#but being so long in hell he gets covered in soot so when he goes back into the world everyone thinks he’s a devil and is afraid of him

[rabbits-of-negative-euphoria]

out of context czech folktales

“As [Hynek] was sleeping, a black man came to him. He would not leave him to sleep, but waked him up. Hynek was frightened. But he told him there was no need to be afraid. He was a good man, though his skin was black. So Hynek stayed with him for seven years and learnt the seven languages, zither playing, and all that sort of thing.”

[spatialwave]

Jayce Talis as a Husband & Father | Headcanons

➸ ask: "hiii i was wondering if you could do post s2 arcane headcanons for Jayce?? like jayce x wife!reader that have a newborn baby??" ➸ pairing: jayce talis x wife!reader ➸ word count: 923 words ➸ tags: mdni! sfw, fluff, comfort, mentions of jayce’s trauma, pregnancy, headcanons, childbirth, parenthood, canon-divergent ending. ➸ notes: i went really poetic with this idk why. also this definitely heightened my already terrible baby fever……. please for the love of god send me more asks about girldad jayce, i am begging you. i love writing these.

When you met Jayce Talis, you fell madly in love with him almost instantly—as did he with you. Within the first six months of your relationship, he proposed to you with a ring that he’d smithed himself, adorned with a hextech gemstone that sparkled unlike anything you’d ever seen. Of course, you said yes… and moved in within that same week.

Living with Jayce Talis meant dealing with the aftershocks of what he’d gone through during his time in the arcane and subsequent war. With a permanently injured leg and mental wounds that left him cursed by night terrors, you were they by his side to help him overcome his past. You were the rock he hadn’t known he needed, the one who encouraged him to keep fixing what he’d broken (and not without his partner, Viktor.)

Although he’d gone through hell and back, he found joy and happiness in you again. No longer was he filled with anger and guilt for allowing his naivety to take control of what was right—all Jayce wanted was to be happy. With you. 

When you found out you were pregnant, Jayce was over the moon, excited and horribly nervous. He constantly worried whether or not he’d be a good father, and the absence of his own in his life made him uncertain. He would spend countless evenings with his mother, asking her hundreds of questions about parenthood, which either made it better or worse depending on what he wanted to know.

However, the worry washed away when he held his little girl in his arms—weighing shy of six pounds and so tiny in his arms. It was a beautiful sight, a rugged man with messy hair, scarred arms, and calloused hands holding the love of his life.

Your daughter brings out a side of Jayce that Viktor told you is reminiscent of his life when they first met all those years ago: gentle, curious, nervous and much too excited. 

Jayce is messy and clumsy in his parenting, learning as he goes, but he is so dedicated. He’s used to being covered in stains but no longer in oil and soot from his work. Now it’s spit-up and dried milk… among other things. And to you, he’s never looked sexier than when he’s a mess.

Even though he’s still a councillor and working with Viktor on restabilizing hextech, he makes time for his family. The days of late-night tinkering in the lab or long council meetings are in the past because there is nothing more important to him than you two.

He is a very overprotective dad, constantly worrying about the little things and often getting sleepless nights because he checks on her one too many times to make sure sleeping soundly in her crib. He baby-proofs your home with everything he can make—doorstops, locks for the cabinets and removing any of his work from his home to the lab so there are no accidents. It’s cute, but considering that your daughter is shy of two months old, the baby-proofing tends to get in the way, but you let him. ‘Father knows best’ is a term he coins and uses, much to your annoyance.

Jayce always splits the tasks of parenting between you two but is never opposed to taking on more than you if you need the rest. As you slowly transition to include bottle feeding in your routine, he takes on nightly shifts for you. You find him asleep a few times, sitting up against the crib with a blanket covered in spit-up draped over his shoulder and an empty bottle in his hand.

He is a sentimental man. He makes a locket that he wears as a necklace every day, tucked beneath his clothing, and shows it off to anyone that he can—a photo of you and your daughter inside it.

You swear you’ve never been more in love with Jayce than you are now. A loving father and husband who doesn’t let his new role as a parent overshadow his love for you.

He’s just as romantic as he was the first time he took you on a date. A month after you gave birth and were far too stir-crazy to be at home any longer, Ximena watched your daughter, and he took you out on a date that reminded you of simpler times. Showering you with gentle touches and kisses that set your heart on fire and reignited your passion.

Jayce noticed how your confidence dropped since the pregnancy. He finds you looking at yourself in the mirror and trying to love the body that grew your daughter, hands over your still-rounded stomach and tracing the stretchmarks. Changes that look so large in your eyes go unnoticed by him, and he makes sure to cherish your body as a reminder that his love for you hasn’t changed.

Every night in bed, he kisses your stomach, your hips, your thighs—peppering your body with kisses and massaging you as he worships your strength and beauty, silently thanking you for bringing your daughter into the world. 

As with any relationship, there are good days and bad. Some days go so smoothly that you wonder if you both were naturally inclined to be the perfect parents. Then come the days when all you can do is argue, overcome with the stress, fears and worries of marriage and parenthood.

But you make it through because to be loved by Jayce Talis is to feel love unlike anything you have experienced before, and that is worth the hardships.

[givemea-dam-break]

fic idea: George x Reader where Georgie has been so overworked recently and goes out on a case with Lockwood & Lucy so while they’re out reader cleans up the house as much as possible and does chores and bakes cookies to show appreciation for everything George does for the house <3

a/n: AHHHHH this is so cute yes!!! once again, this isn't overly long, mostly because i'm still working myself out of a writing slump, but i hope you enjoy!

warnings: none words: 965 taglist: @neewtmas @locklylemybeloved @aayeroace @gotlostinfiction @waitingforthesunrise @mirrorballdickinson @mischiefmanaged71 @magicandmaybe @wellgoslowly gn reader

For You - George Karim

By no means are you a good cook when it comes to dinnertime at thirty-five Portland Row, but you’re a hell of a good baker.

The smell of freshly baked cookies is still strong when you hear George trudge through the front door with his trademark huffs and scuffling footsteps. You’re still plating them up when he finds his way into the kitchen, covered in what looks like soot and ectoplasm burns on his thick jacket. You have to ignore the way his hair falls over his forehead in such an endearing way to be able to function.

“What happened to you?” you ask with a laugh.

“The ghost’s source was in the house’s very old, very dirty chimney,” he grumbles, tearing his jacket off. “Typical, huh? What’s that you’ve made? Smells good.”

With a grin, you turn and show him the plate of cookies. “For you,” you say. “Well, for Lockwood and Lucy, too, but if they’re all gone by the time those two get back then they don’t need to know.”

There’s a moment where George is silent, looking at the cookies as if they hold some otherworldly secrets, but then he wipes his glasses on his shirt and glances around the room. Apparently, he notices the lack of dirty dishes, rings made from mugs and glasses on the counter, and the absence of a perpetual burnt toast smell, because he nods in appreciation.

“You’ve cleaned up, too. Is that why you didn’t want to go on any cases tonight?”

“Surprise?” You place the cookies down on the table and wiggle your hands dramatically, which earns of huff of a laugh in return. “There was so much that needed done, so I thought I’d get it sorted. Especially since you’ve been working yourself so hard.”

“I haven’t been –“

“Georgie,” you say, “yes, you have. You’re out of the house by nine most mornings now to get down to the Archives, and you’re not back until right before dinner. And, believe me, I appreciate all of the work you’re doing, but I can’t take much more of Lockwood’s spag-bol. Either way, just wanted to show you that I’m grateful for you.”

Already, you can feel your face growing a little warm. What kind of friend cleans a whole house and bakes cookies just to say thank you? A good one, maybe. Or maybe not. You’re not entirely sure what constitutes as being a friend or what is more at this point.

