed him to grieve everything that had happened in his stead without her consoling.

He didn't know if he could take her trying to comfort him. Not after everything. Not with the stitches still under her clouded eyes. Not with the badge of failure of the mottled purple bruise of his shoulder.

The only people who treated him with any level of familiarity were Cole, and, shockingly, Solas.

When he saw her bare face... Maker, her eyes...

That man always knew well beyond his means, and this had been no exception.

He had to know.

His heart begged for some reprieve, but he had to. He had cornered him in a high turret a night before, now he returned to receive the end of his retelling.

Solas seemed all too keen to fill him in on the dire changes in his absence. Reciting in great detail the silent despair that had taken her. The hollow pain in her eyes and her choice to blind them forever.

He realized that Solas was enjoying giving him this recounting. A malicious satisfaction behind the easy canter of his words. Watching his heart fall further and further into the earth. Finding pleasure in his deserved anguish.

"Her sight is only a shadowed circle now." Solas leaned back in the crook of the stone window. "Seeing only within her vicinity."

He gave a permissive sigh. Finally relenting the gratification of his torment.

"But she is far better off now. Her mind is her own. She can sleep."

His eyes glittered in delight.

"Better yet; she can dream."

"What?" Thom's heart lifted with the rise of his bowed head.

"We have been traveling together. Her dreams are sprawling and beautiful. Beheld with the wonder and imagination of a child. She is an excellent dreamer. I have treasured walking alongside her."

"And her god has no hold? She can't be taken over again?" The desperate plea of his voice strangled under the hopeful lump in his throat.

"Correct. His influence was once a mad sprint across her mind. Now, it is tamed to a crawl. To attend to the constant of her sight, it exhausts. Pulls it paper thin. Dirthamen was never a steady presence. More suited to bursts. It is an unnatural strain for his power to attend so dutifully."

Solas sighed again. Looking out over the forest far below.

"I'm loathe to admit, but your torment of her seemed to align with the best outcome. It came with a heavy cost, like all worthwhile endeavors. But her life should extend much farther towards the horizon now."

Thom looked at him in dawning cold.

"She didn't tell you?" Solas' eyes met his again. "Ah, I guess there's no harm now."

"Before..." He waved his hand. "All this, she had a handful of years left. A little less each time she attuned."

He looked down at the forest again. His eyes soft on the treeline.

"It's understandable that she kept that close to her chest. It's a terrible thing. Knowing."

Thom rushed him, overcome with gratitude. Gathering the miserable little man in a tight hug.

"That's quite enough of that." The clip of his voice almost made him laugh. Pulling away with wet eyes.

"Why are you up here anyway?" He allowed his voice to fill gruff again. Adjusting his tone back to stalwart.

Solas smiled. "Seeking frivolous comforts."

Thom stared lost at him, but Solas held up his hand in a bid to wait.

They both stared down, waiting for something Thom was unsure he wanted to indulge.

"There she is." Solas whispered. An uncharacteristically sweet smile pulled his lips.

Then Thom heard it. The haunting high call of her singing. Risen up through trees.

At first just sweeping notes, her voice trembling tenderly with disuse. But then it moved into melody. An Elvhen song he didn't recognize, near a lullaby, but more mournful.

But Solas recognized it.

His brow creased as his eyes fell closed.

"Oh..." His voice fell tender.

She rose it in cresting cries. A song about a lonely wolf, calling for lost family.

Wolf brother

You're adrift, shape that shifts

Spirit strong, child of sorrow

But there was only you

And your haunted joy borrowed

Solas pressed his hand to his chest. Letting his head fall forward.

There was still no echo to howl

Despite the cold ground you cover

Wolf of sorrow, can you hear my call

Can you feel my warm bite, my growl

Listen now and alone do not suffer

Aho-

At the final word, she rose it high, sustaining the note. A plaintive imitation of a howl.

She rang it in the air until wolves from far in the forest joined her. Howling harmony into her song.

She held it for a moment longer, then released it in one bright laugh. Delighted to have successfully called her choir as the howls echoed in her absence.

