#and then test it by fighting it in a world

[keferon]

These days, Blurr feels like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, when his legs can barely even support his own weight.  And in a sense, he knows he is.

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

Swindle described it as Blurr being the social shield keeping mecha from being influenced into moving in worse directions.  Blurr…hadn't exactly liked what Swindle was describing.  But, he also understood the necessity of it all.

Only, the problem with shields is that they get hit.  And a good shield has to keep deflecting those blows to do its job – to protect and keep safe.  But for Blurr, it's getting harder and harder to keep up the pretense -- keep up the fight.  Because every time he walks into a board meeting or a press conference these days, it's Shockwave that he comes face to face with. 

The man's relentless.  Eloquent.  Persuasive.  And Blurr has to admit it's wearing him down.

Shockwave's wearing Blurr down with every confrontation – every time he describes how life changing his theories could be if only they could be tested.  The promise that it would change Blurr's life – take things back to the way they were.

And there are days Blurr wishes that were true.  Because these days, Blurr feels like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, when his legs can barely even support his own weight.  And in a sense, he knows he is. 

Blurr is the shield.  Swindle has said it.  Blurr can see it in the way Shockwave's demeanor shifts every time they're in the same room.  If Shockwave prevails, Blurr might get his old body – his old life – back, but countless mecha pilots will be subjected to unimaginable costs.  

The promise of the mecha program will fail.  And mecha is the primary force standing against the aliens' invasion.  If mecha fails – if the efficacy of the program is brought into question…. 

Blurr knows that most people have little idea how fragile the balance is in being able to go about their day-to-day lives, how much mecha does to maintain that balance.  Without mecha, the aliens will gain that much more ground.  Earth, life as they know it may be lost.  And it all rests on him. 

These are the thoughts that spiral around Blurr's head in the quiet moments when he's alone back in the hospital – when he should be resting, recovering. 

Most days, Blurr wishes he didn't know.  Wishes Swindle hadn't felt he had to tell Blurr.  Because the truth is a heavy weight to carry.  Because it was that much easier to stand in front of the crowds when it had just been about him and his face and his fame.  Doing it when he knows the lives of every mecha pilot, possibly the lives of every human on Earth depend on how well he can convince everyone…is hard.  Nearly dying a hero's death pulling people from the crumbling mecha headquarters had been easy in comparison.

Blurr knows what's at stake, so he carries on the fight Swindle's outlined even though it's hard.  But Blurr's not a soldier.  He's used to solving his problems by outpacing them, only there's no getting ahead of this.  There's only the constant grind of meetings and publicity stunts just to keep from losing any more ground than they've already lost.

This -- the lack of progress, the constant work with no motion…Blurr genuinely doesn't know how much longer he can keep up the appearance.  Because that's all it is in the end.  Shockwave's offer – the idea that the appearance could be made reality is taunting him the longer the charade goes on. 

Blurr knows that what Shockwave is promising is likely too good to be true and comes with far too high a price.  Knows that logically there is no magically going back to the way things were as though the crash had never happened – that's just not how life works.

He knows the hope Shockwave's offering is false.  But it's hope nonetheless, and tantalizing because there's a glaring absence of hope from the medical reports he's received.  The doctors had been clear from the start that even with the best possible treatments and outcomes, Blurr would never race again – not in a car, not in a mech.  Life without that feeling seems inconceivable.  As though a very part of what makes him himself had been cut away – lost irretrievably.

Blurr had thought he had come to terms with it.  Because there had been no other choice.  No choice but to stay stuck in the moment of the crash or to find a way to move forward.  And Blurr has always preferred to move.

Now though, constantly presented with the possibility that there could be a third option?  Now he's not so sure whether he has accepted it or whether he's still looking for a way out – looking for somewhere to run.

"Only, the problem with shields is that they get hit."

See?? See this tiny crumbling thing on the floor?? This is me right now. THIS IS WHAT YOU MADE TO ME ARE YOU PROUD

[guiltyc0nscience]

camille’s master list ⋆˙⟡🩰

completed matt fics — 6

completed chris fics — 15

key — ꣑ৎ = angst ˗ˏˋ = personal favs ☆ = fluff ❀ = smut

matt sturniolo ⋆˙⟡

— ❀ matt the munch

“in which matt’s favourite thing to do to you, is going down on you.”

— ꣑ৎ ☆ where do broken hearts go?

“in which matt feels like you aren’t considering his feelings and not putting as much effort into your relationship as he is, so he brings it up to you which results in conflict but was quick to be resolved.”

— ☆ if the world was ending i’d wanna be next to you

“in which cute things matter does in a relationship.”

— ❀ he’s so pretty when he goes down on me

“in which your favourite part of sex with matt is when he goes down on you because you think he just looks so perfect.”

— ❀ behind the frames

“in which while making out with matt, his glasses get in the way and you have to take them off mid make-out.”

— ꣑ৎ lacy, oh, lacy

“in which your ex-boyfriend, matt, gets a new girlfriend and you envy her.”

chris sturniolo ⋆˙⟡

— ❀ hickey

“in which while you and chris were having time alone, matt interrupted you both.”

— ꣑ৎ josslyn

“in which while chris was in the shower he got an incoming call and he told you to answer it without thinking and when you do, you find out that he had another girl on the side.”

— ꣑ৎ ☆ pretty isn’t pretty

“in which one year ago you suffered from an ED, where at one point you thought there was no turning point but chris proved you wrong. fast forward one year, you’re back in the same dark pit, but chris is there yet again to help you out.”

— ❀☆ we can hear and see, ya know?

“in which while you and the triplets were in chicago, you and chris were having a moment, you didn’t think matt and nick could see you but you were proved wrong.”

— ☆ surf curse

“in which you convinced chris to do the latest tiktok trend with you.”

— coke and vodka

“in which while at one of chris’ frat parties, he takes a shot of vodka and a line of cocaine off of your body as he is head-to-head with his frat brother who can do it quicker off their girlfriends.”

— ❀ yapper

“in which chris is yapping away with his fingers in your mouth because you kept interrupting him while he was talking.”

— ☆ clothing haul

“in which whole you were away visiting family in florida, chris sends you a video of him showing you the clothes that you had ordered online.”

— ❀ flashed

“in which while arguing with chris, you flashed him to shut him up.”

— ꣑ৎ this is me trying

“in which chris tried so hard to support you through your drug addiction that had been ongoing for a year. every time he got you out, you fell back into the same hole. one day, chris had finally had enough and had a talk with you about wether or not you were willing to change for him, but once you say you can’t, he leaves your relationship behind for good.”

— ꣑ৎ☆ dumb teens in love

“in which you and chris were young and you fooled around with each other, and after realising things weren’t right, you took a pregnancy test. finding out you were pregnant and were having a baby with chris sturniolo at 18.”

— ꣑ৎ at your worst

“in which after a hurtful fight between you and chris, he comes and apologises after a few days, and he promises to stay forever—even at your worst.”

— ꣑ৎ i hope ur miserable until ur dead

“in which you walk away from chris after releasing he’s run out of chances to break your heart.”

— ꣑ৎ tough love

“in which you and chris struggle to confront your growing distance and fear of losing each other.”

blurbs ⋆˙⟡

chris is obsessed with the bulge in your throat when sucking him off

[moonlight-joy]

Prey in the Shadows

Fandom: Kraven the hunter

Summary: This intense tale of cat-and-mouse explores the thrill of fear and the balance of power between hunter and prey. Sergei’s relentless pursuit forces you to confront your own instincts and vulnerabilities, blending danger, trust, and the electric tension of his presence. As his lessons unfold, you’re left questioning whether this is a punishment, a game, or a deeper test of loyalty.

Pairing: Reader/Sergei Kravinoff

The streets are eerily quiet as you begin your walk home, the dim glow of streetlights casting long shadows. The cold night air nips at your skin, but what truly sends a chill down your spine is the unmistakable feeling of being watched. You can almost hear Sergei’s voice in your mind, low and laced with authority: "You should never break your promises, my prey."

The world around you sharpens—the rustling of leaves, the soft crunch of your footsteps, the distant hum of a car engine. Sergei’s training, his relentless hunting instincts, come flooding to mind. You know how he moves, silent and precise, like a ghost through the night. Every fiber of your being tells you to run, but to run would be to play directly into his game.

A twig snaps behind you. You whirl around, heart pounding, only to find empty darkness. Panic sets in as you realize Sergei is toying with you, allowing you to feel the vulnerability of prey in his sights.

“Keep moving,” his voice growls, deep and resonant, from somewhere in the shadows. “Let’s see if you can make it home.”

You force your legs to move, each step a battle against the icy grip of fear. You keep your eyes on the path ahead, scanning for any sign of movement, but Sergei is nowhere to be seen. A flicker of motion catches your eye—a shadow too fast to be anything but him. The streetlights above flicker as though they’re conspiring with him, casting fleeting glimpses of his presence.

“You can’t win this,” his voice whispers, closer now, impossibly close. “But you can try.”

Adrenaline surges through your veins. Against your better judgment, you start to run. The world blurs as you dash through the dark streets, your breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. Every step echoes like a drumbeat, announcing your location to your pursuer.

And then, silence.

The absence of his voice, his steps, his presence is even more terrifying. You skid to a halt, heart hammering in your chest, and realize you’re no longer sure of the way home. The streetlights around you flicker and go dark, one by one, until you’re enveloped in shadow.

Then you hear it—soft, deliberate footsteps, circling you like a predator closing in on its prey.

“Lesson one,” Sergei’s voice growls, the sound coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Never let your guard down.”

You spin wildly, trying to locate him, but the darkness is absolute. A metallic scrape cuts through the silence, sharp and jarring, ahead of you. It sends a shiver down your spine. Before you can react, something flies past you—a blur—and crashes into a lamppost. The bulb explodes in a shower of sparks, plunging the street into deeper darkness.

“Lesson two,” Sergei murmurs, closer now. “Always know your surroundings.”

Your mind races, a cacophony of fear and Sergei’s relentless teachings. You move slowly, fighting every instinct to run, until his voice pierces through again, sharper and more commanding. “Run.”

You bolt. Your legs burn, your breath tears from your lungs, and the world narrows to the path ahead. But no matter how fast you go, you feel him closing in, his shadow stretching long and unrelenting behind you. You glance over your shoulder, and in that instant, you see him—tall, composed, and in complete control.

Sergei steps forward, blocking your path, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. His voice is calm but carries the weight of finality. “Lesson three. You can’t escape me.”

You freeze, every muscle locking in place as he approaches, his presence overwhelming. He grips your arm, firm but not cruel, and leans in, his voice a low whisper. “Do you understand now? Why you don’t walk alone? Why you don’t break your promises?”

You nod, unable to speak, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Sergei steps back, his gaze still fixed on you as he gestures toward the path. “Go. If you make it home without me catching you, we’ll call it even.”

For a moment, you don’t move, paralyzed by fear and the weight of his words. But then his eyes narrow, and his voice sharpens. “Run.”

You don’t wait to be told again. You sprint into the darkness, Sergei’s laughter trailing behind you, the game far from over.

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[tedwardremus]

for the prompt. 60: truth serum with Hinny

When the office sent Harry home after a particularly grueling test, he fully intended to go to bed and rest, just as he’d been instructed.

And to be fair—if he was being honest, which he had little choice about at the moment—he did go to bed and rest.

He just didn’t end up in his bed.