“I washed your dirty clothes, too. They’re on your bed along with some of those pens you lost a few weeks ago. I found them stuffed between the cushions of the sofa. Oh, and –“

His hand reaches forward slightly, and your words come to a stop.

“Am I rambling?”

There’s a little shadow of a smile on his lips. “Yeah.”

And then his hand is on your face, fingers brushing your cheek so softly they almost feel like feathers. Your heart ceases all functions, and your breath stops short. He’s looking at you so tenderly that you fear you might implode.

When his fingers pull away, there’s a faint white dusting along the tips. “You had flour on your face.”

Immediately, your hand reaches up to your cheek to brush away any remaining flour, and George laughs, reaching over again to get the last little bit. Can he feel how hot your skin is right now? You’re not entirely sure of whether it’s from embarrassment or the fact that George Karim has just touched you so nonchalantly without knowing how much it sends your heart racing.

“Thank you,” he says, dusting his hand off. He shuffles back a small step. “You really didn’t have to. Especially not at two in the morning.”

You shrug to try and seem indifferent, but it comes off a little more clunky than you had intended. You are pretty tired, to be fair. “No fuss. I got bored. Besides, I had this recipe sitting around and I know it’s one of your favourites.”

There’s a faint glimmer in his eyes then. “You do?”

“Of course, I do. You told me ages ago, and it’s not something I would forget.”

He gives you a very George smile then – one that looks outwardly quite awkward, but you know is genuinely happy from the way his eyes crinkle ever so slightly. It makes your heart soar and your head feel a little light.

“You know you’re the best right?” he says as he plucks a biscuit off the plate. “Lockwood might pay my wage, but you’re an angel.”

The words take you by shock, mostly because it’s something you never would’ve expected him to say. Usually, he’s far too awkward to compliment you beyond telling you that you’ve done a good job on something or that the jumper you’ve chosen to wear that day is a particularly nice colour, so to hear You’re an angel leave his lips feels like some kind of fever dream.

Are you dreaming? Surely you are. There’s no way that any of this has happened.

But there he is, just a foot or two away, smiling in that unique and entirely enchanting way of his as he breaks his biscuit into small chunks to eat it. There he is, trying to decide whether or not he should keep looking at you or stare down at his shoes with ears that look curiously pink.

“How quickly do you reckon we could eat these before Lucy and Lockwood get back?” you ask.

George’s smile becomes a little bigger. “If we try hard enough, ten minutes.”

He hands a chunk he broke off, and you swear his fingers linger for a little too long to be considered friendly. It makes you grin as you take it.

“Bet.”

[batwritings]

hi! Can I be 🌗 anon?

Also, I have a request if that’s okay!!

_______________________________________________

it’s a c!dream x reader taking place during the lmanburg vs dream team war

so ya know how dream like owns the server? Well, the reader and dream are a married couple and are also king and queen/king ofthe smp lands. One day while the reader is sleeping, Wilbur and Tommy come and kidnap them, take them hostage and use them to get certain things from dream, such as Tommy’s discs back and maybe independence for lmanburg

sorry if that’s too much to ask for, also if you don’t want to do that, it’s totally fine I’ve just been thinking about that lately 👀

Ooh, that sounds interesting! Not too much at all!! Enjoy~!

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Everything happened around you so fast, it was almost like you were still dreaming. You’d fallen asleep waiting for Dream to return for the evening when you felt two sets of hands grabbing you. Before you could even think to scream, a gag was put in your mouth and your head was covered.

“Come on Tommy, we have to hurry,” you heard a hushed voice say.

“Then let’s go!” Came another, and you were being moved. You tried to wiggle, thrash your way away from your captors. Alas, their grip was strong and you couldn’t escape, waiting it out until you were unceremoniously dropped to the ground.

The bag was removed from your head, revealing the faces of the resistance. L’Manburg’s finest, Wilbur Soot and Tommyinnit. “What the absolute hell is happening here?!” You screeched.

“Sorry your highness,” Wilbur said with a satisfied smirk. “But if L’Manburg wants it’s independence--”

“AND MY DISCS BACK!” Tommy shouts.

“...And Tommy’s discs,” Wilbur continues with an annoyed expression that is quickly wiped away. “We need a bit of a bargaining chip.”

You glowered at the taller man as the sun starts rising over the horizon. Today would’ve been the day you and Dream, husband and wife, king and queen, conquered L’Manburg, burnt it to the ground. Yet here you sat, still in your pajamas, waiting for when you would be rescued.

As the dawn sun pours across the land, it doesn’t take you long to see Dream in the distance. George and Sapnap are trailing close behind him, George looking a bit steamed which was rare in and of itself and Sapnap with a look of quiet rage which could only mean the worst. A quiet thought in the back of your head wondered if you could find a fire res potion lying around. 

“So,” Dream starts, standing before Wilbur with his entourage not far behind. “You think stealing my wife, the fucking queen, is gonna get you what you want?”

A knife appears at your neck then, making you flinch. Dream’s hand tighten around his axe, but otherwise he does not react. “All’s fair in love and war Dream,” Wilbur says, ever the poet. “Give us our freedom--”

“AND MY DISCS!”

“--and we’ll let her go unharmed.”

You watch Dream carefully, his jaw setting and unsetting behind his mask. “So you chose war then,” he says, almost too quiet to be heard. In a blur of motion you’re lifted off the ground, shouting starts to happen as TNT goes off in the background. Dream has you in his arms booking it to the outskirts of town.

Only once he has you far enough away does he put you back down. “Get home, get dressed, and get ready for a fight,” he tells you. You nod, fully ready to run off before he grips your wrist, pulling you back. His lips come in contact with yours harshly for mere seconds. “And try not to get caught again?”

You chuckle softly at your king and wink. “Maybe if you came to bed with me at a decent hour we wouldn’t have this problem.”

[anonymous-dentist]

do u have any fic recs? im so starving

Yep! Fair warning, though, most of (if not all of) these are gonna be karlnapity because I'm one of the few that goes through the tag on a regular basis.

Under the read more for length's sake.