"She..." Solas' voice was overcome. Staring down with his hand still pressed hard.

He shook his head. Letting out a tight breath.

"Be good to her."

-

Vella rocketed up from sleep. Gasping out with her hand tight to her chest. Heart racing under her palm.

"Fenedhis lasa..." She cursed, looking around the grey of her tent.

Getting her bearings back from dreaming was still extremely disorienting. And with Solas electing to stay back from their expedition, she was walking alone tonight.

What a terrible time to have her first nightmare.

Thom... Blackwall?...had taken up the place of her father. Shouting down at her. Enraged that she had returned from the forest. That she had survived the cold he had left her in. A cruel half memory.

She gathered the kicked away blankets, shrouding them around her shaken shoulders. Risen to feet, padding out into the chill of night. Skirting around the low fire, headed to the far corner of camp.

His tent appeared on the edge of her vision.

"Hey..." She murmured, crawling inside. "Are you awake?"

"Are you alright?" The warm growl of his voice was a perfect balm. Risen onto elbows in alarm.

"Not really." She sighed, drawing nearer on knees. He reached in the dark for her, but withdrew his hand after a moment. A mournful crease in his brow.

"Nightmares are pretty awful, huh?" She pulled her knees tight to her chest.

"Yeah, they are." He murmured.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He offered after a moment.

She shook her head, then remembered he couldn't see her. But the message seemed to translate anyway.

But he knew she could see him, even though he was blind in the dark. He held his arms open in offering.

She let out a shaky breath, and shuffled forward. Falling into his arms in a soft slump. Tightly closing her eyes in the warm expanse of his embrace, her arms folded between them.

"I missed you." She sniffled, pressing her face into his chest.

His arms wound tight around her. Pressing his face into the crown of her head as he breathed in deep. He seemed about to say something, but shook his head. Only pulling her closer.

After a long moment, she pulled back and finally allowed herself to find it.

Her fingers probed the space under his heart. Focusing to see it. His breath held in anticipation.

"Of course." She smiled. Tracing her fingers around the glow. "Emerald. The forest."

His hand pressed over hers. Looking down at her with everything within a kiss.

"Could we lay down?" She sighed.

"Of course." He whispered, pulling her back with him.

"Maker, you're freezing. Come here, darling."

He pulled a thick blanket over them. Wrapping around her back, his body the warmest shield. Once again, she found him all around her. His shape became her shape. Their bodies melded in a rhyming song of comfort.

"I've been meaning to ask..."

"Hmm?" He murmured, settling his arm around her belly.

"What should I call you?" She whispered. "Gods, it's weird to be on the other side of that question."

He chuckled quietly, kissing her shoulder.

"I've been thinking about it. I think Blackwall. It's become more of a title. But..." He kissed the point of her ear. The rumble of his voice filled the well. "Could you keep calling me bear?"

"Hmm..." She smiled. "Only if you call me dove."

"I missed you." He sighed, voice thick with sorrow. "So much, dove. I'm so sorry... for everything."

"I know." She whispered. "Get some sleep, bear."

He settled into the soft of her neck. Letting out a great sigh of contentment. Wrapped in a protective curl around her, drifting off into deep, even breathed sleep.

~

Next Chapter

[cannebady]

Well, I'm on my Stizzy bullshit.

This is steddyhands where Stede and Izzy are both smitten with each other but struggling to communicate it.

They're sleeping together, but only with Ed too and it's all Ed being dominant and Izzy being submissive and Stede kinda just being along for the ride. Anyway, they're figuring it out.

And Izzy loves how rough and possessive Ed gets loves what they do together and that they actually get to do this now.

In fact, that's what sparked his predicament. Because the only reason he and Ed worked their shit out is because Stede called them both out like a prissy little bull in a fancy fuck off China shop and if he hadn't stuck his stupid nose where it didn't belong, Izzy wouldn't have everything he could ever want.

Well, everything he used to want. He was never much for tenderness, if he's honest. Soft things don't survive at sea and he learned that young.