As he climbed the creaky stairs of the Burrow, the open door on the first landing caught his eye. The bright warmth and comfort of the small room seemed far more inviting than Bill’s old room upstairs. Without much thought, Harry stepped inside.

He wrapped himself in the homemade quilt and buried his face into the soft pillow, the faint scent of the orchard still lingering on the yellow flower print case.

A voice startled him from the doorway.

“What are you doing in here? Aren’t you supposed to be at training?”

“They sent me home.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “You messed up that badly?”

 “I was a little too good, actually.”

Harry heard Ginny snort as she stepped into the room. She shut the door behind her and crossed to the bed. A moment later, he felt the mattress dip as she sat beside him.

“Why are you in my bed, though?”

Harry turned over onto his back, squinting at her blazing gaze. “I like your bed better.”

Ginny’s blurry face tilted, clearly smiling. She leaned across him to reach the bedside table, grabbed his glasses, and slid them onto his face. His world came into sharp focus.

“Are you going to sleep here when I head back to Hogwarts next week?”

“Probably,” Harry replied without hesitation, deadpan.

He sat up, leaning back against the headboard, and pulled Ginny into his arms.

“It’s not that great of a bed,” Ginny said, her head resting on his chest. “Why do you like it so much?”

Harry inhaled deeply, his face brushing her hair. “Because it smells like you.”

Ginny smiled softly and began to toy with his fingers. “What kind of test did you do today?”

“Interrogation training. How to withstand different magical interrogation techniques. Neville and Ron didn’t last long.”

“But you did well?”

“Made it through multiple rounds,” Harry said, sounding equal parts proud and tired. “They had to keep brewing stronger truth potions until I finally couldn’t fight it off anymore.”

Ginny frowned. “Bit dangerous sending you home, then. What if someone asked you about top-secret Ministry stuff?”

“Well, good thing I promised—honestly and sincerely—to go straight to my bed and sleep it off,” Harry said.

Her frown deepened. “But then you lied. You went to my bed, not yours.”

Harry shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “Like I said, I like this bed better.”

[daymarenightdream1]

❝𝗡𝗼 𝗖𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗧𝘄𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲❞ - {ongoing series}

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕤/𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: Satoru Gojo x female reader

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: In a world where promises bind souls together and breaking them has dire consequences, you make a promise to your best friend Satoru Gojo. A promise that will change your lives forever. As you both grow up, you find yourselves torn apart by the threads of fate. As they navigate the obstacles that life throws their way, will their their friendship stand the test of time… or will it be shattered beyond repair?

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: Angst, when i say angst i mean ANGST, explicit words/swearing, violence, mentions of physical/verbal abuse, explicit descriptions of physical/verbal abuse(not by gojo), the besties fight :( , smut

𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕤: slow burn, eventual fluff, eventual smut, miscommunication, arranged marriage, marriage of convenience, set in the Heian era, friends to enemies to lovers, female reader

𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: estimated 25k but this is (very) likely to change

𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑝���𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 (𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒)

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝟘.𝟝 - prelude

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝟙 - Budding flowers (it's cooking)

ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝟚 - Snapping strings (it's cooking)

𝕋𝕒𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥: Taglist is open, send me an ask or comment if you would like to be tagged!

[mhevarujta]

It's funny how Celeborn is being called boring and his relationship with Galadriel is being hated upon by people who claim that they're all about Galadriel being valued, because this is literally what this dynamic is all about.

In a world where many people treasure gold and jewels, Celeborn's treasure is Galadriel. Yet he never treats her as an object. He never handles her as something fragile to be put aside and to be protected and marveled at. They fight the long defeat together. They find a place to call home. They realize their ambitions and rule their lands together. When the time comes, she follows her path to go West and diminish, thus passing her final test, and he is allowed to linger to the place that has been his second love, knowing that he and Galadriel will meet again. Even so, it still hurts him that he has to let her go despite it being temporary.

There's so much talk about people LOVING the concept of a guy being absolutely in love with and in awe of his wife, but when it actually happens (and Tolkien was admirably ahead of his time in writing such a ship and in making Galadriel the most important of the two, and possibly the most important among his elves as he kept editing) it's not enough.

I also love this one version of Galadriel choosing this specific name, which was given to her by Celeborn, because it was the most beautiful of her names. In Tolkien names have meaning and importance, and many characters gain names that they either do or don't want through the way they are seen by others. There's something so special to me about Galadriel feeling so seen and understood and seeing such beauty in the name that Celeborn gave her, that she chooses this upon all the other names given to her by family and since much earlier. And everyone around her falls in line because on the one hand they probably saw how fitting it was and on the other she has THAT kind of power to those around her. She has the will and strength to shape who she is and how she wants to be perceived.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Christmas Special

(5.6k words, wrote this in 24h <3 Merry bloody Christmas, guys! TW murder, I guess. Nothing too detailed, tho)

I woke up with a headache. Not a hangover, mind you. I am above getting such things, and in any case it's unfitting for a man such as I to get drunk. No, I had one of those classical headaches, the likes of which are received after a fine blow to the head.

That naturally implied another assassination attempt. How coarse. I opened my eyes and tested my bonds. There were none. Either my captors were convinced I would not run, or they were remarkably incompetent fools indeed.

The room I was held in was… strange, for lack of a better word. There were bright lights that danced across the ceiling, a roaring fireplace, and a table chock full of meats, vegetables, and grains. Yet, that was not the greatest surprise of all.

There was, for unfathomable reasons, a massive tree. Just— sitting, in the center of the room, dominating the festivities. It was gaudy with glowing lights, glittering twine, and baubles infesting its surface. 

Oh, and there were people. Lots of them, in fact, all looking equally confused. We were draped on sofas, sprawled out on armchairs, resting against walls. I was, perhaps, the first of us to wake up, and I swept a watchful eye across the room.

A surprising number of familiar faces caught my eye. Hash, my darling, was there, along with her lowborn friend the vampire. And, would you believe it? There was my old nemesis, the Godhuntress herself, lying blissfully unconscious, just waiting for me to kill her.

By instinct, my hand found its way to my dagger. Some of the bloodlust must have shown on my face, for I caught a mortal boy flinch and hide behind his companion. 

I was halfway to her exposed throat when said companion grabbed my wrist. “You don't want to do that,” she murmured, and her tone gave me pause. It was far too weighty to belong to a mortal, the regality in it far more reminiscent of one of us ancients.

I turned to her and showed off my best smile, the one with all my teeth. She didn't so much as blink at it. “Oh, believe me, miss. I really do. Nothing, and I mean nothing, in this world would grant me more pleasure than snuffing out the life of this vile monster. Now, how about you let me go about my business, hmm?”

She remained imperturbed. “Not happening, kid. Now, how about you tell me what's going on? I don't like this one bit.”

I shrugged and withdrew my blade. Under that strangely cold grip of hers, I sensed a power I did not want to mess with. “Damned if I know. Last I remember, I was in bed, sleeping.” 

“Your kind sleep?” She sounded skeptical. “Actually, what the hell are you?”

“I could say the same of you, miss,” I replied. “But I suppose I'll go first, shall I? I'm a forest spirit, and you may call me Hans.” I left the last portion of my name unspoken, for no one as versed in inhuman dealings as I would ever give my name freely. A damned shame that mine was so short, however. Two syllables was not a great deal of room to make aliases with.

“Katherine, and I suppose you could quantify me as a demon.” She paused. “You don't look like a spirit to me. How old are you?”

I crinkled my nose at her. “Old enough to handle my own, Miss Katherine. And you're one to talk, wearing the face of a little girl. Don't the humans call that pedophilia?”

“No, you're pedo-bait. I'm jailbait. There's a difference, pipsqueak.” The smile was slipping off her face. “Or maybe your little-boy brain is just too underdeveloped to understand that?”

I didn't take the bait. “Fortunately for us, that's not the case. And if you'll excuse me, I'll go find someone more cordial to chat with.” The Godhuntress was stirring, and much as I wanted her dead, a fair fight with her was not one I would win. 

The demoness Katherine let me go, turning back to her mortal boy-toy. I beelined to Hash, the one soul in that room I trusted wholeheartedly. “Wake up, my dear. We've got trouble.”

At that last word, he bolted awake. “Trouble?” He surveyed the room. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “Trouble.”

The two of us watched as more and more people got up. The vast majority of them were humans, gangly and pock-marked and over-solid, though I did catch glimpses of spirits and others of our ilk here and there. Katherine was attempting to interrogate the Godhuntress, something I wished her the best of luck with. If I was fortunate enough, perhaps they would get into a fight, and at least one of my problems would be solved.

“We should try to investigate,” Hash whispered. “Someone must know something, yea?”

“If you are so inclined, do it yourself.” I pursed my lips. “I think I shall wait for them to come to me. And sample the food, while I'm at it.”

“Are you crazy? We don't know where it's from. We don't know what it's made of. We don't know jack shit, and you want to play it cool? Have you finally lost your marbles? The only kind of person who would act so casually in this scenario is-” He stopped in his tracks. “Oh. So that's your game. I like it. Dangerous as fuck, but that's life, isn't it?”

“Yes, that is life. Now hop to it, my love. Between the two of us, I think we can get a grip over this crowd in no time.”

Hash gave me a final nod, and strolled off. The first thing I did was grab a glass of wine. Everyone looked more suave like that, and it gave me an excuse to put myself in the center of the room. Several curious eyes followed me as I picked up a plate of venison on the way back, and it was not long before the first of my visitors followed.

She was a young woman, something I sensed would be a common theme in the hours to come, with a spear in hand and an unquenchable rage about her. I swirled my drink in its cup and waited for her to speak.

“Hey! Creepy little boy.” In my own name, was I going to have to be called little boy all evening? “Tell us what's going on, or I'm gonna shish-kebab you with my spear.” 

“I have no idea what you mean,” I replied, pretending to be preoccupied with the vortex within my flute of wine. That glorified stick of hers was hardly sharp enough to pierce a slice of bread, let alone me. “Why would you think I know anything at all, dear?”

“Because you're the only person who looks even slightly at home here? Everyone else is freaking out, and you're just sipping a drink. What are you, one of Santa's elves? Krampus' stolen children? Why are we stuck in a Christmas celebration?” She waved her spear around threateningly.

That was interesting. I did not know what Santa or Krampus were, but I did know the elves, and I knew I could not hope to pass for one in my life. “Maybe,” I said, winking. “Or maybe not.” With luck, she would elaborate.

The girl seemed to only grow angrier at my words, leveling her spear at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hash watch me with alarm. I shook my head slightly, warning her not to rescue me. It would be for the best if we did not show our hand yet. 

“Come on then. Aren't you going to stab me already?” I spread my arms, offering her a clear view of my chest. She narrowed her eyes, and for a moment I felt a genuine flash of fear. Beneath that gaze was something that writhed and fed on rot, something old as time itself and hardly less conquerable.

And then it was gone, as an old man grabbed her weapon and pulled it from her grasp. “Athena! What the hell are you doing?” He was followed by another human boy and… a summoner? 

Yes, a summoner, or something akin to it. I had not seen one of her kind in a very long time. The plot thickened. I have the newcomers a lazy smile, and they responded by tensing up.

“What on earth are you?” That was the summoner, pushing angry little Athena behind her. “You're not human, that's for sure.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Athena snapped, wrestling her spear back. “That thing knows something. I'm sure of it.”

The summoner met my gaze, piercing me right through. “No he doesn't,” she said, before I could recover. “He's bluffing.”