¿tu idioma o el mío? (your language or mine?) Basically, Quackity realizes that neither Karl nor Sapnap speak Spanish and realizes, wow, he can tease them all he wants and they won't know a thing. But, whoops, maybe his joke proposals aren't jokes after all. I really like this one! Idk why. I have a soft spot for fluff for fluff's sake. Let's Just Call It Commonlaw Karl, Sapnap, and Quackity are three very drunk roommates who accidentally get married through a commonlaw marriage and forget about it entirely. Only problem when they find out it's legit is that Karl is in love with his roommates, and that Sapnap and Quackity aren't in love with him. Right? Anyway, this one's written by my number one fan and I'm this fic's number one fan. The legal aspects might not be all there, but I'm a historian, not a lawyer. It's sweet and cute. Enough said. Oh, Sinners Come Down Wilbur-centric. After the Antarctic Empire conquered the existing empire, the homeless population is in shambles, including one Wilbur Soot and his house full of tiny nuisances. And then some asshole named Technoblade shows up and says that the Empire is going to build a homeless shelter. Again, idk why I like this one so much, especially considering my distaste for c!sbi, but it honestly comes off as more of a semi-dsmp semi-smp earth type of deal. When The Sunlight Dies Runaway Prince George and his emotionally-devastated knight, Sapnap, are on their way out of the kingdom when they run into local shmucks, Karl and Quackity. Add in the weird god dude doing the worst job at trying to 'force' George through a corruption arc, and it's a legit good time. Look, I may dislike this fic personally, but this is an objective list. There's a reason everyone and their mother recommends this one. It's just good. Just ignore the random bits of infodumping, but that's all in the second half of the fic. (Note: I do not recommend the very unneeded and overly-long final chapter or the sequel fic. At all. Save yourself the trouble and go outside instead.) tuck me in your covers, bring the colour back into my face Quackity definitely is absolutely alright. Don't even worry about him. Except he is kinda super traumatized and really doesn't wanna think about that. This is another one that's usually recommended, and I think it's pretty unique in that, unlike a lot of other fics in the 'genre', this fic doesn't present Quackity's PTSD as a weakness. I Out of the Woods Three idiots on one couch what problems can happen??? Gasp, a romcom!? Anyway, Karlnap are an established couple, and Quackity shows up and confuses both of them by being the most attractive man in the universe. Idk, I don't normally like college fics, but this one was nice. It's simple. Chill as hell. We Must Have Good Pitch, ‘Cause Baby, You and Me are So In Tune! Band au with bonus dnf. Look, everything Quid touches is just. It's good! I don't even like band aus! Geodes in the Gravel Immortal biographer and immortal shapeshifter menace decide to try and court freshly-immortal former vampire hunter-turned-vampire. Awkwardness and sweetness ensues. Technically this is part of a series by an author I don't really like, but it's perfectly readable on its own. Bad Blood Bad invites Karl and Quackity over to talk about their relationship with Sapnap. It's cute, and it's mostly just our two idiots having crisis after crisis during this conversation as Bad sits there pleasantly having a very good time. It's Not Like You Ever Tried To Stay Sapnap went to the Red Banquet. I think they should hug :( A Leap of Faith Tommy goes to Quackity to learn how to fly, and Quackity is the best big brother material anyone could ask for. Look, Q is better big brother than Wil could ever be. Enough said.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Mind The Gap: One

Summary: In an age of Heroes, there's always one more Villain. Can Shang- Chi handle his girlfriend needing to walk a Hero's Journey of her own? And how will he handle the two of you not being the only "people" in your relationship?

“Where are you?”

“I’m safe- well. Relatively speaking.”

“Y/N-” He tightened his grip on the phone like it was a life line. Like if he clung on hard enough, he could find you somehow.

“I promise to explain it all when I get back,” you say slowly, in what you hope is a relaxed tone of voice. It’s a little had to do with a desert Eagle pointed directly at your nose but for Shang-Chi, to keep him out of this you’d try.

“Please,” he whispered. He could hear the difference in your tone. It wasn’t your usual easy going voice. The one that filled him with a sense of calm. There was a sharpness. And under current he’d only heard once before. And it made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

“Tell Katy I’m sorry I have to miss Karaoke night,” you try, hoping to break his concentration. “I have to go, I love you.”

And before he can get anything else out, the line goes dead. The line goes dead and he can feel a hollow ache in his chest. One that tells him you’re in trouble. Big trouble. And without being able to keep you on the phone, there’s no telling where you went.

“She’s smart,” Xialing said frowning. “Either she’s done this before or she was warned. But we couldn’t get a fix on her.”

“She’s an archive,” Shang Chi said, trying not to sound bitter, “Smart is an understatement.” He folded his arms and looked over Xailing’s shoulder frowning. There had to be a pattern. Something had to make sense. You were a creature of habit. Very particular habits. When you ate and when you slept was a strict schedule. And on the run you’d be trying to hold on to something… Unless that was all part of your cover, too.

“What happens if-”

Shang- Chi felt his head jerk up and his eyes narrow, making Katy flinch reflexively, “If we can’t find her?” he finished.

Katy nodded hesitantly and he exhaled slowly trying to rein in his temper, “I don’t know, but it can’t be good.”

____

You toss your phone away carelessly and listen to the sound of a heavy boot crushing it under heel and scattering the pieces. But still, you don’t look away from the man pointing a gun at you.

“Not bad for a librarian… A little on the nose don’t you think?” he scoffed.

You force yourself into a nonchalant shrug and smile a little, “The best place to hide is in plain sight. At least some of the time.”

And that’s the last thing you managed to get out before that Desert Eagle cracked across the side of your face, sending you into the dark once more.

________

Wenwu watched his son pace, trying to stem the tide of panic. Your phone had gone from ringing out to nothing. Straight to voice mail.

“You got me, leave a message. Or don’t. Whatever.”

“Does she have enemies?”

Shang-Chi exhaled slowly and took a deep breath, “None. At least none that I know about. She avoided the snap but… There’s a bit of time before she wound up in the City she doesn’t really talk about.”

“So she could have enemies?”

He stopped and carded his fingers through his hair, “If not enemies because of who she is then… maybe because of what she is.”

“What she is?”

Shang Chi nodded reluctantly. He wasn’t even sure he completely understood. He only knew that your brother had warned him. Told him that there were things you could do that were… rare. That might attract attention. And he wasn’t sure if he could share that information. Even if it might bring you home. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. For all he knew you could be dying. You could be dead and it could already be too late. But if there was a chance… No matter how small, he could take your anger. He could take you never speaking to him again. As long as he knew you were alive.

She’s an- an Archive,” he said slowly. “At least. That’s what the world knows them as now, I guess.”

He watched in apprehension as he saw his Father’s eyes widen in understanding and it was clear that he’d met, or at least heard of the Archives before.

“What does she hold?” he asked, seriously.

“Secrets. Things that are hidden.”

Even as Shang-Chi heard himself say the words, he knew he didn’t understand, not really. That had been what your Brother had told him. Quickly. Quietly. While you were distracted with a tea kettle and getting out the mugs. And even his most intense searches could turn up no information.

“Secrets?” Wenwu repeated, “Such as?”

And all Shang-Chi could do was shrug. He’d seen you at work. Your fingers brushing the spines of books. Tenderly. Almost lovingly. And he’d thought that it was cute. That it was an extension of your curiosity. A love of knowing. He thought of the way you’d told him once that Libraries were where you felt at home. Where you felt safe. He thought of the evenings when he came to walk you home. The serenity in the security lights. The way you smiled at him. And his chest throbbed. The secrets you knew probably didn’t include any martial arts.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, leaning heavily against the table, hanging his head. “The only information I have came second hand from her brother. And even then, he only told me that she isn’t human. At least not all human.”

He didn’t like to think about it. And he didn’t like to think about the distance he tried to put between you when he found out. Or how that distance had lead him here. The reaction that had made you avoid coming to him for help. He felt the hand on the back of his neck. But it didn’t register. Not really. In the back of his head, he could hear you. A casual fact. Things about Aliester Crowley. Or Agrippa. Or the Knights Templar.

You’d always written off questions about it as being a weird kid. Or by reminding people that you had a doctorate in Anthropology. But it wasn’t… It never felt like that. It felt like you had just… said it.

Shang Chi didn’t need to be looking at his father to know he was frowning. Thinking. “If we can’t get to her, I need to try to call her brother.”

“What is her brother?”

“An engineer,” Shang Chi said smiling a little. And a former Marine. But he was going to keep that to himself. He had a hunch that your best chance wasn’t going to involve his Father going on a recruiting mission simultaneously.

Wenwu’s frown deepened but he nodded as he watched his son pull a card from his wallet and dial the number.

“Kai-”

“We have a problem,” Shang Chi said quickly, “Y/N is missing.”

“Missing missing or went camping for a couple days?”

“Missing, Missing,” he clarified, “I got a phone call an hour ago and she hung up before we could trace it.”

“Let me call you back-”

And the line went dead before he could say more. “Shit,” he hissed. He wasn’t sure what Pandora’s box had been opened with that phone call. And he hated bumbling around in the dark. He hated not knowing if you were safe. If you were hurt.

“He said he’d call back,” Katy said helpfully, “Maybe he’s calling family.”