Stede, though. Stede survives at sea. Hell, he even fucking thrives, and he's seen that man make slow, sweet, mind-rendingly gentle love to fucking Blackbeard until Ed is sobbing, and begging, and nearly out of his mind with it.

He got to watch once and it's fucked him up ever since. Because it turns out there is something else Izzy Hands can want for. He can want for soft hands to touch him with love, and with intent. To take pleasure in his pleasure. And he supposes he could ask Ed for it, but he likes the way Ed touches him.

He wants Stede to touch him like that. He wants him to do it because he wants to, not to put on a show for Ed or to prove a point. Izzy wants Stede Bonnet to fucking ruin him with his soft hands and his filthy words, and his ridiculous cock and it's driving him out of his blessed mind.

Because Stede has seen Ed hit, kick, choke, scratch, and fuck Izzy at knife point. He's seen Izzy get his face brutally fucked by the visage of Blackbeard and yes he loves it, craves it even, but maybe, he's finding, he can love more than one kind of thing. More than one kind of person.

He handles it about as well as he handles anything else, which is not really that well at all. It starts to get into his head - why doesn't Stede initiate anything with him? The bastard takes every other damn thing he pleases, but he won't ask to fuck Izzy?

So he draws the logical conclusion; he's here for Ed and Stede and Stede is there for Ed and tolerant of Izzy. He doesn't pine for touch from Izzy, or lay awake a night imagining something as simple as a kiss. And why would he? Stede has Ed, who looks like that, and Izzy's tried to fuck him over so many times. It's not his fault that Izzy's broken, corroded heart tripped headlong into love from loathing when Izzy's given him no reason to reciprocate.

So, he makes a decision to lock those feelings down deep. He kept himself from touching Ed for nearly thirty years and he's pretty sure they don't all have thirty years left considering their line of work, so this should be easy. A piece of fucking cake.

But every time there's soft words and touches between the loves of his life, it hurts something deep in him. It hurts that Stede sees Ed and wants to give him everything and he doesn't feel that way with Izzy.

But Izzy's a selfish bastard, and he wants.

It comes to a head, as many things do, when he gets absolutely pissed on whiskey during shore leave. Ed is off doing fuck knows what, but Stede decided to come to the pub with Izzy and he doesn't know what all to make of that, but they're getting drunker and drunker, and Izzy keeps ordering drink after drink to ignore how good Stede's thigh feels against his and how much he wants those hands on him.

His mood turns sour quickly when his mind starts the whole pining lark again and, after Stede's fifth assertion that Izzy had enough and should come with him back to the ship, Izzy reaches the end of his rope.

"I'm a grown man, fuck off you poncey twat" he growls and he wants to inhale the words back into his stupid drunk mouth because Stede looks stricken, then like he's gathering up pieces of himself to put back away.

"Well then, alright." Stede replies and then gets up and walks out like he isn't taking Izzy's mangled heart with him.

Fuck.

He has a few more drinks because at this point why not? What does he have to lose save for more of his waning dignity. Getting a room and heading back to the Revenge in the morning is a tempting option, but something draws him back to the ship. It might just be that it's a home for him; very possibly the only one he's ever really acknowledged.

He's not nearly as drunk as he expects, but he's got a twisting, roiling feeling in his gut anyway. The walk was supposed to clear his head, but by the time he realizes that it didn't, he's wringing his fucking hands and already standing in front of the Captains cabin. His cabin, some may even call it (Ed and Stede do).

He walks in with a degree of confidence that only truly not giving a fuck and approximately eight whiskeys can buy you, and there's Stede, with a light blue silk robe draped across his shoulders, perfect blonde curls sitting about his shoulders, and a pair of hastily wiped red eyes that Izzy reckons he may have put there himself. He's immediately sober in a way he doesn't expect and he feels the crushing weight of his feelings and this secret he's dug into his chest.

Stede goes to speak, but Izzy's running on regret and adrenaline and just needs him to listen for one fucking second before he loses his nerve. He's sure if he doesn't say this now he never will.

"I want you," he says, and Stede's jaw drops a bit before he inhales like he's about to respond, "no, stop, let me talk." His voice is wildly steady given the shaking of his hands.