“Excuse me?” I pushed myself out of my chair, going nose to nose (or nose to collar, as the case was) with her in not-so-faux rage. “I know plenty, little mortal. For starters-” Pulling her down by the scruff of her tattered shirt, I whispered in her ear. “I know your little girl is cursed. I know that you are a witch, and a good one at that. And, I know that you really do not want to go back to where you came from, so how about you enjoy the food and leave me be, hmm?”

That last line was nothing more than an educated guess, but it paid off. They were too scruffy and thin to have been living in safe conditions, and I caught sight of more than one open sore on them. 

Gears turned in the summoner's brain, wondering if it was worth the cost to call my bluff. Eventually she stepped away from me. “My apologies, sir,” she said, nodding politely. “We'll leave you be.”

I grinned. “Thank you very much, little one. Go try the venison, if you feel peckish. I find it delightful.”

Athena opened her mouth to argue some more, but the summoner gave her a warning glance, and she left with naught more than a glare at me. Settling back in my chair, I took another sip of the wine.

“Hey, you're Hash's boyfriend, aren't you?” On the list of things I did not want to be called, that somehow ranked below ‘creepy little boy'. I turned to see Hash's vampire friend, still wearing his Smiley Mart™ shirt. What was his name: Dane? Dale? Dave?

Yeah, Dave sounded about right. “Hello, Dave,” I said, turning back around so I did not have to look at him. “Is there something you want?”

“Hash told me to come find you. She said you could use my help?” He stepped around so I was facing him once more. “I really don't know what to do, honestly.”

I sighed. “Go interrogate someone,” I told him, more to get him off my back than anything else. “Actually, go keep an eye on some people for me.” I pointed out the Godhuntress, who was flapping her wings in an attempt to get a mortal girl to stop poking them. 

“Is that who I think that is?” Dave's eyes widened. “You think this was her doing?”

“Hmm? Of course not. I want you to tell me when she looks distracted so I can go kill her.”

“You're crazy,” he said. “That's the Godhuntress. You know, the greatest deity since the Creator herself? Yeah, that Godhuntress. She'll squash you like a bug.”

“Doesn't matter. I will find a way.” I clenched my glass. “She took something very precious from me, and I will take my revenge, one way or another.”

“Alright, alright. It'll be a hell of a story to tell, in any case.” He made to leave, then turned back. “Say, is that wine any good? I'm feeling rather thirsty.”

I considered it. “It is rather dry,” I replied. “But fruity, too. Take that as you will.”

“Cool. Thanks, Hash's boyfriend,” he said, and the glint in his eye told me he was calling me names in insult. Unfortunately, by the time I had registered it, he was long gone.

People were beginning to crowd around the tables, finally encouraged to touch the food. That was when I spotted someone I had thought I would never see again: Merida Ryder. And with another forester at that! 

For once, curiosity got the better of me, and I trotted over to talk to her. She would not recognise me, of course. I had taken great pains to disguise myself that time, and I wondered how she would feel seeing my true face for once. 

“Well, well. If it isn't miss Merida, all grown up. Remember me?” I tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned around, and it broke my heart to see how she had changed. Her eyes were sunken, the lights gone from them. Merida looked down at me, and there was no spark of recognition. “No,” she said flatly.

The forester turned around, and he let out a little gasp. “You're-” I shushed him. 

“Can you not see I am trying to talk to someone here? It is most lovely to see a fellow Ces-ilre, but I must speak to Merida first,” I said. “Are you sure you don't remember me? I passed you that gun, all those fateful years ago.”

She blinked slowly. “Don't. I don't want to remember.” Merida shuddered. “Go away, Hans. Thank you for your help. I absolve you of the favours you owed me.”

I am not and have never been a stranger to suffering, but it hurt to see her crushed like that. “So you do recognise me,” I continued. “What happened, Merin? You used to be so happy.”

“I grew up.” 

And that was all she would say on the matter. The forester extracted my hand from her shoulder and led me back to my couch. I let him, of course, something in the hollow cavity where my heart should be aching. 

“You're the Spirit Emperor,” he whispered to me, snapping me out of my reverie. “What are you doing here, my lord? And how did you know Merida?”

“Same as you, and that is none of your business,” I whispered back, slipping into forester dialect. “What is your name and clan, sirrah?”

“Kristavla, formerly of the Ko clan. My lord.”

“So you were there when… the Incident happened.” I jerked my chin at the Godhuntress, now attempting to engage a very uncomfortable Dave in conversation. Or perhaps she was interrogating him.

“No. I was attending to my fiance, my lord. The late Kitsy Te-clan.”

“Oh. I killed her, did I not?” I vaguely remembered a foul-mouthed guard who had insulted me the moment I arrived on castle grounds.

“Yes, and I thank you for it.” Kristavla shook his head. “I will not speak ill of the dead, but she was not a good woman.” 

“I can imagine that.”

We sat there in silence for a few more moments. “Would you like to help me avenge our people?” I gestured again to the Godhuntress, who was being fawned over by a lich of some kind. “We may not get another chance.”

“I am not one for vengeance,” Kristavla said. “But you are a friend of my friend. And so I will. For you, my lord, and for our people, may their remains soak the earth.”

“Thank you. Be on your way, friend,” I told him. “Speak with the vampire in the demeaning costume—” I had to approximate a word for Dave's Smiley Mart uniform— “and see if you can isolate and weaken her. From there we shall make the kill.”

Kristavla nodded, and slipped away. Taking his place (for it seemed I would have an endless supply of supplicants today), was a lean, sly doctor. Her red hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and her skin was dry enough to resemble scales.

“Hello, Spirit Emperor,” she hissed. “Fancy seeing you caught up in the Christmas web.”

There was that word again. Christmas. “Care to explain, doctoress?” I offered her a seat. She was about as human as I, with the way she moved, though I could not tell what on earth she was.

“I am an Oracle,” she rasped, as though reading my mind. “And my people arranged this felicitous meeting.”

I froze up. “I see. And why should I believe you?”

She laughed, a sound that had more in common with the death of a small furry animal than anything friendly. “Your name is Hans-el Ko-clan. You killed and ate your parents to save the Goddess of Dreams. Your lover is a shapeshifter who will not tell you its true name, and you hold a grudge against the fallen angel they call the Godhuntress.”

“All very impressive,” I agreed. “ But any old fool could have worked that out with the right background knowledge. Tell me something nobody knows.”

The Oracle grinned, revealing red and raw gums. “Careful what you wish for, little boy.” She shifted closer, and I could smell the blood on her breath. “You claimed the throne by mimicking the magic-thieving spell the Godhuntress used on your dear friend. You helped the renegade Merida start the civil war in Palioden by orchestrating a situation in which she had to kill her sister using a gun you provided. And, as the topping on this pie, your worst fear is-”

“No!” It came out louder than I expected, and more than a few heads turned our way. “I believe that you are an Oracle. Please, do not continue this.”

The Oracle leaned back, victorious. “Good boy,” she murmured, proving that there was, in fact, a nickname I could dislike more than ‘Hash’s Boyfriend'.  “Now, I suggest you stop hiding in this little corner and get to moving the plot forward, will you, dear? You ought to be an active protagonist.” She pushed me off my chair. “And be grateful we didn't send you the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present or Future.”

Before I could ask her what the ghosts, or even Christmas, were, she was gone. Not gone like a ghost walker, or like a teleporter. Gone entirely, as though she had never existed in the first place. I shook my head to ward off the strange feeling, and got up. It was unwise to disregard an Oracle's warnings.

I was about to approach a random person, when someone once again came to me. For once, she seemed perfectly normal. “You look like you know what's going on,” she said without preamble. “Care to explain?”

“Unfortunately for you? I do not,” I informed her, pausing to pick up a few jellies and put them onto my plate.

“Well that's not very polite of you, seeing as I know what Christmas is and you don't,” she replied, taking a few jellies of her own. “And I hear you killed your parents too. We've got that in common, at least.”

That gave me pause. She didn't look like a mage of any kind. “And how did you do that, little girl? With a knife? A pillow to the face at night?”

“A death ray, actually. I'm Mara. Nice to meet you, Hans,” she informed me, sticking her hand out. “You're the talk of the party, you know. They say you're an Emperor.”

“And just who might this ‘they’ be?” Blasphemous gods above, did she ever shut up? 

“Well, Visitor over there, and his buddy Aida. They're from Palioden, which a few little birds tell me is a land in your world. Which, if you can't tell already, I'm not from.”

“What?” 

Mara giggled. “You heard me, Mr Spirit Emperor. I'm not from your world. And if I eavesdropped right, they-” she pointed at Athena's crew- “aren't either. The creepy girl who stopped you from killing that goddess too.”

“The Godhuntress isn't a goddess,” I snapped. “She's nothing but a grandiose genocider. And how did you know about me and Katherine? Everyone was asleep.” 

“I happen to be really good at pretending to be asleep. Picked up the habit in kindergarten.” I tiptoed to pick a cream puff off the top of its tower, and she helped lift it down for me. 

“Thank you. So what do you want, Mara-murderer? A boon? As you have ascertained, I know naught more about this place than you.” Finally, that was a lie. The Oracle had provided me with some excellent information.

“I want to help you kill that bitch. The Godhuntress, or whatever her name was.” Mara's eyes glinted with bloodlust.

“Why?”

“She disrespected me,” Mara snarled, cracking her knuckles. “I was wondering what she was, and I poked her wings, and would you believe it? That fucking bitch slapped me. Me! No fucking warning.”

I was deeply surprised to hear that the Godhuntress had not done worse than a mere slap for the insolence of grabbing her wings. But any aid was welcome aid, especially from someone as adept at spying as Mara appeared to be. “I see. Let's team up, shall we?”

“Excellent.” She rubbed her hands together. “I know that pretty elf girl and the convenience store dude are on your side. Is the other spirit with you too?” I nodded. “Mmkay. I'll tell them everything I know, and report back.”

“Certainly,” I replied. Mara let out another disturbing giggle, and ran off. There was something deeply wrong with that girl, I decided.

I drifted down the table, plucking up more desserts as I went. The talk of the party, was I now? I could certainly see it. More than one person parted way to let me pick out my food, and I saw a distinct wariness in their eyes. Then again, it was but my dues. 

I passed by a Luxatian Crusader in full armour, and she nodded at me. “Spirit.”

“Knight.” For once, I was having a normal encounter. For once, nobody was questioning me about Christmas, or Santa, or Krampus, whatever they were. For once-

The knight unsheathed her sword.

I moved to dodge the blow, but it never came. Indeed, she was not so much as looking at me. Her eyes were trained on someone else, instead. A lich.

“You,” the knight snarled. “Iraela Foundling. The Lich-Queen. I swore an oath to defeat you. And now, I shall.” Ah. It seemed I was not the only one with a grudge to satisfy. 

The Lich-Queen blinked, and eloquently croaked out, “What?”

“I am going to watch your unlife spill out onto my blade, foul beast. You killed my family, my entire village. I watched your ghouls eat my sisters. They were six years old, Lich-queen. I had to run while they begged me to save them.” Tears sprung to the knight's eyes. “You are a monster of the foulest kind, and a fog shall lift the day you die.”

“A monster? Damn right I am a monster,” the lich announced. “I am the monster humanity made of me. Your kind declared me cursed, broken, unlovable. All I did was listen to their words. You should have known it by now: a child not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth. And all I ever wanted to feel was warm.” She threw her arms wide. “Go on. Slay me. Continue your precious little cycle of hatred. One day, the people I saved, the ones your family scorned, will avenge me.”