“I don’t know if there’s any family to call,” he said pinching the bridge of his nose. He could kick himself for not pressing you for answers. He hadn’t because he’d not been prepared to give you any. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to drag you into his life but. It was looking more and more like he might not have any choice.

When the phone in his hand rang he almost dropped it and had to fumble with it for a second before he could answer, “Kai-”

“I’m assuming you aren’t alone,” the other man said shortly, “I’ll text you the coordinates. Get there as quickly as you can. I’m not sure if we’re going to extract her or clean up the mess. Those idiots have a tiger by the tail and they don’t even know it.”

The call ended and all Shang-Chi could do was stare at the phone for a second, “What the fu-”

“Y/N,” Katy demanded, “Our Y/N? The dirty chai loving, vintage wearing Y/N that cried for 30 minutes at the end of the brave little toaster?”

“Evidently-” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Does anyone else here have a secret badass origin story?” she yelped, “What the hell?”

_________

The coordinates were, So far as anyone could tell, in the middle of nothing. A waste land of tall grass and trails left by herds of cattle in Montana.

But, even without asking he knew he was in the right place. There was a palpable sense of… mayhem in the air. Like the feeling before a nasty storm. Rising anxiety and energy crackling on the wind. Everyone was affected and everyone was quiet.

It wasn’t until they got closer that Shang-Chi and Katy could pick Kai out of the small knot of people. And it was something of a comfort that he looked relaxed. Or at least unconcerned.

“Hey,” Kai said taking a slow drag off his cigarette and exhaling a cloud of smoke towards the sky. He didn’t seem the least Perturbed that Shang-Chi hadn’t come alone. Or that they were all dressed for a fight.

“What-”

“We’re waiting,” Kai said shrugging. “She’s got to take the vortex apart. Then we mop up whatever comes out of it.”

Almost on cue, a Motor Cycle comes roaring over the flat ground as an explosion rattled the ground beneath their feet. “2 hell hounds and at least a baker's dozen in demons, grades 4 to 2.” The words sound like they're coming from you but. You don’t look like you. Skin coated in soot and eyes shining like silver in moonlight. It makes Shang-chi want to shake you.

“Y/N-” He starts, but when you look at him, he doesn’t know what to say. Or where to start.

“You’ll know what it is when you see it,” you say, spitting a mouthful of blood into the grass. “Take it down quickly. Headshots. If it doesn’t go down run for me. Demons don’t play. And, I make better bait. The rest of you are kinda like designer purses. Nice to have but ultimately disposable.”

“Is the vortex closed?” Kai asked grinding the cigarette out with his heel.

“With half the Golden Dagger on the other side of it. Everyone else scattered before I could get anything else for Lea.”

And then there wasn’t time for you to answer anything else. As the small hoard surged into the open field, Kai almost lazily tossed you the other sword he’d had strapped across his back and it was all a blur.

You were a blur. Almost preternaturally fast as you dismembered the bodies that hurtled towards you. It wasn’t until the last demon crackled on the fire that you crumpled like paper, sagging heavily against Shang-Chi who had made his way to your side.

“Shi-” he caught you, if only just. The dead weight taking him by surprise. And the warmth of the blood running over his hands. He could only gasp before the rest of Kai’s team descended like a plague of helpful locusts, loading you quickly onto the nearest stretcher and starting to try and repair the damage.

“I wonder how long she was out,” Kai mused, lighting another cigarette. “Or if she remembers anything. She doesn’t always.”

Shang- Chi opened his mouth to ask, wiping blood off his lip with the back of his hand, but Kai only shook his head. “She told you she’d explain. Let her do it.”

“Will she be okay?” He heard himself ask, but as he watched you loaded into a helicopter, nothing felt real. He’d just watched you dismember a demon. You’d looked at him… But hadn’t seen him. You didn’t look at him like you even knew who he was.

“She will,” Kai answered, looking at him sympathetically. “It takes time… but. The Archive has a vested interest in keeping her alive.”

____________

“Hey.”

“You look like hell.”

“Gee thanks,” you sigh, wincing as you try and sit up straighter. “You should see the other guy.”

“I did,” he said. And he can’t stop the frown when he looks down at your hands. They’re clean now. No trace of the black blood you’d been coated in. You looked like you. Your eyes were the same color that they’d always been.

“I’m sorry that I lied,” you tell him. “That I didn’t come clean when you came back from Ta-lo with Katy. I just… I guess I was still holding out hope that I could be normal.” You look away from him, taking a deep breath. “Becoming an Archive… I always hoped it wouldn’t be me. And then it was. And it was… it was a blessing and a curse.”

“You weren’t born an Archive?”

You shake your head and exhale slowly, “I was born a witch. If Lea and my grandmother can be believed, the most powerful witch born into this family in 400 years. I became An Archive when I was 12.” You swallow hard and take the hand that reaches for yours. “It- I remember the pain. I don’t remember much from before. I remember smoke and screaming. And I remember… I remember hunters and- and- when I woke up I was here.”

Shang-Chi squeezed your hand and reached up to touch your cheek, wiping away tears with his thumb. He’d been ready to be angry. He’d been hurt. But now all he wanted was to pull you closer. “The scars on your back-”

“I’ve been told it’s best that I don’t know,” you murmur. “Lea- She knows but.” You stop and take another deep breath.

For a moment, there is silence. It stretches out around the two of you while Shang-Chi digests those pieces of information and you try to try to put together a coherent explanation. Beyond the door, you can hear voices mingling in the kitchen. Katy. Kai. Lea. Wenwu. Xialing. Cousins. Your Grandmother. Both familiar and strange.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Shang- Chi asked quietly.

“Calling you… I know I told you I’d explain I just- I don’t know how.”

Shang-Chi smiles a little, “It’s probably harder given there’s a lot you don’t remember.”

“A little,” you murmur. “Sometimes, the Archive condescends to tell me what they’ve been doing with my body but other times? It feels a little like waking up from closing down the Karaoke bar.”

“How much time are you missing now?”

“A day. Maybe two. I’m not sure.”

“What’s the longest time span you don’t remember?”

“Close to a year,” you sigh. “If my physical body is in danger, The Archive will take the driver’s seat until the danger has passed OR It’s deemed that I can handle it on my own… Now that I’m older and I’ve grown into the powers I was given I spend a lot more time driving.”

“Even when you’re with me?”

“The Archive seems to think it can trust you. Though if it’s just with my physical body or with the things we know I’m not sure. Sometimes it views those things as one and the same.”

“Do you- I mean. When we’re alone?”

“You mean when we’re having sex?” The blush that blooms over his cheeks makes you smile a little. “I mean. The Archive lives in my head. Sometimes it has notes though… I don’t know how it would know-”

“Notes?”

You nod and roll your eyes. And even if he’s confused and a little offended, he can’t help but chuckle, “What kind of notes?”

“Ugh-” you groan, “No. We’re not humoring the freeloader in my head.”

[jimlingss]

Hi! I hope you are doing well ☺️ I have a request!

With Jimin, mainly fluff, a tiny angst and a smudge of smut if you are comfortable, I was thinking in frenemies2l au ��� you know like they are friends but there is tension, but the good kind and feelings and witty banter and maybe some misunderstanding

“Can I at least tell my side of the story?” 

“I can’t keep playing pretend.”

“I’d do anything for you.” 

“You should probably go home.” “But I’m already home.”

Love your writing btw!! ❣️

Anonymous said: jimin x fluff/crack humour x “Is the cat in a onesie?” “Uh, no? (optional!) x someone contracts Black Cat Flu: a disease that causes chronic bad luck and has to be under quarantine. method of cure? up to you!

↳ Black Cat Flu

2.9k || 98% Fluff, 2% Angst || Park Jimin || Magic!AU, Frenemies!AU

Every night, you answer house calls.