"I do, I fucking want you, okay? And I think you're a ponce too, but I see what-" his voice cracks. Fuck. He better get this out quick.

"I want you to fuck me like you fuck Ed and I want what you and Ed have too. But I don't think it'll fucking work because you love him and you don't love me and-"

Whatever he meant to say is taken away from him by Stede's warmth, and seconds later, by one of his gorgeous, soft hands brushing the swallow inked at Izzy's throat, and by the hazel eyes staring down into his and fucking shit, he's seen that tenderness a million times before, but never directed at him.

"Don't love you?", Stede's voice is soft and brimming with emotion, "Of course I love you, how couldn't I?"

And Izzy doesn't even care that it's cheesy or and doesn't want to wonder if it isn't true. He doesn't care that he can think up a thousand reasons that he wouldn't be loved, starting with slicing up Stede's shirt and stealing a hostage, then ending with actual betrayal via British Navy, but again Stede found a way to surprise him.

He's going to say it back, but what comes out is a whine and then soft lips are over his, and soft hands are around his waist and oh fucking hell.

It's good, is the thing. Stede's holding him so gently, but also like he can't imagine letting go. As he slowly licks Izzy's mouth open he's running one hand from his hair, to his jaw, to his waist, then his hip to pull them flush, and then right back up to grip the back of Izzy's head like Stede can't fathom not touching all of Izzy and fuck if Izzy doesn't wholeheartedly agree.

He remembers that he also has hands, and then buries them both in Stede's hair. It's so soft and and this close he can see the whites and grays that Stede hasn't avoided and it makes Izzy feral. This isn't the Stede of his dreams, nor some perfect gentleman from a society that rejected Izzy from childhood, this is the real deal, the mad man, the lunatic, this fucking incredible being, and fuck its doing Izzy's head in.

When Stede breaks the kiss, they both realize that they've moved so that Stede's pressing Izzy into the wall next to the bed. Izzy's panting, barely holding himself up, and he grinds up against Stede, for the friction and to be a little shit, and Stede's eyes darken. He's so lost in them that he barely realizes that Stede's hands have moved before he's being bodily picked fucking up and oh yeah, Stede has actual fucking muscles now, which fuck fuck fuck. He gets why Ed loses his fucking mind for this.

He groans and Stede whispers into his ear, close enough that he can feel his lips, his breath, "Israel, darling, let me take you to bed."

And Izzy's breathing out, "Yes, fuck, finally". He feels safe and wanted and fucking loved and it's sending him floating.

He lets that warmth light him up as Stede lays him down, curls hanging in the space between them, before he kisses Izzy again and they're both lost to the gentle, sweet expression of love and devotion they both deserve.

[prismaticpichu]

Okokokok so

Sephiroth passes out from dehydration in the manor and not knowing what else to do, knowing just how bad it could be to be caught like this by civilians or what would happen if this info got back to Hojo, Cloud and Zack sneak Seph's unconscious ass to Cloud's house and put him in Cloud’s childhood bed.

Seph wakes up to Claudia making him breakfast, and in general being a good mother figure. And I dunno Zack and Cloud burned the library totally by accident and found a Vampire neither of which are their fault they swear.

Now THAT’s a happy ending! <3 Score one for our bodily necessities!!!

“C’mon, Spiky! Put your back into it!”

A giant mass of silver and black is dragged rag-doll-style along the basement floor, two considerably smaller individuals hauling one boneless arm apiece.