A glint in her eye told me she had no plans of going down so easily.

The Crusader spat on the ground. “Spare me your lies, Lich-Queen. Your pretty words will not sway justice.”

I sighed. I knew what kind of woman turned herself into a lich, and it was hardly the sort who a mere knight could defeat. If nobody stopped that fool knight, she was going to get herself killed.

In a flash, I was standing behind the Crusader, barely reaching her underarm. A quick knockout spell later, and she was down, keeling over like a metal doll with its strings cut.

The room had fallen silent. Everyone, even the Godhuntress herself, watched me. I resisted the urge to declare my undying hatred of her, and instead gave a cheery wave to the room. 

The Lich-Queen let her arms fall. “Say, might you be the Spirit Emperor?”

I nodded. “The one and only. And a little bird—” I prodded the unconscious knight with my foot— “told me you were the Lich-Queen. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“And I yours.” She offered her forearm, and I took it. “I actually knew your predecessor: Sucsu'anane.”

That name belonged in our history books. Sucsu was old, and infamous. “But that would make you the first Lich-Queen,” I murmured. “You- It was you who started the Runic wars! It was you who caused the shifters to die out!”

I was staring a legend in the face, a woman who had caused horrors long before my time, horrors that echoes for all eternity. “By the false gods, it is good to meet you! What an honour, Lady Iraela. What an inspiration you were to me.”

I might have spread the flattery on too thick, but Iraela lapped it all up. “Why, you're too kind. Let me tell you: ruling is all in the flair. Why, for my coronation…”

I let history's greatest disaster lead me by the arm to a nice corner, where she proceeded to chatter my ear off. For once, I shall spare you the details. Suffice to say, I learnt more about the history of the Deadlands than I ever wished to know. 

“Let me tell you something, Hans,” she said, interrupting her own monologue.

“Hmm?”

“I heard you knew a shifter named Hash. Well, I met him too.”

That made me perk right up. I'd known Hash was older than I, but that old? Fascinating. What else was he hiding from me?

“Don't trust him. He betrayed us all. We would have won the war, if that little bastard hadn't run off to the elves and spilled the beans. We could have been great, Hans-el. Our peoples, the vampires and the spirits and the ghouls, could have ruled the world. But Hash was soft. Do not let that softness corrupt you,” she warned. “It will rot you from the inside, and when your enemies scoop your guts out, they will not so much as give you the gift of eating you alive.”

“I know,” I replied. “My mother was soft, and it brought her naught but suffering. Our people revile it.”

“And yet you love him,” Iraela commented wryly. “That alone tells me enough about you.”

I did not dare lie and disagree. “Yes, I do. But Hash can take care of himself, now. He's slippery as hell.”

“Yes, that much I have seen from tonight's festivities. But that is the point, is it not? He will slip your grasp and betray you, just as he did the shifters. One day, you will make a cruel choice, a choice for the greater good, and his soft little heart will push him to betray you. All because you weren't hard enough to cut him off.”

I stood up, suddenly reminded of my conversation with the Oracle. My greatest weakness indeed, I thought. “That may be so, my lady. He may betray me, and leave me dead in the gutter. But that is a risk I am willing to take.” I brushed invisible dust off my skirt. “All you are is a woman who failed to rule the world, Lady Iraela. At the end of the day, all you have is your love's blood on your hands and a heart you wrenched out of your own chest. Even if I lose it all, at least I loved, and was loved in turn. For someone who went on and on about needing to feel warm earlier, you just do not seem to understand that, do you?”

Iraela laughed. “So young,” she whispered. “So young and so foolish. They'll make mincemeat out of you, little Emperor. And I'll laugh at you from my grave.”

I strode away from her, back stiff and fists clenched. I could take insult all day, but this? This firm condemnation? It stung. It stung like my father's whippings. It stung and I wanted to never think of it again.

I was still standing about, willing emotion away from me, when Mara tapped me on the shoulder. “Come on,” she said, grinning. “Buncha tables appeared. I grabbed one for us. Your little vampire friend got dragged off to hang out with the rest of his kind, but it seems I'm free to roam.” She laughed maniacally. 

She led me to a table. Hash, my Hash, my brilliant, softhearted friend, grabbed my arms and all but pulled me by his side. “Check this out: That vampire's got a tan!” He pointed a woman in work clothes, conversing animatedly with Dave. “Apparently, she's a field researcher. Can you believe it?”

“Yes, I can,” I agreed numbly. 

“Oh, and this Christmas thing! Mara told me all about it. Apparently, they eat turkey and give gifts and celebrate this saint of theirs. I don't have a gift for you, but I figured this might do!” He pointed at the Godhuntress and lowered his voice. “I cut a sleeping rune onto her piece of turkey while I was carving it. She doesn't know know to use the cutlery, so when she bites into it, the spell will activate, and it'll be your chance! Whaddya think?”

He really was sly. “Brilliant, my love,” I whispered, my mind still on the Lich-Queen. “What else did you find?”

He scrunched his nose up and thought. “Um, the God of Evil's here, and he's a pretty chill guy. The Godhuntress' daughter's here too, and she's got an axe to grind with dear old mum, too, but I convinced her not to do anything drastic. There's some poor blue fellow in the corner, and he's got some kind of curse. I didn't go too close, but he seems… different from the rest of us. When we're done, we should go investigate.”

Beside me, a man in a strange vest sat down. “Hello there, lad,” he began, only to fall silent when he met my eyes. “You're no child. You're a monster.” He stumbled back, clutching his hand to his chest. “Maya? Let's find another table.”

Hash barely hid back laughter as he all but fled the scene, the girl he called Maya giving me a wry smile and nod as she followed. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. The others. Look over there. No, not at the demon-girl. The blondie and the redhead next to her.”

“I recognise the others at that table,” I told him. “Kristavla and Merida.”

“Yeah, Kris was helping us out earlier. The redhead? Apparently an infamous mind-mage. She fuckin conquered an entire city, all on her own. And the blond girl's a spell-snapper. Ugly combo, if you ask me. They're from the same era as us, but Nyctomachian.”

“And them?” I pointed at Athena and the one-eyes summoner. “They damn near called my bluff.”

“Yeah, they bothered Dave real bad too. Something tells me they're not gonna harass us again, though.” He grinned at me. “A certain someone may have implied that he was the reason they even ended up here.”

I wanted to facepalm. “Damnit, Hash. That was exactly what I told them too.” I looked over at them, deep in discussion. The old man met my gaze, and held it with the kind of defiance that promised trouble. “Ah, what the hell. We can deal with them later. For now, let us celebrate.”

I drank more wine, this time watered down (for no man of my stature should ever get drunk), gossiped with Hash and Mara, and bided my time.

The Godhuntress took her spare time sipping drinks and eating appetisers. For a moment I suspected she knew of our devious plan, for she avoided her turkey for far too long. Then she lifted the fateful piece of poultry with more grace than it deserved, and bit down.

I was by her side before her head hit the table. My reputation preceded me, for the others at her table, a rather foolish spirit and his mortal friend, scrambled back. Gasps of shock and horror resounded as I readied my blade.

It was quite a shock to realise those noises were not for me. I glanced up from my goal for one fateful minute, perhaps compelled by the strings of Fate that the Oracles pulled, and caught sight of what could only be described as a cryptid.

He came from the chimney, white and red despite the soot. A full white beard hung limply from his chin, and his deep voice resounded throughout the room. “Ho, ho, ho! Merry bloody Christmas, fools!” He pulled out a massive sack and grinned at the room. “You're all bad apples, the lot of you! Coal for everyone!” 

Everyone except me dodged the sudden hail of coal that followed the opening of his sack. “Well, what are you waiting for?” He leered at me, icy blue eyes piercing me like the fangs of the last Oracle I met. 

I lifted my knife, aiming it at the dazed Godhuntress' throat. A glimmer of recognition dawned upon her face, but I did not let her recover fully. Down went my blade, swift, brutal and twice as just as any executioner's axe.

And what a merry, bloody Christmas it was.

[seikkoi]

ᴡɪᴛʜᴇʀ | j.barnes x f!reader

READ ON AO3

Your words hang in the air like laundry on a rainy day–pointless and unchanging in purpose. The empty space dares him to say something back, but the more time passes, the less sure he seems. His mouth opens and closes, jaw tense and fighting against something inside.

“I can’t be what you need.”

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. post-snap au, secondary character death, implied/referenced abortion, survivor's guilt, grief, ptsd, etc., explicit mentions of alcohol, angst, hurt with absolutely no comfort, no y/n usage word count: 5.1k

“James–” you try to call out, and the syllables die in your throat.

He pauses at the threshold, shoulders slump. 

“I can’t,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you.

The walls thunder when the door slams behind him, leaving a silence empty enough to hear your own pulse. It’s quick, adrenaline still rushing and heat still dancing on your tongue. Even though you feel defeated in your own right. You thought you would have so much more to say, so much more anger to let out. Insults and frustrations you’ve buried over months. But your admission had sliced deep enough, and Bucky was clearly uninterested in staying for round two. 

It wasn’t meant to end like this, you weren’t supposed to tell him like this. You had anxiously prepared for this conversation, waiting for a night he was sober enough to remember you existed. He’d call over and over from midnight to two in the morning, breaking your will with every ring until you answered and save him from whatever hole he was drowning in. Or, he’d show up and plead for you through the door. You obliged him every time, saying it was for your neighbors peace and not your own. But that was a lie, it was for you–each time. 

You couldn’t stand leaving him alone and broken, and he needed that. He needed someone to care. Something solid, safe. You were a journalist–not risking your life everyday and grounded enough to understand why he still did. 

Yeah, he wasn’t the Winter Soldier anymore, but that wasn’t stopping him. He wanted to pay the world back. Do anything to make all the terror worth it. It didn’t matter that the toll could never be paid in full, that the universe never asked for retribution. He didn’t think he deserved to have anything else. 

In the beginning, after HYDRA fell, it gave him purpose. He started to feel normal. Steve pulled him back into the world a year ago when all he wanted to do was hide away. He thought he could, thought he was ready. It felt good to save people instead of harm. To have children reach for him in safety. He listened to Sam and attended the veteran’s meetings. He didn’t need to share for everyone to know who he was–the sight of the brooding, gloved man in the corner with dark eyes told enough on its own. He soaked in the stories of others, taking solace in knowing no one experience was unique. 

He started going out, living. Steve and Sam drag him to the gym a few times a week, which inevitably spirals into the gym and lunch afterwards. On Sam’s birthday, he guilts Bucky and Steve into ‘just one shot’, which, of course, inevitably spirals into several shots and a few beers.

Bucky won’t say it then, but it’s the most normal he’s felt since 1945. He watches Steve make a passionate argument for English beers (to Sam’s dismay), and swears he watched him make the same argument 50 years ago in a bar two boroughs over. 

He had gained the courage to venture the city on his lonesome. It was overwhelming and exhilarating. Streets he thought he knew like the back of his hand had completely transformed, and totems he thought would be long forgotten stood the test of time. 

He winds up back in Brooklyn, strolling the outskirts of his old neighborhood. He didn’t dare pass the frontier, not yet. Still, it felt good to be this close. The streets were different now—sleeker, polished, bustling with a new generation of dreamers—but their roots carried the scent of home. The barbershop he used to frequent is now home to an upscale coffee shop. The old brick facade is now limestone white, and he honestly might prefer it that way. 