It’s a tough job from time to time, especially when patients are difficult or the problem itself is complex. One thing’s for sure — there’s never a shortage of issues. Plenty of witches and wizards like to be irresponsible with magic. But you enjoy the job. It’s worth it when you can leave with a sound heart that your patient is on their way to recovering. It’s worth staying up past dusk and dawn when you know you’ve eased a family and saved them from unnecessary grief.

But what you don’t expect is answering a house call for Park Jimin.

You’re standing in front of his townhouse with a long sigh, gripping your first aid kit in one hand and your wand in the other. In spite of the sharp black gate and the pointed edges of his roof that gives off an eerie feeling, he’s decorated the front windows with goofy, flashing pumpkin stickers and charmed fireflies to twinkle and light up the stair railing. That was Jimin for you.

You knock on the door.

Immediately, you hear thumps that follow, a muffled curse and then the door opens.

On the other side, Jimin is disheveled. His brown hair is sticking in all directions, his navy shorts are covered in soot and short enough to be boxers, and there’s a tear in his black and white long sleeve. You try to not to stare at the skin of his tummy. It’s not too hard to resist when his brown eyes are perfectly rounded and he’s staring into your soul with a distressed expression.

The door knob falls into his hand.

“Y/N! Thank god, it’s you!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything!”

Your brow lifts. “Like usual?”

Jimin hangs his head. “It’s even worse.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised. What did you do this time?”

You step inside the house and notice the thick smoke billowing out from one of the rooms. Jimin barely manages to shove the door shut behind you. “I was experimenting and something happened and now everything around me keeps breaking.”

His black cat, Seokjin, scurries across the floor of the living room. He turns his head to hiss at you and then disappears down the hall. You look at Jimin. “Is the cat in a onesie?” 

“Uh, no?” 

You don’t prod and pry more than you have to. You’ve been friends with Jimin long enough to know better than to ask what goes on in that brain of his. You’ll never understand him. Nor do you want to.

Instead, you follow after him.

Jimin’s always been clumsy, so it’s no surprise when he trips on the hall rug. But it’s never been this bad — arms flailing, body like jelly, feet slipping. “Woah!” You step back and he manages to grasp onto the door frame for balance before he can eat shit. But it breaks in his hand.

Part of the door frame crumbles off and into his hand. He curses and looks at you. “See what I mean?”

You peek into the room. The cauldron is still steaming. It smells like catnip. 

“What were you trying to make?”

“A sweet potion.”

From your fuzzy knowledge of potions class years ago, you recall it being the weaker counterpart to the infamous love potion. Some might dub it as a liking potion. 

You hum curiously. You thought Jimin had no problems trying to make friends.

Jimin grabs a bottle off his shelf and the moment it’s in his palm, the glass bursts in his hand. He looks at you. You’re expressionless. “Go lay down.”

“If you lay with me,” Jimin says while he tries to shake the glass off. You whirl your wand and every fragment and shard floats in the air before showering down to the ground. 

You give him a lazy glare and lift your first aid kit up. “I’m going to toss this at you.”

The boy grins. “That’s not really my kink, but if it’s you, I might be into it.”

Yet in spite of Jimin’s mouthiness, he still listens to you and makes his way to his room.

On the way, he turns slightly. “Have you been busy tonight?”

“Not reall— Jimin!”

Your shout is too late. He collides with his own decorative flower vase and it shatters around his feet into a million bits. Jimin deflates, shoulders slugging, looking down at what was once his favourite vase that he got from his late grandma. “Shit.”

“Don’t move,” you warn him. But yet again, it’s too late.

As the words are coming out of your mouth and before your wand can whirl again, he’s stepping back. Right onto a mountain of sharp glass fragments. Jimin winces. You groan. He bleeds all over the place.

You barely manage to get him into bed and his feet bandaged.

“Say ah.”

“Ah.”

You look into his mouth with the light from the tip of your wand and a popsicle stick pressed against his tongue. Then you hum and move to shine the light in each of his eyes to look at his pupils.

“I think I need mouth-to-mouth,” Jimin says.

“I’m not that kind of doctor,” you mutter.

He grins and you step back, finished with the examination. “Am I dying, doctor?”

“No. It’s much worse,” you deadpan and Jimin looks genuinely taken aback. A second later, you snort with a smile. “I’m kidding.”

Jimin sighs in exasperation. “You shouldn’t play with my heart like that. There’s only so much I can take when you’re already this hot.”

He wiggles his brows and scans your figure up and down, but you’re not so sure what there is to look at when you’re tired, sweaty, and covered from head to toe, dressed in black and just a white doctor’s coat. “You contracted Black Cat Disease. Looks like a bad case too. A bad case of bad luck.” 

You open the first aid kit and spray yourself with disinfect ten times over, making sure to get every inch of your body. Then you’re putting on a mask and gloves. Magic can only do so much — personal protective equipment will do the rest.

“Aw, this means I really can’t kiss you tonight, can I?”

You ignore him. “You have to be under quarantine for the time being.”

“What’s the cure?”

“True love’s kiss.” Silence. The corner of your lip tugs. “Kidding. Rest and sleep. All flus past that way.”

You come over and push Jimin’s shoulder so he’s no longer sitting up and his back hits the mattress, head against the pillows. You tug the blanket up over his body and he pouts.

“This sucks.”

“Sure does. Now rest. I’ll make a tonic for you.” You shift on your feet and get to your kit without a moment’s rest. You want to treat Jimin as quickly as possible.

But before you get out the door, his soft voice stops you—

“Thanks, Y/N. I mean it.”

You peek over your shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You know I’d do anything for you.” There’s a strangely intimate pause as Jimin gazes at you with a tender smile. It makes you sweat and you hastily add, “Plus, this is my job.”

...

You’ve nursed a lot of people before. But Jimin is not on your list of people you want to offer your expertise to. He’s your friend, yes, but lately, you’ve been more distant. He can just be a bit too much sometimes. Especially now. 

“What the hell are you doing.”

He’s up. Standing by his bedroom cobblestone fireplace. Wrapped in his blankets. And the corner of said blanket is on fire. Jimin manages to stomp it out before it can light up the entire goddamn thing and burn his body as well. There’s definitely no cure for that.

He sulks. “I was just trying to start the fireplace. I’m cold!”

“Go back to bed before I knock you out.”

With your monotone and dead stare, Jimin knows not to mess around. He doesn’t banter or add unnecessary comments. “Yes, ma’am.”

You sigh and as he gets settled down again, you place the tonic down on his bedside.

As much as you want to answer another house call and escape this place, you can’t leave him be. Jimin almost set himself and the house on fire, and knowing him, he’d somehow hurt himself again and you’d have to come back anyway. There’s no one else to take care of him. At least not here.

“When you get better, you should probably go home.” You look down to see his chubby fingers gripping the edge of the blanket that he’s brought to the bridge of his nose. The only features of Jimin revealed are his eyes and his soft locks of hair against the pillow. He looks both dumb and cute. You can’t decide which. “To your parents.”

Jimin’s eyes crinkle and you know he’s smiling. “But I’m already home.”

For the briefest of moments, a mere millisecond, your brows furrow. 

You quickly turn away, but Jimin caught your expression all too easily. His smile falls.

There’s an undeniable tension to the air ever since you stepped foot inside this house. Every bantering remark from you has had more of a vicious bite to it than usual. And you know you’ve been shutting down his playful teasing each time when you used to entertain it more. But it’s all been subtle. No one should notice the change.

Too bad Jimin’s too perceptive for his own good. 

He can tell you’re not comfortable, that your shoulders are tense, that you’re trying to get out of here….