“He’s. HEAVY.”

~~~

Sephiroth, well… he’s quite the confused cockatoo when he wakes up. Why on Gaia is he in a bed half his size? Why on Gaia are there approximately eight posters of him on the wall? Why on Gaia does his back feel like a lawnmower ran over it?

Where is he? What is this? What is HAPPENING—

“Whoah, whoah! Calm down, buddy!” Zack grips his forearm upon seeing Sephiroth begin to huff and puff like a bull, guiding him back down onto the pillow. “You’re safe!”

There isn’t much room to protest when his head is absolutely throbbing; Sephiroth slumps back into the bed, groaning, one eye still creaked open as he scans the room around him with dangerous scrutiny. He’s also coughing like a poor rundown car.

“0h, here!” Zack hands his friend a juice box from the nightstand. “You gotta replenish!”

There’s a western riff in the background as Sephiroth stares down the juice box—a bright green abomination with a hippo-shaped apple drawn on the side. Are you kidding him? No. NO. He is a full-grown man with dignity, and standards, and—

Fortunately, Zack shoves the straw in his mouth anyway.

“Okay, okay.” Zack takes a step back from the bedside, still reading the utter, blistering confusion on Sephiroth’s visage as he sips away. “I’m gonna take things nice and slow, pal. I’ll explain everything.”

Sephiroth narrows his eyes in warning—his signature You better or the guillotine will be having your head death glare. He swallows another round of Juciy Juice.

Zack swallows himself. There’s a lot he could say right now. A whole goddamn book. Everything since the Reactor has just been so… wrong; Seph had planted so many ideas in his head, got so snarled up in things that were just too much for him to bear. He just needs to untie him, thread by thread. Nice and gentle. Nice and slow.

“Well, y’see, me and Spiky were getting real worried about you. So—“

“Jenova is not your mother.”

Oh c’mon.

Both eyes snap towards the voice—the low, sunken timbre that had revealed itself from the unlit corner of the room.

Sephiroth doesn’t even process the fact that some Comic-Con devotee with a claw for a hand begins peeling himself out from the shadows; he barely processes Zack’s frustrated yelping at said devotee. All he can hear is Her. Her. The library. The books. The Cetra. The Truth. Memory consumes him in a single, famished clasp, like a sudden strike of lightning, like a sudden belch of flames, and all of a sudden his eyes are needle-thin and he begins snarling your typical oh here we go again Sephiroth snarls.

He squeezes the juice box so hard that it explodes.

“Mother! Mother! MOTHER!”

“Ahhhhhhhhhh, no! No no no no!” Zack wraps his arms around the other’s neck like a lasso, pleading and hushing and grappling, mustering all his desperate strength to keep Sephiroth lying in bed and not gouging eyes out. “It’s okay! It’s okay! It’s me! Shhhh… take me home… country road…!”

Eventually, with some guided, deep-breathing exercises, Sephiroth does calm down, letting his eyes return to normal and slumping back into the mattress. Zack turns over his shoulder with a silent “Really?!”, while Sephiroth collects himself, coming back to the present… but the memories still remain clear. Crystal clear. Except now, instead of a torrent of poison and overwhelming rage, the memory gouges him out. Leaving him hollow. Sad.

And, wait a minute… why is there a comic-con devotee here?

“Who… are you…” Sephiroth pants, the suspicion creeping back into his voice.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. This is Vincent.” Zack gestures towards the cloaked man. “Me and Spiky found him sleeping in some coffin. He’s been sleeping there for years—had to get him out before we burned that stupid manor down. Hope it’s okay that we borrowed your materia!”

Sephiroth is silent.

“Oh, and… he mayyyyyy know one or two things about J—that creature.”

Sephiroth is still silent.

Vincent goes on to take the reins and explain everything: the experiments, the pain, the Hojo, the regret… The Lucrecia.

“…Lucrecia?” Sephiroth repeats, ghostly, a numb mist having enveloped him entirely. It… it didn’t make any sense. Jenova—he clenches his teeth—he… he spawned from her. She was his…

His…

“Your mother,” Vincent elaborates. “Lucrecia was your mother. And she loved you. She never wanted things to…” He turns away, the bloody tint in his eyes seeming to clot. “Your mother was human, Sephiroth. She made mistakes. So did I.”

Sephiroth’s gaze floats to his hands, words disobedient, his organs and blood and bones sitting in an empty husk. Zack cuffs his hand around his upper arm, squeezing gently, squeezing a whole poem of silent messages.

“So… I really don’t have a mother,” Sephiroth mumbles then. “She’s gone.”

“Who wants pancakes?!”

The bedroom door opens with an enthusiast swing, and in comes Claudia, and in comes the delectable waft of fresh golden pancakes, Cloud at her heels as she carries the plate over to the bedside.

“Here you are, General. Cloud told me that you had gotten sick in the manor; good to see you awake! How is the bed by the way? It has been quite some time since my Stormcloud slept in it.” She turns around, suddenly facing a wide-eyed Vincent Valentine. “Oh, I do not believe we met before. I’m Claudia. Pleasure to meet you.”

“You brought the guy back here?!” Cloud scorn-hushes to Zack. “I thought he was going to stay outside!”

“I needed him to help clear things up with Seph!”

Meanwhile, Sephiroth is sitting in bed, blinking, a platter of flapjacks on his lap and a nice little syrup saucer glistening beside them. Claudia dusts her hands off, smile still twinkling.

“Well, I’ll leave you men be for a little. Please call if you need anything.” Before she left, however, she makes her way back to the bedside, back to the stuporous Sephiroth, and tucks the blanket further up his shoulders.

“I don’t want you to be cold, dear. You are already so unwell.”

And then she leaves for real.

“Aww…” Zack mock-moans once he hears her footsteps patter down the stairs. “She’s better at taking care of you than me!”

“Yeah…” Cloud rubs his neck. “She does that.”

Sephiroth… can’t disagree. He glances again at the fresh breakfast balanced in his lap—breakfast made just for him, because he was unwell, because someone took that information and turned into a remedy. The emerald eyes are rippling, thoughtful and confused and detached yet somehow strung back to his body all again. Tighter than ever before.

“Sephiroth.”

Sephiroth lifts his gaze, meeting Vincent, who bestows to him a slow, meaningful nod. “I believe that is what a mother is.”