He had another few blocks of reminiscing to do, but the door swings open as a young couple emerges in high spirits, carrying a very enticing croissant and a mouth watering smell to match.

He doesn’t catch you on the other side of the glass–looking away from your laptop to catch some leather-bound brood get seduced by a pastry. You chuckle as the choice seems to take him very little time to make, stopping just long enough to watch the couple walk by and catch the door behind them. 

He seems innocent enough despite the heavy coat and deep scowl. You can’t help turning slightly in your barstool to watch him, sticking out from the new age pop music and neon lights. You have to hide in your book when he heads for the empty seat next to you. 

“Did no one ever tell you staring was impolite?” 

You stammered an apology as he laughed and asked what you were reading. After you ramble for a minute too long, he pledges to give it a try and let you know what he thinks. 

“Same time next week?” he smiles, knocking against the counter and leaving as quickly as he entered, treat in hand. 

You didn’t want to take what he said seriously. Obviously, it was polite sarcasm. He didn’t mean it. You weren’t getting dressed and heading back to the cafe the following week because you expected him to be there or anything. No, no. You had an article to finish and that was your spot anyway. If he’s there again, it’s not because of you, it’s because of the croissant, obviously.

But he is there. Not only is he there, he’s got the book you recommended in hand. He waves the spine enthusiastically across the room when you take your place at the counter, and you try not to smile too hard. 

You didn’t think it’d spiral into anything. You hadn’t meant to ask him for his number the next week, it just sort of stumbled out–under the guise of talking about the book, of course. 

Instead, you two talk about anything but that. At first, Bucky’s shy to admit he didn’t quite get some of the references, and you happily spend a half an hour explaining Blade Runner. He begs you not to call him James out of embarrassment, and you do it anyway (eventually, it turns into a well-liked habit). You tell him about the time you tripped crossing the graduation stage, and he laughs as if he was seeing it live. 

For weeks you find yourself glued to your phone well into the early morning hours, swapping high school stories and food criticisms with such ease that you forget your giggling with one of the world’s deadliest assassins. You avoid bringing it up–you were a journalist, you read the papers. You didn’t need him to relive that to you. Especially when you were both too busy falling hard, and fast. Phone calls turn into dinners that turn into him spending the night in your bed. 

Before you know it, you’re spending your Sundays watching him completely fail a pancake flip in your kitchen. There’s warmth in the air, in your ribs. Settled and comforting in a way you never knew you needed. And then he presents his blob shaped creation like a true work of art and you realize you don't want that feeling to go anywhere. 

He brought that into your life, swelling and warm with every terrible pancake flip, soft smile, or kiss to your cheek.

And Bucky was better for it. To know he could love, to be loved in return. It grounded him more than any ghost walks through the old neighborhood ever would. This, what he had with you, it was here now. 

Maybe the fight could truly be over. Maybe he was finally safe. 

And then, Thanos happens.

It is the worst month of your life. You go from slow dancing in the living room, leaning against him and taking in the calm of his heartbeat, to watching the news in horror as Thanos’ army came to Earth. Scotland, New York, Wakanda. Footage of smoke rising in great plumes, painting the skyline with streaks of ash and chaos. Alien ships hover like vultures, dropping black-armored creatures into the streets below. And somewhere in that chaos was Bucky.

Or so you had hoped. Girlfriends weren’t high on the SHIELD update chain, and his location was confidential regardless. So, for 28 days, all you could do was watch the chaos unfold from the other side of the screen. On day twenty-nine, you woke up to find that half the world had vanished without a trace. You call Sam over and over, praying that he was okay, that Bucky was okay. 

No one answers, and for another three days you sit alone in your apartment swallowed whole by grief. Friends, family, the blonde barista at the coffee shop, and the man you barely got to love. 

A knock at the door pulls you from your stupor, eyes raw and cheeks red. And when the door swings open, your world tilts again. 

“Hey, doll.”

He says it so casually, like he’d just step out for an afternoon, not over a month. There’s a cascade of bruises on his face, a pristine bandage wrapped around his arm, but he’s there. Alive. Flesh and Bone.

You don’t think, you leap. Your arms tangle around his shoulders, squeezing until you’re shaking. He grunts softly in surprise, but his arms wrap around you tightly, steadying you like he always does.

You sob before you can even speak, your cries muffled against his chest. His metal hand runs gently along your back.

You hoped–assumed all would return to normal now. The life you were starting didn’t need to be on hold a second longer. The world would take time to heal, sure, but for now you could go back to late night slow dances and burnt Sunday pancakes. 

But then, you hear about Sam.

He didn’t make it.

Neither did countless others Bucky had dared to call family the last few years. You listen in stunned silence as Bucky tells you, the weight of the losses hanging heavy in the air between you. His voice cracks when he mentions Steve, though he doesn’t say much else. You don’t press—what more could you possibly ask?

For a while, both of you stay shadows of yourselves, and you imagined a great deal of others followed suit. Work didn’t go anywhere–being exponentially difficult if anything. Constant reporting of the aftermath, the testimonies. You don’t admit it and you don’t quit, but you start to hate it. You run out of words to describe what happened and no one can make up their minds for quite a while. The editor-in-chief gives you sympathetic nods for every late article, but you know you’re hanging on by a thread.

At night, Bucky holds you a little too tight, and you let him.

You catch him staring out the window in the early morning. Sharp lines draw on his face and you wonder if what you write is nearly half as bad as what he’s seen. It’s the only time you wonder what he’s done, what any of this has truly been like for him.

Truthfully, it’s hell. 

For weeks now he’d pulled countless mangled bodies from rubble, killed heartless scavengers who wouldn’t put the damn gun down, and watched the world he started to love again fall apart. And the rebuilding effort was estimated to take years. He didn’t have years of this in him. 

And who's to say Thanos was done? He had the stone, all the power in the universe to squander them at a moment's notice. Two of the strongest people he knew, gone with a single snap. 

“Why wasn’t it me?” he thinks, staring down an empty glass. 

The compound was eerily empty, with Stark still M.I.A and everyone else busy putting out fires at all corners of the globe. Pepper couldn’t stand the silence and left for her parents’ house in Boston. Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s doing here. He should be out there like everyone else–helping more, looking Tony, or supporting you. But it’s 2 am and he’s stuck, unable to face anyone and unable to cry. 

The fight would never be over. And he would never be able to keep anyone safe.

So he pulls away. Like night and day you go from two ghostly shadows, dancing in charred grief to nuclear reactions, ready to set the other off at a moment's notice. He can't cope and you can hardly move on, but you are moving. You push Bucky to do the same and it never ends well. It’s easier for you, and you know that. You’re constantly reminded of the devastation behind the thin veil of pictures and text. There is no separation for Bucky. Every cry, every hint of death and absence, floods his senses until it’s all his brain can compute.

The world is gone.

In a flash of anger, he throws the bottle against the refrigerator and takes pride in the shatter. F.R.I.D.A.Y is smart enough not to offer assistance. 

Peace was at his fingertips. He felt it. He missed it. Watching Steve and Sam argue about the most trivial topics. Listening to you ramble at 3 am about bad romance novels. Seeing actual joy in strangers on the street. Being in the world when it felt whole again.

Now, he can’t look at you without thinking of loss. The folly of love. Pain would always lurk on the horizon. He could try over and over to rebuild. It didn’t matter and it never would. The universe was a cruel bitch–and nowhere knew through him by the looks of it. Every night he goes to sleep with a heavy ache in his heart. A miasma that sits on his chest and stares at him through his dreams. In the morning, it follows him from place to place. Watching, waiting to swallow him whole.

When Bucky comes to you later that evening reeking of sorrow, you have a look that he can’t place. He thinks you can see it, the dread stalking him. The emptiness. He can’t take it and leaves as soon as he arrives. With each passing day, he pulls away more, and more and more. It’s better to lose you this way. 

It doesn’t stop you from calling and sometimes he answers. Some days he shows up and holds you like nothing ever happened. He loses his grief in the soft corners of your body, and you let him. It helps you too. You find yourself all the same, soaking in his weight against the mattress. It’s hopeful, the way he touches you. Delicate, precise–not in pleasure but in preservation. He breaks you apart until you’re left to just the finest parts. Thinking of nothing but him, wanting nothing but him. Hungry teeth mark the soft flesh at your pulse, the skin on your inner thigh. All to catalogue the noises you make, to feel your nails dig into his shoulders. He does this for his own memory, savouring as much of you as you can before you’re gone for good.  He knows it’s inevitable. 

It’s always been inevitable.

In the morning, it’s lost all over again when he disappears, leaving the scent of mulberry and whiskey behind. 

Carol finds Nebula and Tony in cold space. Battered, starving, and a moment away from slow death. Bucky had a dust of hope left that the genius had one more trick up his sleeve. A month passes while he recovers, then weeks. After a year Pepper and Tony find a quaint cabin up north to forget. Or maybe to start over? Bucky can’t tell and he gets too mad at his absence to care. Tony Stark got to stop being Iron Man and all James wishes for is to stop being Bucky.

The time between his late-night visits as the miasma greedily feeds. The loneliness and old memories stops either of you from saying what needs to be said. It’s harder and harder for him to face you. Each time Bucky leaves you craving what you had before, while still giving you hope it might come back.

He stops coming to the cafe altogether. Stopped calling. The man who once lit up your entire world now burned through whiskey like it was water, each sip drowning him a little further

The day you find out, it’s bittersweet, and you dared to hope again. You picture, even if just for a second, a bright future. Burnt pancakes with an extra plate, soft laughter from the dinner table as you and Bucky waltz around the kitchen–you picture it all in such a sharp flash. A reason for both of you to hope again. It’s vivid and near disorienting. You sit against the bathroom wall staring at the pink double lines. 

Out of instinct and burning joy, you called Bucky, heart racing and a smile creeping onto your face. 

It rings once. Twice. Three Times. And then voicemail. 

And then you remember who Bucky is, or rather who he’s becoming.

And your heart sinks.

For two days you cry and wait. That he’d call back, that this time he had a reason. That the universe wasn’t giving you an enormous final sign. 

Each day blurs into the next  and you’re forced to face the music. The future you pictured, it would never be reality. In reality, things continued to deteriorate. Just as Bucky realized anything could take you away from him, you realized he was already gone. Sure, he survived the snap, but he wasn’t living. He perished just the same. You were left with a man hollow from far more than just grief. And a man who could never be a father. That peaceful future could never exist because this world would never give you peace. 

Children weren’t a part of your life plan. You couldn’t do it on your own and you knew that. You weren’t sure you could do it under any circumstances. But you certainly couldn’t in this world. Not now. 

So you made a choice, alone. You called Bucky again before making the appointment, to no answer. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell a friend, sunken by anger and sadness you can’t. You go alone, drive home alone, and cry alone for two weeks. 

You start to think this time he’s never coming back. Your decision feels justified, righteous, and forty times worse. The bed sheets maintain a perfect shape for you to hide in. Not from Bucky. No, you wish he’d seek you out. At your absolute worst and wanting him the most. Even though you knew you should hate him, cast him aside in your mind. 

But you just can’t. Call it loneliness or stupidity–it didn’t matter. You keep a sliver of hope that he waltzes right back into your life, this time as himself, whole. Unbroken and ready to belt Frank Sinatra down the empty streets as he walks you home. You could loop his arms in his again and lean steady on his weight once more. 