And sensing a confrontation, you make an escape. “I have to grab something from—”

The blanket is thrown off. Jimin lurches forward. His hand wraps around your wrist before you’re too far away.

“I can’t keep playing pretend,” he murmurs in a velvet voice, mischievous side tucked away in favour of something more serious. “Pretend that everything’s okay. That we’re okay.”

You control your expression, turn to face him and you play dumb. “What do you mean?”

“You’re mad.”

You scoff and something inside you snaps. He just has to force a confrontation when you clearly don’t want one, doesn’t he? But why are you surprised. What Jimin wants, Jimin gets. 

“Why would I be mad? That you dated Jungkook when you knew I had it bad for him?” Your sarcasm is venomous and it’s spat from your lips. “Of course not! I’m over it.” 

You never expected your friend would become your love rival. You know Jimin’s ass is nice — it’s clear to see. But you never knew it would be weaponized against you.

He winces and lets go of you. “Can I at least tell my side of the story?”

“What could your side possibly be, Jimin? What’s your excuse this time?”

“It’s not an excuse.”

“You knew I liked Jungkook! I told you about it. I confided in you. But you went ahead and dated him anyway!”

Jimin sputters. “It’s not my fault he liked me!”

The hand gripping your wand quivers but in your anger, you still know better than to use an offensive spell against him. “You were giving him signals!”

Jimin slumps. It’s an admission of guilt.

Yet he still has the audacity to blurt, “I just didn’t want him to go out with you!”

“Why?! Because you’d be jealous?!” you shout and he pales. You know you’ve hit bullseye, so you keep going, “You don’t want to be the only lonely one? You’d rather us both not date?”

Jimin sighs out of frustration. “It’s not like that, Y/N.”

There’s a burning in your eyes. In the back of your mind, you wonder if you got infected with the Black Cat Disease, but you realize it’s tears. Which is even worse.

“It was a shitting thing to do,” you seethe in a sharp whisper. “And you didn’t even like him. You dumped him after three days.”

“I had to.”

But by then, you don’t want to hear him anymore. You can’t take it anymore. 

You twist on your heel and leave the room, eyes stinging at the betrayal of your friend. You don’t know why he has to confront you now when you’re supposed to be working. He’s always catching you off guard, always caring more for himself. Jimin has no regard for you whatsoever.

You have half a mind to realize Jimin’s chasing after you, limping on his bandaged foot.

“Will you just wait? Where are you going?! Y/N!” The floorboard in the hall cracks. Jimin’s other foot falls through and becomes lodged into the ground. He curses aloud, physically stuck in place. But you don’t turn around. He’s not your problem anymore. He should’ve never been—

“I can’t date him when I’m in love with you!”

You freeze. And turn around. “What?”

“I know. I fucked up. I just….I didn’t want Jungkook to go out with you. So I started to flirt with him and the next thing I know, he’s asking me out. I didn’t know you’d be so hurt, that you liked him so much.” Jimin’s downcast eyes search the floor in front of him. “I’m sorry.”

“What did you just say?”

He looks up at you. “I’m sorry.”

“No, before that.”

“I...didn’t want Jungkook to go out with you..?”

“No, you idiot! You’re in love with me?”

“Yeah.” Jimin shifts and realizes his foot is still stuck in the floor. He winces. “Fuck, Y/N. My feet really hurt. I need to sit down.”

You immediately move, putting his arm around your shoulder and hoisting him up. The both of you are silent as you guide him back into bed. His house is practically destroyed from his bad luck — door knobs gone, door frames chipped off, glass shards everywhere, smoke in the living room and now a giant hole in the hallway. But you know there’s nothing a wand can’t fix, so you push it all aside. 

There’s more important matters to deal with.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” you whisper, unable to believe it.

Jimin, lying on his bed, turns his head towards you and the corners of his mouth draw meekly. “I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, but guess I did that anyway.” After a beat, he reveals, “I was….I was making that potion for you. I wanted you to like me again.”

“Why? Did you think I hated you or something?”

“Seemed like it.” He smiles more genuinely. “Especially after all that, how could I not?”

“I was just mad. Still kind of am.” You scoff lightly, unable to fathom how everything spiraled out of control from one event. You’ll truly never understand how Jimin’s brain works and how he managed to make such a mess. He’s stupid. Endearingly stupid. “I’d kiss you if you weren’t sick.”

All at once, Jimin’s eyes light up. “You...you don’t hate me for being in love with you?”

“No, you idiot.”

“Then…..do you feel the same way?”

“It’s just a lot to take in,” you admit, feeling your face warm. This was a different kind of confrontation that you didn’t expect to happen tonight and you’re not sure you hate it. “But...when you get better, take me on a proper date and I’ll tell you then.”

Jimin grins, getting settled into his sheets. “I’m feeling better already.”

....

epilogue.

((Jimin, in fact, does not feel better. He wakes up worse and you end up having to deliver him into the clinic where he’s looked after for the next two weeks. It’s one of the worst Black Cat Disease cases that the witch doctors have ever seen. His entire house ends up being taped off for being a biohazard and the potion in the cauldron is taken as a biochemical weapon. It’ll apparently be two months until he can move back in, so he’s rendered homeless.

When he’s discharged from the clinic, you take him in. 

And that date doesn’t happen for a while considering his feet take much longer to recover and he’s practically limping everywhere. Apparently the glass really got lodged in there and his floorboards are super sharp once they’ve been punctured. But he still tries to take you for a midnight broom ride. You stop him when his bandages are soaked with blood. That one attempt doubled his recovery time. 

It turns out his cat, Seokjin, was stuck in a onesie because it was Jimin’s way of dealing with the fleas on his cat. As if covering the issue would make it go away. And by the time you realized this, your house had an entire flea infestation.

When Jimin’s healthy again, you’re this close to kicking him out. But with every mistake he makes, he fixes each of them. Sort of. And he really does manage to sweep you off your feet on that date. As stupid as Jimin can be, he has his own charms and he bewitches you under the stars and moonlight.

But by then, it’s not like it really matters. 

You’ve been living with the guy. Sleeping together, in both meanings. And you argue a healthy amount. Just like a married couple.))

[extasiswings]

You can all blame @thisissirius for this one because I was going to write some sweet fluff but instead...also on ao3 here.

“Diaz! I’m out of ammo!”

“ETA six minutes.”

“We don’t have six minutes.”

Bullets flying, the sound of gunfire popping in his ears—but then, no, he’s back on the transport, alarms blaring, falling, falling, falling out of the sky—

He’s trapped and it’s burning all around, hot, twisted, sharp metal—he scrambles over to the patient—

Hen. Burned and coated with ash, she coughs and tips her head as she looks at him.

“At least no one’s shooting at us, right Eddie?”

“Eddie?”

“Eddie.”

Eddie jerks awake, his head whipping around as his heart pounds, only to see Buck, close by with his hands raised, palms open as if he had been touching him and just pulled back. Eddie’s mouth is dry, and there’s a burn in the back of his throat like he might be sick, but he swallows hard to get himself under control as he takes in his surroundings.

They’re in the truck, he reminds himself, the surroundings familiar. He and Buck are alone, Hen up front driving—when Eddie looks at his watch, he realizes it’s only about halfway into her most recent driving shift and they still have at least another five hours before they get back to LA. Despite the darkness of the interior, Buck’s face—and specifically the concern written across it—is clear.

“It’s just me,” Buck says quietly. “Sorry, I—I wasn’t sure whether it was right to wake you up or not, but it didn’t seem like—you were sort of twitching? And you made this sound—”

“It’s okay,” Eddie assures. “It was—yeah. Um, thank you.”