~~~

And the four proceed to have a pancake party!!! <33 Whoooooooooh! Sharing is caring!! (Well, three-quarters of the pie anyway. Vincent is just too stubborn.)

“C’mon, Vince!” Zack holds up his fork, the cluster of fluffy magic absolutely waterlogged in syrup. “Try some! It really heals your inner demons!”

[mrsines]

10« N'essaie pas de me réparer. Je ne suis pas brisé. » Agatha x reader pls

Avec grand plaisir!

Agatha se tenait là, au bord de la route, son regard perdu dans le vide. Les rayons du soleil filtraient à travers les branches des arbres, créant un jeu d'ombres et de lumières sur son visage marqué par les épreuves. Une légère brise agitait les feuilles, mais elle ne semblait pas en sentir l'effet. Son expression était celle d'une profonde mélancolie, une tristesse palpable qui enveloppait son être. Reader, bien que distante, pouvait presque ressentir la lourdeur de son chagrin.

Son manteau, qui flottait autour d'elle, semblait plus sombre que d'habitude, comme si les couleurs du monde s'étaient estompées en ce jour particulier. Reader savait que cette journée marquait l'anniversaire de la mort de Nicki, le petit garçon qu'Agatha avait perdu trop tôt.

Les souvenirs affluaient dans l'esprit de Reader, des images d'Agatha riant aux éclats, de sa voix chantante qui résonnait dans l'air frais de Salem. Mais aujourd'hui, il n'y avait que silence et tristesse. Agatha avait toujours été forte, mais aujourd'hui, elle semblait brisée, comme un vase en mille morceaux. Reader l'observait, le cœur lourd, consciente de la profondeur de la douleur qui habitait son amie. Les souvenirs de Nicki, bien que doux, étaient également une source de douleur, et Reader savait que le poids de cette perte était insupportable.

La route, habituellement animée, semblait s'être figée autour d'Agatha. Les rires et les conversations des passants se mêlaient à l'air, mais pour elle, tout cela paraissait lointain, presque irréel. Reader pouvait voir les larmes aux coins des yeux d'Agatha, des perles de tristesse qui menaçaient de couler à tout moment. Elle se tenait là, immobile, comme si le temps s'était arrêté, perdue dans un océan de souvenirs et de regrets.