Maybe you got desperate for it. While the weeks stretched into another month, and you had to keep living. People seemed to fill the gaps others left behind. Deadlines came back, along with birthdays, sports tournaments, and holidays. There was always an air of despair to everything, though. Tributes and memorials were constant, and the topic never truly left public discussion. It simply changed from a thing that was happening, to a thing that had happened. 

You met new people, a lot, in fact. A few even ask you out. Each time you turn them down, lying about you weren’t ready for dating yet or that work was too hectic. Truthfully, the thought of being with anyone else felt like an act of betrayal. Logically, after twenty seven days (because yes, you were counting) of missed calls and ignored texts, one might assume any romantic relationship did, or should come to end. But not you, not with Bucky. 

You didn’t want anyone else. But he wasn’t here. 

On day thirty four, a heavy knock wakes you around midnight. You’re half-asleep, shivering in your night-gown and wishing you wore something warmer to bed when you answer. 

Bucky slouches against the door frame, clothes wrinkled and eyes glinting. He looks at you for a second, just long enough for you to see the anguish stalking him, before he crosses into your apartment–taking your face between his palms and kissing you.

You don’t think, only react. You never do on these nights, the nights he bothers to remember you and you’re desperate enough to let him in. You react to the liquor-stained tongue dancing in your mouth, his hands finding your hips and pushing yours against the wall. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, and when his hands paw at the silk of your nightgown, you untie it for him. 

You don’t think as tears flood the back of your eyes, just as desperate as you are for release. It’s love, anger, need, and grief in their most convoluted form–working together and fogging your mind. 

You don’t think when he lifts you around his waist, tongue still searching for peace behind your lips. It’s been long, too long for both of you. Too many nights and days spent praying he’d come back to you. He lays you down on your bed, trailing down your body and leaving you breathless. You can hardly see him in the dark room. A shadow, lighting your nerves on fire without a single word. 

Some shifts. Perhaps it comes from the way he pauses at your hip. Fleeting and haunting. Recoiling as if the bone will break skin to seek him out. Livid that he would dare to take more than he deserves.

You don't think, and misread his hesitation as a chance to take control. Flip the script. Leave him a wanting mess. You don’t want to give yourself any time in reality. You want to pretend this is one of your first times. Before the world bowed under its own weight. Before you Bucky became your curse.  And thinking is antithetical to whatever currently happens between you two in these four walls. 

Your hands graze the lines of his jaw in the dark, finding full hairs where your mind remembers itchy stubble. Too much time has passed. You don’t think, pulling him back towards you and capturing his lips, trying to mimic the hungry passion he showed you at the door. 

He doesn’t show you any return and you would think to stop, but you aren’t there yet. You try harder, until his arms braces your forearm. The cold metal grounds you and forces you to find his eyes in the shadows. 

“This is wrong, I shouldn’t be here.” he whispers, almost like he’s speaking to himself.  You hold his gaze briefly before it darts to the floor. 

Your heart sinks like a stone. Your ribcage wants to tighten around it. 

You tighten your nightgown instead. 

“Don’t,” you plead, but Bucky was already pulling away, fingers curling into fists at his sides. 

“I mean it.” he took another step back, and the stone reaches your stomach. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Can’t?” you shot up, more sharp and cutting than you thought. “What the hell does that mean, James? You can’t? After everything–” 

He knows you're using his birth name out of anger, but even then he relishes in the way it sounds on your tongue. 

He still doesn’t bear to look at you, shoulders slumping. “I shouldn’t have come here, I should’ve known better.”

The laugh that breaks out of you isn’t a laugh at all. It was something jagged and bitter. You leave your bed to face him, refusing to let him ignore the hurt he’s causing.

“You should’ve known better? Now what, you disappear again and call it noble this time?”

“I’m trying to do what’s best for you! I’m trying to protect you!” he snapped, loud enough to echo. 

“Protect me from what? From you?” you repeat, incredulous. The words taste sour. 

“Yes!” he burst out, voice high and raw. “You don’t need this–you don’t need me.”

Breaths can barely leave your throat. You think this is what people always meant when they said they were ‘seeing red’. You want to ask if he thinks you needed him after losing half of everyone you cared about, too. After eight hours a day writing about tragedies that somehow felt two feet in front of you despite happening thousands of miles away.

“I can’t believe I thought you could ever be a father–that we might have a family.” It’s an admission you mean to keep in your head, but it spills out in a tangled mess with your tears before you can realize what you’re saying. 

Bucky snaps his head up. His jaw clenches, and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to argue. But the weight of your words seems to register. He doesn’t say anything, and the silence is suffocating. You feel the space between you both stretching, threatening to snap. He finally meets your eyes, and the vulnerability there almost breaks you again.

“What are you talking about?” He knows the answer to his own question. But he wants to be wrong. He prays to be wrong.

“I was pregnant and you couldn’t even pick up the phone.” you grit, trying not to yell, cry, or some combination of both. You fail, and your sparse tears turn into full streams. “I didn’t know what to do–I was alone.”

“When were you going to tell me?” His tone is low, in a confused attempt to process, but all you hear is blame. 

“I tried! For weeks! I couldn’t just wait on the sidelines for you to love me again, I couldn’t do this without you and you weren’t here!” 

“You don’t understand,” he mutters, his voice cracking under your anger. 

“Then help me understand!” you plead, stepping closer, your heart pounding against your ribs. “Help me understand why I had to make that choice alone.”

“I’ve lost everything,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Everything I’ve ever cared about. And I can’t—I won’t—put you in that same category.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening with both frustration and heartache. “So, what, you just decide to give up? Walk away and lose me anyway?” 

“That’s not what this is–I’m not giving up,” he insists, though there's a lack of conviction in his voice. 

“Bullshit, you’re just a coward–you’re giving up because it’s easy and staying here and making things work is harder.”

Bucky froze, his jaw tightening as your words settled between them like a storm cloud. His voice was low, measured, but laced with contempt.

“Don’t give me that crap, There’s nothing easy about letting you go.”

“You don’t get to talk to me about giving up, Bucky. Not when you’re the one walking away. Not again.”

“You think I’m just cutting myself off from everything, throwing my entire life away, throwing you away, leaving every last thing I know and care about behind, because I want the easy life?” He stepped closer, his eyes blazing. 

“It was never that easy for me to do this—with you, with anyone! It was so much easier for me to go on thinking there was something I could do to make a real difference, but I know now—” His voice cracked slightly, and he ran a hand through his hair. 

“I know now there’s nothing I can do. The only path everything leads to is everything being ripped away from me.”

You shook your head, voice sharp. “That’s a lie, and you know it.”

“If I could do something to be at peace,” he continued, his voice still rising, “then I’d do it. I swear to you that I would. But it’s all just... waiting to slip through my fingers, leaving nothing behind.”

“That’s not true!” you snapped, your fists clenching. “You’re the one letting it all slip away, Bucky. Not fate, not some unstoppable force—you.”

“Bullshit!” His words were a snarl now, his hands clenched at his sides as though he didn’t know where else to put the anger. “What do you know? What the hell do you actually know about me, huh?”

Her lips parted, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “Nothing! I’ll tell you what kind of man I really am.” His voice softened, the anger bleeding into something more resigned. “I had nothing when I started, and I’ll have nothing when this nightmare finally ends. And I’m not wasting your life too.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me!” you shouted, stepping forward. “You don’t get to play martyr and act like I’m just collateral damage in whatever war you’re fighting with yourself. I’m here. I’ve always been here.”

“You know I’m right,” he bit out, his voice suddenly colder, quieter. “You knew it when you decided to end it–and I don’t blame you.”

There isn’t any air left in the room.

“I’m an empty shell. There’s nothing inside me at all. I know there isn’t. Guess that’s obvious. Anybody could see that. Before Steve got me, before I met you...” Bucky laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to fix this. You want to start over.

“Do you have any idea what I did with my life? I hurt people, I terrorized people, that’s what. I’ve never done a single honorable thing.” He looked at you with glossy eyes.

“You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to decide that nothing good has ever come from you, just so you can justify giving up. You don’t get to rewrite everything, Bucky.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with frustration and hurt.

Your words hang in the air like laundry on a rainy day–pointless and unchanging in any purpose. The empty space dares him to say something back, but the more time passes, the less sure he seems. His mouth opens and closes, jaw tense and fighting against something inside.

“I can’t be what you need.”

It’s soft and final.

Before you can even process it, he turns sharply, heading out your bedroom and to the front door. Each thud of boots feels heavier, more deliberate. 

“James–” you try to call out, and the syllables die in your throat.

He pauses at the threshold, shoulders slump. 

“I can’t,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you.

And then, without another word, the door slams behind him with a force that rattles your bones.

You stand there in the dark, the silence swallowing you whole. The words you want to say, the things you wish you could take back, settle into the pit of your stomach like stones.

But he's gone, turning into a ghost once more. And for the first time in a long while, you know he won’t be coming back to haunt you. 

[ comments & reblogs appreciated ♡ thx for reading ]

[aziraphales-library]

Thank you so much for all the work you do💗

I was wondering if you have any long human au fics with lots of angst and a happy ending? Again thank you!!

You're welcome! We have #long fic, #human au, and #angst tags where there will be plenty of overlap, so do dip into those. Here are more for you...

Lessons in the Humanities by Greenathena (M)

Aziraphale Fell teaches English at Eden Midtown Academy. His new co-worker, Anthony Crowley, is a bit of a wild card, who doesn't mind ruffling a few feathers. Over the course of the school year, their friendship seems to be growing into something more. That is until Aziraphale is offered a high-stakes job, overseeing state testing for the whole of the Massachusetts Department of Education. They're in love, your honor. Possibly. Probably. It's ineffable complicated.

What is forgiveness but the silence after a scream? by Moonstone_Lingo (M)

After being forced to return to the town he once ran away from decades ago when he hears of his mother's death, Aziraphale is confronted with a past he wants to forget, but one that is hauntingly insistent on being relived. When a chance encounter with a stranger reveals that Crowley is not far away at all, Aziraphale must consider which he cares about more: his belief in God or his love for Crowley, and not wanting to choose, he quickly discovers he cannot have both. Unsure whether it is already too late, Aziraphale learns that he has to fight for what he wants before it slips out of his grasp. or "God loves you, Crowley." "not enough to stop hurting me." "I love you, Crowley." "not enough to save me."

As Yet Untitled by badwolfgirlicouldkissyou (E)

Aziraphale Fell is a number one best-selling author, despite his lack of self confidence and desire to hide from the public eye. Whilst fighting off his anxiety disorder at the premiere of his first novel's feature film adaptation, he meets an enigmatic, mysterious photographer who seems to only have eyes for him. Can they navigate their newfound bond? Or will past trauma and current obstacles get in their way?

Adaptive Innovations for a Changing World by amelia_airheart (E)

When Anthony Crowley meets Aziraphale Fell at Aziraphale's library, little do they know that they will turn each other's worlds upside down. After a magical week spent falling in love, they face a hard reality. Will they be able to make the choices they need to make to build a real life together?

And the fire will consume us by Merlarme (M)

Crowley works as a firefighter. One day he rescues Aziraphale, a paramedic, who is trapped in a burning building. Grateful Aziraphale decides to find his rescuer and, after getting to know him a little better, realises that they have a lot in common and are both so lonely that the accident that brought them together turned out to be a true grace.