His voice is raspy and there’s a cold sweat drying on his skin that makes him feel somehow dirtier and more uncomfortable than when he’d been in the field covered in soot. At home, or even at the station, he would get up in a situation like this. Would take a shower or work out until his hands stopped shaking. But he doesn’t have those options here, trapped in a moving vehicle. Is flayed open and exposed, a heady cocktail of fight-or-flight chemicals buzzing under his skin as the echoes of alarm bells and gunshots fade from his ears and his best friend looks at him like he’s a basket case—

No, that’s not fair. Buck’s looking at him the way he would look at any of them he was worried about, because Buck is a good person with a big heart. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just naked concern, and Eddie tries to remember that as he sets his elbows on his knees and drops his head into his hands, blowing out a shaky breath.

“Hey, Hen?” Buck calls, raising his voice. “Can we make a stop? I need to pee. Sorry, should have gone earlier.”

“You’re lucky I love you, Buckley,” she calls back. “And that we’re not totally in the middle of nowhere. There should be a rest stop at the next exit, I’ll turn off there.”

“Thanks.”

Eddie presses the heel of his hands to his eyes for a moment before dropping them, rolls his head on his neck to work out some of the tension in his muscles before finally looking back at Buck.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, despite the relief that floods him at the thought of escaping the confined space for even a few minutes, getting the chance to stretch his legs and breathe and maybe even splash some water on his face.

“Yes, I did,” Buck replies, his voice equally low. “Besides, you would have done it for me.”

“Sure, but I wouldn’t have needed to do it for you,” Eddie shoots back, frustration heavy on his tongue. “You can fall asleep on a road trip without worrying about—”

He cuts himself off and sighs. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m—fuck.”

“I’ve been fine,” he insists, because it feels important that he make Buck understand that. That he’s capable, that he has himself together.

He always needs to have himself together.

“I had a couple bad weeks after everything with the well last year, but I bounced back. It’s not—this doesn’t happen that often, I don’t know why—”

“Eddie, I don’t even know what this is,” Buck says. He reaches out—stops, hesitating before his hand makes contact with Eddie’s shoulder, his eyes flicking up to search Eddie’s before finally closing the rest of the distance. It’s instinct to flinch from the touch, but Eddie tamps down on the impulse, instead focusing on the weight and heat of Buck’s hand pressing down, grounding, anchoring.

“So you had a bad dream,” he continues, shrugging. “Everyone does. The other day I woke up panicked because I dreamt I was kidnapped by a supervillain who pulled all of my teeth out. It happens. Plus, I still—”

Buck looks down and swallows hard. “I still dream about the tsunami. Sometimes. And about being trapped under the truck. And it never matters how either of those things actually turned out because in the dreams—nightmares—I always lose. Christopher. My leg. Brains can be assholes. But it’s not—you had a bad dream. You don’t have to apologize for that.”

“Alright, boys, we’re here,” Hen calls as the truck rolls to a stop. “Try to make it quick? I’d like to at least try to make it back in time to sleep a few hours in my own bed before my afternoon class.”

“You’re the best, Hen,” Buck replies. Eddie pushes himself up and opens the door to climb out. Even just standing on solid ground helps—he sucks in several breaths of fresh air, letting each one out slowly. The stars are bright and clear against the ink-black sky, the rest stop far enough from any major cities or the wildfire that light pollution or smoke don’t dim their shine. Buck’s hand brushes against Eddie’s back as he climbs out of the truck as well, a gentle, casual thing that feels more like habit than a deliberate touch. A subtle, familiar ghost that whispers I’m here, behind, hello.

Eddie doesn’t feel the urge to flinch away from that touch.

When Buck starts off in the direction of the restrooms, Eddie pushes off the truck and follows.

“I got my silver star after my platoon’s medical transport helicopter was shot down in Afghanistan,” he admits a few minutes later, after he washes his hands and splashes water on his face for good measure. “We crashed, I got almost everyone out of the wreckage. We took heavy fire...I really thought I was gonna die that night. Wound up with three bullet wounds and a medal and a hell of a lot of guilt over the one guy who didn’t make it home.”

“And Hen was in a helicopter crash yesterday,” Buck fills in. “That you watched happen.”

Eddie sighs. “And Hen was in a helicopter crash yesterday, yeah,” he admits. “I didn’t think—we were doing search and rescue in a wildfire, it wasn’t a battlefield, we weren’t getting shot at, and she was fine. She is. Fine. And I’m fine. There’s no reason—”

He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m fine,” he repeats.

Buck goes quiet for a moment, catching his lower lip between his teeth. And then he says—

“I’m in therapy.” His tongue sweeps out and wets his lips. “I’m fine, too. But I’m in therapy. Because I realized that I didn’t want to settle for fine. And also that I could be...more fine. Finer. Finest.”

“Do you think that’s something I should be ashamed of?” He asks.

“Of course not,” Eddie says, his stomach dropping at the very thought. “I would never think—no, Buck that’s great—if it’s helping, I’m happy for you.”

“Then why are you ashamed of yourself just because your fine isn’t perfect?”

“I—” Words catch in Eddie’s throat as he squirms at the logic. He doesn’t think because it’s me is a response that’s going to fly, but that’s all that comes to mind. And maybe that means Buck has a point.

Buck takes a step closer, closing the distance between them. His hand curves around the side of Eddie’s neck, thumb pressing ever so lightly under Eddie’s chin to tip his head up. The look in his eyes is soft and makes Eddie feel exposed in an entirely different way than he had in the truck. But he doesn’t think he dislikes the feeling.

“You went through hell and you survived,” Buck says quietly. “So you have a few scars. You never have to be ashamed of that. Especially not in front of me.”

Eddie shudders out a breath and leans in, closing his eyes as he drops his head to Buck’s shoulder. Buck adjusts to wrap his arms around him, holding tight, and they stand there embracing for a long moment as the remaining tension bleeds from Eddie’s shoulders.

“Why did I hear TK telling you he’s in a serious relationship before we left?” Eddie asks once he feels steady enough to pull away.

Buck’s cheeks go pink as he laughs. “Uh—well. I think he thought I was coming onto him?”

Eddie bites his cheek to keep from smiling. “Were you? I guess he’s okay...if that’s the kind of look you’re into.”

Buck rolls his eyes. “You know there was only one person there I wanted to flirt with.”

“Marjan?” Eddie offers, and the eyeroll becomes an exasperated stare.

“I agreed to glacially slow, not nonexistent,” Buck points out, stepping in and leaning in and—

Eddie’s fingers curl into the front of Buck’s shirt as Buck’s mouth ghosts over his, using to grip to pull him down into a proper kiss.

“If he had stuck around long enough for me to get over my surprise, I would have told him I was spoken for,” Buck adds, a little breathless when he steps back.

“Glacially slow or not?”

“Glacially slow or not.” Buck’s lips curve up as he laces their fingers. “I told you months ago I didn’t mind waiting. I’m in this. However long it takes.”

Eddie squeezes his hand.

“Thank you,” he says. And there are so many things that could be meant by that, he’s not even sure he can name them all. But Buck seems to get it anyway.

“Come on. Let’s go back.”

“Let’s go home,” Eddie adds. Their hands slide apart as they leave the restroom, but Eddie still feels Buck’s warmth sinking into his skin, like sunlight chasing away shadows. And as he climbs back into the truck, he thinks that maybe Buck’s right. Maybe he could be more than fine. Maybe admitting that isn’t a bad thing.

When he falls asleep again, he doesn’t dream.

[miyalove]

not quite enemies | bakugou

—pairing: bakugo x fem!reader

—warnings: swearing, name calling, yelling, death threats, bakugou being his angry self, fluff *unedited

—synopsis: 2.9k | despite being his friend, it’s always fun to mess around with bakugou. today, you realized you went too far when you both get thrown into detention. you thought it was going to be a whole week of silent cleaning and death threats but to your surprise, he’s a lot more pleasant than you had originally thought.