Au coin du feu, la chaleur des flammes dansait, projetant des ombres vacillantes sur les visages de Jen, Lilia, Alice et Billy, qui étaient assis en cercle, absorbés par la lueur réconfortante. Les crépitements du bois se mêlaient à l'air frais de la nuit, créant une atmosphère à la fois intime et chaleureuse.

Reader, consciente du besoin d'Agatha, se leva lentement, son cœur battant à l'unisson avec l'intensité de l'instant. Elle s'approcha d'Agatha, qui était à l'écart, perdue dans ses pensées. Reader avançait avec précaution, comme si chaque pas pouvait briser le fragile équilibre de l'atmosphère.

Quand Reader posa sa main sur le dos d'Agatha, un frisson parcourut le corps de cette dernière. Elle savait que c'était Reader, comme elle l'avait toujours su. Il y avait une connexion entre elles, un lien indéfectible qui transcendait les mots. Agatha se retourna lentement, ses yeux cherchant ceux de Reader. Dans ce moment suspendu, leurs regards se croisèrent, et une compréhension silencieuse s'installa entre elles.

Reader pouvait voir la profondeur de l'émotion dans les yeux d'Agatha, une mer de sentiments tumultueux, mêlant tristesse et espoir. Le monde extérieur s'estompa, laissant place à cette bulle intime où seules elles existaient. Reader, avec douceur, savait qu'elle devait être là pour Agatha, prête à écouter et à soutenir, sans jamais rien forcer.

Agatha plonge son regard dans celui de Reader, ses yeux reflétant une intensité mêlée de défi et de vulnérabilité. Elle rompt le silence, sa voix ferme mais douce :

« N'essaie pas de me réparer. Je ne suis pas brisé. » Ses mots flottent dans l'air, chargés de sens.

Reader, surprise par la déclaration, laisse échapper un fin rire ironique, un son qui trahit sa compréhension profonde de la situation.

« Tu sais que c’est un mensonge, » répond Reader, son ton léger mais empreint de compassion.

Elle sait que derrière cette façade de force, Agatha cache des blessures invisibles.Reader s'approche alors, son cœur battant un peu plus vite. Elle prend Agatha dans ses bras, enveloppant celle-ci d'une chaleur réconfortante. Reader passe délicatement sa main dans les cheveux d'Agatha, un geste tendre qui exprime tout ce qu'elle ne peut pas dire.

Agatha se laisse aller un instant, fermant les yeux, profitant de cette étreinte. Elle sait que Reader est là, non pas pour changer quoi que ce soit, mais pour l'accepter telle qu'elle est, avec ses cicatrices et ses failles. Dans ce moment partagé, un silence apaisant s'installe, où les mots ne sont plus nécessaires.

[circusgoth-dotcom]

Crushes

Ship: Minos the Bull x Fix-it Felix Jr.

Word Count: 906

Summary: Minos struggles with his feelings and ends up talking with Felix about it. Also first fic in the Wreck It Ralph universe! Playing with the timeline a little bit, the events of the movie haven't quite started in this fic but Felix mentions he met Calhoun very briefly. CWs for themes of anxiety and insecurity, implied past relationship issues, food mentions.

Tag List: @canongf @sportakisser @cherry-bomb-ships

Minos felt a gentle shake on their arm and raised their head exhaustedly.

“Hey, the arcade opens in two hours. You ought to get back to your game,” Tapper suggested with a sympathetic look. They rubbed the space between their eyes.

“Ah geez… my tab…”

“You can pay it another time. I’d hit the showers before you do much else, though.”

They briefly pressed the backs of their hooves against their eyes before standing, swaying slightly and grabbing the bar for support. “Good advice…” They smelled strongly of the sticky sasparilla Tapper peddled. Things hadn’t been this bad since Turbo, and by Zeus’ bolts, Minos wanted to avoid going back to that as thoroughly as he could. So he denied himself. The bright lights of Game Central Station made Minos blink painfully as he stumbled toward his game, quickly tripping over someone underfoot.

“Sorry,” he grunted, steadying himself.