Sinking Ships by AppleSeeds (E)

The world is practically on fire and it feels like nobody's doing anything about it, but Crowley's outlook brightens considerably when a new member arrives at his local climate action committee. Crowley is immediately smitten, and is thrilled when he and Aziraphale become fast friends, although he can't help but hope they might one day become something more. When all of his wishes come true, Crowley starts to feel like life couldn't possibly get any better. He can picture exactly what his future is going to look like, until something happens that feels like a powerful bolt of lightning has struck and split Crowley's life right down the middle, with everything before that moment on one side, and everything that is to come - scorched, lifeless and devastated - on the other. With the help of a counsellor, Crowley begins the difficult journey of picking up the pieces and working through what's happened. When Aziraphale unexpectedly comes back into his life, Crowley finally has the chance to get some answers, revealing that the truth is very different from what he was led to believe. Now he just needs to figure out whether that changes anything.

- Mod D

[proheromidoriyashouto]

Rookanis Accidental Baby Acquisition AU

Zara Renata was about to call Illario "amatus", right? Lover? Wouldn't it be fucked up if they had a child. Like in a back room or office or something and Rook's team and Lucanis found them before they left the Ossuary.

Assuming Zara had real feelings for Illario, maybe she felt bad to had "killed" his beloved cousin and was like "Here. Another of your bloodline to love." Which for blood mages is probably of some significance.

And Illario couldn't bring this bastard Dellamorte home to Caterina. There's too much at stake at the moment. He'll come for them after making himself the First Talon and eliminating the threat of the Crows. His regime was going to align with the Venatori anyway so it's just a waiting game. His claim will be stronger when he reveals an heir with Venatori ties, too.

Except maybe Zara locked their child away before fighting Rook's party- for protection- so Illario had to make the call to leave them behind, intending to return after they'd left, only to find that Rook and company have already come to the rescue.

What does he do? He can't accuse Rook and Lucanis of having his secret Venatori bastard in their possession. He doesn't even know that for certain. Another Venatori could have made the rounds and taken them along to another facility.

He's panicking because his cousin he tried to have assassinated is very much alive, furious about it, and his own infant child is out in the world somewhere lost, possibly in the possession of mages who work for the Blighted gods, and the Crows are bound to find out--!

Meanwhile, Rook and company have a baby now. Even if they can't be 100% sure Illario is the father, they can't just leave this kid at any orphanage. Their mother was Zara Renata, infamous Zenatori blood mage, with no shortage of enemies who could possibly do something terrible blood-magic-fucked-up-style to a baby.

Despite Lucanis absolutely denying Illario's possible paternity, the child is obviously Antivan with big dark brown eyes and the thick wavy hair. Lucanis cannot handle the much more at this point. He was just freed from imprisonment after a year of being tortured and fused with a demon, certain someone in the Crows has betrayed him, he does not sleep, he's so tired. He's a man on the brink. He can just agree that the child is better off with his new employer than a blood mage prison or without protection out in the world.

He does not stay up at night thinking about the familiar features of his cousin brother on a small round face just a few rooms away. He has enough on his mind, Spite! And if he thinking about the baby, it's only because he can't comprehend how a monster like Zara Renata had such an innocent creature in her clutches in that gods-forsaken place.

The team is hesitant on how to even start taking care of a baby, but Rook is into it. They're so cute! And sure babies cry and poop and test one's patience, but it there's anyone who is going to understanding about it, it's going to be the optimistic team leader who made the call to take the child with them in the first place. Rook made that choice and they're going to stand by it. Besides, the child needs someone to be a consistent caretaker right?

While the team helps in the day time, nighttime feedings and diaper changes are mostly Rook's responsibility. And the milk station is in the kitchen where Lucanis just so happens to be most nights.

Reluctant baby bonding with Lucanis every night. Talking in soft tones over the sounds of infant suckling at a warm bottle in Rook's arms. Lucanis offering to burp them over his shoulder, nose buried in their soft hair, Spite quiet for once. Rook sitting next to him and telling he's good at this, taking care of others. Something he's never been allowed to do with Caterina all but caging him within the confines of Crow duty and terror as surely as any mage's prison.

Hands touching as the baby is transferred from one another. Rook catching Lucanis' soft, unguarded smile looking down at the babbling baby, little hands reaching for his face. Lucanis scolding the baby in a playful voice when they tug at his beard and hair. That kind of dexterity will be good for handling kitchen knives later.

Maybe he could teach them to bake? They might make a good kitchen assistant if he starts tutoring them now before the team can pass down bad habits. He tells them never to follow Harding's cooking advice or develop Neve's preference for Tevinter coffee. They will be a good little Antivan chef, yes.

Shared glances over late-night coffee and cioccolata calda and an empty milk bottle. Giving unhelpful advice on how to properly change a cloth diaper, knocking shoulders. Exasperated sighs as they take turns bouncing the crying baby trying to soothe some unknown hurt for hours. Spite's wings fascinating the baby, who stops crying to reach for black feathers that disappear as they brush against their skin. A first kiss shared over a sleepy child cuddled to Lucanis' chest.

Even after accepting the truth, Lucanis can't bring them to Caterina. Can't stomach this child going through the same conditional love and training to be a Crow that he went through, and that will inevitably happen if he, or Illario, come forward about it.

So he makes the decision to lock up Illario just so he can approach him in private to imply that the child has been found and is safe in Rook's hands. Because Lucanis still loves Illario, and Illario does care somewhere deep down about his child's life. Lucanis can't afford to lose the family he's finding for himself now, not even for the family he used to have. It's a tenuous balance.

And in the years to come, if that child lives in a Lighthouse in the Fade, and squeals a delighted papà! as soon as they see Lucanis returning from Treviso. Well. That's Veilguard, not Crow, business.

[helloheyhihowdyheya]

Christmas with Carmy | Headcanons

Carmy Berzatto x reader

Masterlist

Just a few thoughts on spending Christmas with Carmy. He deserves a soft Christmas. Happy holidays everyone! 🎄☃️ Stay safe :)

What a Christmas with Carmy would look like:

You would try your hardest to get you and Carmy out of going to his family’s Christmas dinner. Without Mikey there, and after the infamous seven fishes fight you’d heard about, you knew the dinner would be hard on Carmy. 

If you had to go, you wouldn’t leave Carmy’s side for a second. You’d hold his fidgeting fingers or rest a hand on his bouncing leg, run your palm along his back. And you’d leave once the dinner was over, instead returning to your quiet and safe home.

Carmy might resist, but you would insist on hosting a holiday dinner for your close friends — inviting everyone from Syd to Richie to Ebraheim. It’d be a potluck dinner so you and Carmy (mostly Carmy) didn’t have to stress over providing all the food for everyone. The table would be cramped, but the food and company would be good. It’d be filled with laughter and reminiscing rather than fighting. You’d both create a new holiday tradition. It’d be yours, and it’d be safe. Happy.

You’d bake him and the staff holiday desserts. You’d ask him and Marcus for tips on adding more of this or that. Carmy would stand in the kitchen — you insisted he was necessary to the process for morale and quality assurance testing. But even if you didn’t insist, he’d spend hours leaning against the wall watching you float around the kitchen covered in flour. When it’d be too long without a break, he’d rest his hands on your hips and pull you in close. He’d press his lips to yours, kissing you until you’d stop him — usually to quickly check on the dessert.

Carmy would show you the best goddamn hot chocolate recipe you’ve ever tasted. But soon after, he feared he made a monster because you constantly asked him to make it for you — “it tastes better when you make it,” you’d plead. And who was he to deny you?

On cold nights, you’d happily use Carmy’s constant body heat to warm up. He seemed a little less happy about it, a sharp intake of breath at your cold hands pressed against his skin. But he wouldn’t complain too long because he’d be perfectly content having you against him all the time.

You'd make him get matching sweaters with you. He'd shake his head at it, but secretly, you knew he liked showing the world that you two were together.

You would go holiday shopping with Syd during her few free moments, trying to pick out just the right gifts for your loved ones. Part of your gift to Carmy would be something to help him relax — a spa or massage or day off — anything to help him unclench and realize that he didn’t have to be in fight or flight mode all the time. 

And the other part would test your crafting skills. You didn’t particularly care that your gift was cheesy, since you weren’t sure he’d ever gotten a homemade present before — something that showed you put in the work to show that you loved him. So you made him a scrapbook of the past year, one that was imperfect but meaningful. And the many nights you spent making it while he was working late became worth it when he opened it Christmas morning. It sat beneath a tiny tree you set up in your shared apartment, illuminated by the string lights you’d both hung up. As Carmy flipped through the scrapbook pages, his eyes roving over every inch of the photos and words you put on them, he smiled. He’d let out an occasional laugh, remembering different things that’d happened in the past year. 

“How’d you even get a picture of the knife in Richie’s ass?”

By the end, he let out a sort of a disbelieving sigh. As if he couldn’t understand that you would put the time and effort into something like this — all for him. But you’d hold him, press your lips to his. You’d try to tell him with each kiss that he was worth it, and he always would be.

[paradoxbeta]

de ce ai un rain world oc pe nume fat frumos please i must know (also zmeu. i see what you did there)

oh am i excited to talk about this. buckle in because it is a bit much

preemptive tldr: i have a rainworld adaptation of the făt-frumos tales where f-f stars as an overly prideful slugteen (pictured below looking moody) getting a body horror-y reality check

so! the name of this adaptation is the împărăție colony and as mentioned above its my little for-fun project based off of the original făt-frumos stories. for those who don’t know, f-f is a romanian folkloric character

some elements were changed (f-f is no longer the son of a king because there’s only one slugcat colony in this region, so i could only have a prince or a princess but not both if i wanted to keep the generic romance plot) but most were preserved, with f-f still having calul năzdrăvan (now a noble blue lizard steed inherited from his father) and with there still being the classic villains such as both balaur (infamous mutated red lizard) and zmeu (random iterator the slugcats abstracted into the Big Bad)

the story goes that the local iterator is collapsing and its bioprinters have gone haywire, so now it bleeds out nasty and highly mutagenic sludge. the local slugcat colony has not taken kindly to the deadzone and mutated fauna, but they also dont really understand what a bioprinter or hazardous chemical agent is, so they formed a mythological universe around the iterator

his name is zmeu, he’s a wretched 6 legged monster, he’s bleeding poison, he’s representative of all ill will and evil in the world, and all of his children are accursed nightmares. anything that’s been afflicted by zmeu gets the misnomer “child of zmeu” (misnomer because almost every "child of zmeu" was not born that way)

so in comes f-f: he’s the son of rege (who is again not actually the king), and rege was renowned for his incredible fighting prowess until the balaur got the best of him and left him unable to fight like he used to. f-f isn’t supposed to step up to his fathers position yet but his dad’s hand is forced, so he hastily passes on his trusted lizard (calul) and goes hey son, surprise! youre taking the mantle effective immediately

f-f eventually ends up on a mission to go slay zmeu and to find ileana, the colony leader’s daughter, who had gone missing very recently and who f-f also happens to have a fat crush on. so boldly he sets off with calul năzdrăvan

the story starts off very lighthearted and in its own head– f-f is young, rowdy, concerned with superficial things, and he’s had his ego gassed up by his colony which has its emphatic faith in him. he’s in a total fantasy world off to slay this big monster and come home as the hero with the girl, but as the story goes on, things get too real for him. balaur hunts him relentlessly and tests his grit, he sees the extent of the pollution and the environmental havoc, everything he's heard in mythos becomes less of a concept and more a frightening reality, and surviving in rainworld is just plain difficult, so his self confidence wanes. it reaches a breaking point when he eventually finds ileana, who is by now to his horror a child of zmeu

he does find his way to zmeu’s puppet chamber but it doesnt bring him any sense of completion. his only real options are to leave empty handed or to “kill” the puppet, both of which don’t solve anything... its all in all not a fun time but it teaches him some really important lessons about humility and about how small he really is in the world

its not a narratively complex or serious story and it can be cliché or even nonsensical at times, but i have a lot of fun with the characters, and im entertained by the idea of morphing a fun and shallow fantasy shindig into something frightening and slightly depressing over time

(also this ask reminded me to go back and add zmeu to the colony tag, thank you!) 