“No, no, it was my fault… oh! Minos!” A familiar voice put them on edge. The short and lovable visage of Fix-it Felix Jr. stood before him. “My gosh, how long has it been?”

“Howdy, Felix,” Minos avoided eye contact. “Arcade opens soon. Shouldn’t dillydally…”

Felix peered at him curiously, his brows slanted in concern. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, if you’re in a hurry, I won’t keep you. But we should catch up! I heard Chef Pepper has been working on veggie burgers over at BurgerTime…”

Minos regarded him anxiously. He knew he had to give an answer. “Sure. Tonight?”

“Sounds great! I’ll see you after closing!” Felix happily pranced off and Minos exhaled shakily. They reached their game as their coworkers were preparing for the day ahead and showered until the last minute. Despite his poor sleep and a night of drinking, Minos managed to keep his composure for the players. The end of the day came far too quickly.

Felix was waiting for him outside of the entrance to BurgerTime and waved excitedly as he approached. “I’m so glad you agreed, I feel like I haven’t seen you in years!”

Minos laughed awkwardly. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you hadn’t. I don’t… get around as much anymore.”

They entered the sandwich-stacking game and put in their orders before sitting at an off-screen table.

“How have you been?” Felix words were sincere and low so as not to attract eavesdroppers.

“Nothing’s the same,” Minos admitted. “I’ve been… keeping on.” They rubbed their eyes. “... Truth be told, something’s come up.”

“I don’t mean to be intrusive, but is it something I can help with? I mean, they don’t call me ‘Fix-it’ for nothing…” He smiled, finding his own jab just a bit too corny. Two large veggie burgers were plopped down on the table, briefly startling Minos. He cleared his throat and straightened up.

“You know Hero’s Duty? One of the newer games.”

Felix’s eyes lit up as he took a bite of his burger. He chewed and swallowed quickly. “I do! I even met the sergeant, briefly.” His cheeks began to heat up just mentioning her. Minos’ own heart skipped a beat, then ached at Felix’s expression.

“You have?”

“Again, briefly. It wasn’t that big of a deal, but might I say, these high-definition games…” He then sighed forcefully through his lips, shaking his head. “But never mind that, what does Hero’s Duty have to do with your predicament?”

“You see, that’s just the thing…” Minos took a slow bite of his burger. “Sgt. Calhoun. I see her around Game Central Station and I just…” He buried his face in his hooves. “Clearly you have an upper hand with her, so I just shouldn’t bother. Like I have been.”

“What do you…?” Then Felix gasped in realisation. “You too??”

“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Minos bemoaned after a beat of embarrassed silence. “She’s gorgeous and she’s not for me.”

“Now you don’t know that…” Felix hesitantly reached to pull Minos’ hooves away from their face. Suddenly many revelations were coursing through him at once. One hoof dropped away and into Felix’s hand, but the other remained firmly placed over their left eye, physically shielding themselves from their feelings.

“Even if she gave me a chance she’d just bring out the worst in me. Don’t try and tell me that’s not true, I’ve only ever had feelings like this for one person and you know how that turned out!”

The few other patrons in BurgerTime glanced over at Minos’ outburst while Felix hushed them.

“It doesn’t have to be like Turbo, Minos,” Felix insisted. “One bad experience does not a reality make. Besides, she’s nothing like him. I can tell you that from only one tiny little exchange.”

Minos was shaking. Their uncovered eye half-opened. “What about your feelings?”

Felix was briefly flustered. “Feelings, shmeelings. I want to see you happy. You’ve been through enough.” Oh Felix, what’ve you gotten yourself into??

Slowly, Minos went back to eating. “She’ll never notice me.”

“Baby steps! You can practice talking to her on me.” Felix’s expression was one of determination. Minos couldn’t help but giggle at the suggestion.

“But you don’t know how she’ll react…”

“It wouldn’t hurt to give you something positive to work with, would it? It’s all about confidence!” There was another stretch of silence before Felix spoke again. “Are you feeling any better?”

Minos nodded. “I need to get some sleep. But… thank you, Felix. You’re a good friend.”

“I try my darndest.”