[virginiathegray]

the lovers and death for the rook asks!

AH! Tysm for the ask :) The Lovers: Who is your Rook's most significant relationship within the Veilguard? How do they help Rook feel seen and understood?

My (most recent) Rook is a spirit of Change who discovered an abandoned elven baby in the lower levels of the Necropolis and somewhat accidentally took on its form (Cole you will always be famous). She doesn't remember ever being a spirit, but she has still always had a connection to the Fade and spirits despite having no inherent magic.

That said, she is closest to Emmrich. His wonder and love for the Fade is something she echoes, and his compassion for spirits + eagerness to test the limits on what a spirit can be in this world feels healing for her in a way she can't quite describe.

She does also feel close with Manfred, Spite, and Solas, for opposite reasons. Spite and Manfred feel familiar to her somehow, and she's compelled to guide them through his new world, though she has no idea why she's qualified to do so. Solas on the other hand, is so very old, and a part of her (the part that was once a spirit of Disruption who died and fractured during the fight against the Evanuris) still respects him and looks to him for guidance even when she knows she can't fully trust him.

Death: What part of Rook do they need to kill to become the best version of themselves?

As Change, evolution was the only goal for my Rook. Letting the past die and forging a new future. Even now, without her memories of being a spirit and having lived for some time in the waking world, she carries that proclivity for change within her in ways that get her in trouble and can make her blind to the benefits of remembering/honoring the past. It's definitely made it tough growing up in the Necropolis, a place where the dead continue to have a say beyond the grave.

Part of her journey in Veilguard is realizing that change has to be purposeful and informed by the lessons of the past, and that sometimes change is as simple as the laying of a single new brick on a foundation built long ago. She has to shed the aspects of change that brew chaos so that she can be an agent of real, lasting change for the benefit of her friends and allies.

thanks so much again for the ask!

from this post

[azacat-alias-lost]

Okay so artblock is being a bitch rn but i just had a BRAINBLAST of a crossover au idea

@sinisterspoon you're gonna lose your shit about this

So picture this. The TF2 Red mercs are getting back from yet another fight with Blu, and yknow its the typical banter n stuff. Then, out of NOWHERE, two people crash through their ceiling. One is a large, freckled man with whitening hair and a horribly stained blue sweater, knocked out cold. The other is a thin, dark-skinned man with salt and pepper hair and oh my god thats a lot of eyes. Holy shit. And they're all open. Dazed, unconscious, but open. He also has a stab wound that is healing unnaturally fast.

Medic is like "Well we should probably make sure they don't die" And so he does. He takes them into his clinic and is going to heal them, and maayyybe do a few experiments along the way. But before he can even make the first incision (he chose the smaller guy), the man's hand shoots up and grabs his wrist. In a voice tinged with the static of a tape recorder, he whispers..

"Where am I? I Know for a fact this isn't London"

Eventually, they both wake up, recover, etc. The Mercs are very intrigued as to where they came from, y'know with falling out of the sky and all. As they hang around each other more, it becomes exceedingly clear that they are Not Human. Fog, Knowing, the way the cameras move to watch them... Heavy is the first to point it out, and Engie is the first to confront them directly.

The Magnus Institute, London. The Fears. The Apocalypse.

Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood are sitting at the table with 9 unrealized avatars of the Slaughter.

What do they do? Well naturally, they ask the two to help in the Gravel Wars. They give them gear, test their abilities, and train them in combat. They connect them to the respawn machine, and familiarize them with the proceedings. The first (and only) time Medic tries to experiment on Jon, he nearly bites his arm off. Yeah, the end of the world kinda made him feral.

And so two new Mercs are created.

JONATHAN SIMS: THE INTEL - The Intel can certainly fight, although their damage is very weak. Mostly specializing in overseeing the battlefield, they give information and locations to members of their team. They have a spot on the map that they can go to view cameras, picking off Spies and warning of Snipers and Engineer's turrets. In this zone, they cannot be harmed, but no one else is able to get in range to be harmed by them. They also have the ability, (once per game) to pick one person on the enemy team and just absolutely obliterate them. Smite them, if you will.

MARTIN BLACKWOOD: THE WISP - A master of stealth, the Wisp has the ability to float around the battlefield like a cloud of mist. Just barely visible, they can hide in almost any place. The moment they materialize to fight, however, they become vulnerable. Extremely vulnerable. Their damage hits like a tank, but their defense is very poor. After materializing, they have a cooldown before they can turn to mist again. Their weapon of choice is a damage-heavy knife, much sturdier and more jagged than Spy's switchblade.

This is NOT what they thought their Somewhere Else would be like. But hell, it beats being stuck at the Supernatural Horror Collecting Factory.

"Where you go, I go."

"Always."

Anyway, please let me know what you think!! This has been rotating in my mind for a little bit and might be the best crossover I've ever come up with

[moonlightsturns]

Starclines vs Sturniolo's: Boston

The challenge was issued, and the Starclines were ready. Two weeks after their Florida showdown, the Starclines landed in Boston, greeted by frigid air and the Sturniolos waiting with Dunkin’ iced coffees in hand.

“This weather is disgusting,” Caïa said, pulling her jacket tighter.

Nick smirked. “Welcome to Boston.”

Maïa grabbed her coffee, giving Nick a side-eye. “You’re lucky this is good, or we’d leave.”

“Let’s see if you can survive a Boston winter,” Chris joked, already plotting how to throw Caïa into a snowbank.

Challenge 1: Snow Day Shenanigans

First on the agenda was a snowball fight at a nearby park. The rules? Simple: no mercy.

Naïa quickly teamed up with Matt, their precise aim making them an unstoppable duo. Meanwhile, Chris and Caïa launched sneak attacks, pelting snowballs from behind trees.

“I’m calling it now,” Nick shouted, dodging an icy projectile. “This is a draw.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Maïa yelled, landing a perfect shot to Chris’s back.

By the end, everyone was soaked and freezing, with Naïa and Matt declared the unofficial winners.

Challenge 2: Boston Trivia

The triplets headed indoors for a trivia challenge hosted by Nick. The topic? Boston.

“What’s the most popular tourist attraction in Boston?” Nick asked.

“Fenway Park!” Chris blurted out.

“No, it’s the Freedom Trail,” Maïa corrected smugly.

“Who’s hosting this quiz?” Nick retorted, shaking his head.

By the end of the round, Maïa and Matt dominated, leaving Caïa and Chris to sulk.

“Fine,” Chris said. “But I bet none of you can survive our next challenge.”

Challenge 3: Boston Street Food Taste Test

The Sturniolos brought the Starclines to a food truck festival, where the goal was to try as many local dishes as possible, clam chowder, lobster rolls, and more.

“This chowder is actually amazing,” Naïa admitted.

“Better than Florida food?” Matt teased.

“Don’t push it,” Caïa said through a mouthful of lobster roll.

As the day went on, it became clear that the Starclines weren’t built for Boston portions.

“I can’t eat another bite,” Maïa groaned, clutching her stomach.

“You’re weak,” Chris said, polishing off a third lobster roll.

Challenge 4: Escape Room Rivalry

The grand finale of the trip was an escape room challenge. Split into teams, Naïa, Caïa, and Nick versus Maïa, Chris, and Matt, they had one hour to solve puzzles and break out.

Team Naïa quickly established their strategy: let Caïa run wild and hope for the best.

Meanwhile, Team Maïa was a well-oiled machine, with Maïa leading the charge.

“We’re never going to hear the end of this if they win,” Nick muttered as the clock ticked down.

With five minutes to spare, Team Maïa emerged victorious, leaving the other group locked inside.

Reflection and Rivalry

That night, the triplets sat in the Sturniolos’ basement, laughing over the week’s events.

“You guys are good competition,” Nick admitted, sipping another iced coffee.

“Good?” Naïa said, raising an eyebrow. “Try better.”

Chris grinned at Caïa. “I’ll admit, you’re not bad for Floridians.”

“Keep talking, Chris,” Caïa shot back. “Next time, you’re going down.”

The Fans React

The Boston collab videos quickly racked up millions of views. Fans loved the snowball fight, cheered during the escape room showdown, and couldn’t get enough of the chaotic food taste test.

“This is the best series on YouTube right now!” one comment read.

“We need them to do a world tour of chaos!”

What’s Next?

As the Starclines boarded their flight back to Florida, Maïa leaned back in her seat. “You know, we should invite them to France next.”

Caïa grinned. “Oh, we’d destroy them in a French escape room.”

Naïa smirked. “Let’s start planning.”

Meanwhile, back in Boston, Chris was already brainstorming his next prank. “How do you say ‘revenge’ in French?”

Nick sighed. “This is never going to end, is it?”

“Not a chance,” Matt replied, smiling.

To be continued…

@sturniololuv08

[gloriousxdarkness]

"Right." Because that makes all the sense in the world. Elektra has a feeling it's the real answer, though. One would have to be predisposed to unnatural things to connect the dots without a single hesitation or doubt, and while Elektra has deep knowledge of serious occult beliefs, it's a different matter to watch a man turn to dust because of a wooden pole through his chest, firsthand.

She lowers the handle and withdraws a nice handkerchief from her purse, offering it to Faith for her smudged makeup. "Here." Elektra steps to the side a moment as if to allow the fixing, then abruptly whips the improvised stave in a down strike toward the bend in Faith's elbow. To her, the arc over her own head that precedes the otherwise quick strike makes it obvious. To her, it's a playful attack, along with the force of it gauged as merely bruising. Someone very prudent might ask certain questions — did Faith work for someone? where had she learned to fight? and how long had she been doing it? — but it's not Elektra's priority now, if ever. Someone mildly prudent might press on with their evening plans of crashing and climbing. But an insistent itch in her demands to test this, in this way. To balance the scales between them. To taste some pain, after so long stifled in cushions. She skips back a pace, light on her feet. "I thought you were a bartender," she comments, a seemingly casual observation undermined by charged volts of excitement in her smile.

When Elektra (who the hell names their baby something like that?) said she 'knew', Faith assumed she 'knew'. Only, the longer Elektra talks, the more Faith wonders exactly what she thinks is going on here. Clearly she doesn't know know. Knows something's up but maybe not quite what that something is. This is an opportunity. She could forget to mention the existence of vampires, forget about her calling. She could suggest Elektra's eyes are playing tricks on her, that the man actually escaped down the dark alley -- no one had fangs, no one turned to dust.

Except, the way Elektra's examining the make-shift stake… asking the right questions. Faith gets the idea that if she lies about it, it's just going to make Natchios want to know what's going on that much more. Her eyes narrow but it's barely noticeable, and she decides to do the stupidest thing she can think of. "It's wood. It worked because it's wood."