—a/n: based off of this prompt #7 by @//raggedy-dxctor​!

you and bakugou have an odd friendship, if that’s what you would even call it.

you’re constantly by his side, but it’s not just because you enjoy his presence, like his other friends do too but it’s because you just get a real kick out of making fun of him. you’ve known the blonde for years by now, you even dare say that your friendship goes further back than the one he has with midoriya! even despite your rocky friendship though, bakugou has a special place in you heart but you’d rather be caught dead then ever admit that aloud. 

every morning, you and midoriya walk to school together because you’re in the same neighborhood, and every morning right when you arrive to class you make a b-line straight for bakugou’s desk. it’s not just because you like messing around with him though, your desk just so happens to be perfectly placed right behind his. 

“good morning, katsuki,” your tone too sweet for him. as you settle yourself down in your seat, you see his red eyes steal an all too obvious glance your way but he makes no response. simply rolling his eyes, before staring back out the large glass windows.

most people would be offended and even peeved off that they just got brushed off by the bakugou katsuki but not you. no, you’ve known him long enough to know that this was merely a test to see if you’d actually continue talking to him like the good friends you are and just his luck, because you’re feeling extra friendly today!

you let out a light giggle thinking to yourself, the silent treatment never stopped me before, silly! smiling, you lean forward on your desk making sure your lips brush his ear as you whisper, “huh? didn’t you hear me? what is all that hair messing up your hearing?” to further piss him off, you punctuate your last question by lightly knocking on the crown of his head.

that surely got his attention. in a split second, he’s facing you. his seat flies back with how fast he stands. his features are morphed into an expression that vaguely reminds you of a feral animal baring it’s teeth. you have to force yourself to swallow down a laugh because honestly, who can take this angry little pomeranian seriously. despite you studying his face, you missed the light pink blush covering his ears or the way he slightly flinched when he felt your hot breath tickle his lobes. he’s thankful that you did though because if you did catch is two seconds of weakness he’d probably never live it down. 

“shut it, shitty girl, or else!”

you’re smirking as you look up at the enraged bakugou. he’s basically foaming at the mouth with how relaxed you are. most people are appalled at his words or even try and calm him down but no, you’re literally just making things worse.

sighing, you rest your chin on your palm as your fingers carelessly tap to a tune on your cheek. your teasing smile never fades, “or else what?” innocently, you tilt your head in question, your eyes meet his red ones filled with rage. you can’t help but to trace the tale tail signs of a classic bakugou tantrum from his features. 

with his brows furrowed so hard, you make a mental note on how that might cause permanent wrinkle damage for later banter with the blonde. his mouth is sneered, showing of his perfectly white teeth as they grind on each other and just like classic bakugou, he’s all up in your face.

before he was merely standing in front of your desk, nose in the air as a constant reminder that you’re below him. now, he’s inches apart from your face and if it were anyone else, you would have made a playful comment about how this was kissing distance but this isn’t one of the many boys you like to playfully flirt with. this is bakugou katsuki, the boy you love messing around with.

in a matter of seconds, you see the blonde claw his hands up. tiny explosions go off in his palms and you can’t help but study the smoke releasing from his palms. with how fast the explosions are going off, the room quickly is waffled with the smell of burnt chocolate.  

“or else i’ll kill you!” bakugou barks.

“you’ll kill me?” you speak unisons with his threat. his red eyes are wide and if looks could kill, you’d have already been 6ft under. at this point, this argument as already gotten the whole classes’ attention. 

in the corner of your eyes, you see the blue-hair representative already stiffly march towards the two of you. yaororozu, quickly stands up in her seat too most definitely looking to break up your fun time. 

with those two quickly coming on your ass, you won’t be able to mess around with him until later on in the day. how sad that they had to ruin your fun and so early too! unwillingly, you pout at the idea of letting bakugou go. you can’t give up, no, that’s not like you at all. you can’t have this feral hero-wannabe think he’s won. 

before you were smirking up at a frenzied bakugou who was practically ready to murder you six different times. now, you lean back into your seat placing your feet up on the desk, your skirt casually rests on your legs.

you shift all your weight on the two back legs of your chair, rocking slightly forward and back. to anyone, even to bakugou, you looked like the human embodiment of unbothered. your hands rest at the back of your head, lightly fingering through your own tresses. 

your colored hues meet his own glossed over red ones. you want to see him react when you deliver the final blow. forcing out a yawn, one of your hands cover your mouth to emphasis your movements, “we’ve all heard that one before and yet i’m still here. nobody likes liars, katsuki.”

what comes nexts happens so fast. considering your close proximity, you should have known better than to provoke the blonde, but you can’t go back to fix it now. all at once, bakugou’s pulls back his arm, open palm and all, shouting excitedly about something you couldn’t really catch not with the explosion that comes echoing seconds after the words leave his lips. the blonde’s open palm cames crashing down on your desk and once he made contact, a loud boom echoes in the room. 

light flashed in your eyes causing you to go blind for a few seconds. gasps were heard and screams of protests too. you just hoped that the classmates around you were okay. you’re quick to to move out of the way of his blasts, thankful that you’ve been training hard because if you hadn’t have developed your reflexes more you would have definitely been a goner.

when the dust finally settles, and you feel your heart beat steady. the air clears and you let out a sigh of relief when you see your all your classmates are safe and sound. your desk is gone, instead it’s a pile of dust spread out on the floor of your classroom. 

above that pile is bakugou katsuki. he’s standing before you eyes crazed and shoulders straightened out. his stance is strong and when you see him kick back his feet into his classic fighting stance, you realize what he’s proposing. 

there’s a part of you that wants to say yes to his silent offering. in fact, you have to stop yourself from fully charging at the boy. your shoulders tense, hands clenched into hard fist. what the hell was this boy thinking just throwing out random explosions like that? he could have killed someone!

“what got nothing to say now, shitty girl?” it takes everything in you to not respond. you bite back your tongue as you scan the crowd of your classmates. kaminari is shaking in the corner of the room while iida, yaoyorozu, and even kirishima are screaming at you and bakugou to stop. at least that’s what you think they’re saying. the ringing in your ears hasn’t really stopped yet...

you look for a set of green eyes and but you never find them. shaking your head, you dust yourself off of any remaining soot before finding your seat again.

“i didn’t think you would attack me like that, katsuki,” dragging your chair from across the room, the sound of metal squeaking across the ground accompanies your words. you line it back up to where it once was and take a seat. 

“you almost had me, really,” crossing your legs over the other, you lean forward resting elbow on your knee, “better luck next time though.”

okay so maybe this time him trying to attack you again was your fault. the key word in that last statement being: trying. right as he let out a ferocious growl and another lovely string of insults come fluttering out of his pretty little mouth, white scarves wrapped around his torso and arms successfully restraining the wild beast.

there at the entrance of the door was your sleep deprived teacher with his eyes glowing and physics denying hair. you would never admit it aloud but your glad he came just in the nick of time because in all honesty, if you ever were to go up against bakugou in a fight you know you’d loose.

he’s a lot stronger, faster, and strategic than you are. not to day that you’re the weakest of the weak but bakugou is the #1 in your class for a reason. there’s no doubt in you head you’d loose, but you’d still give it your all if it ever came down to it... thank whatever god out there that it didn’t!

you can hear the muffled screams of your friend as aizawa pulls him back with his scarf. you can’t help but to let out a small laugh as he struggles against the restraints. bakugou even goes as far as biting on them like some kind of animal. sometimes, you really enjoyed the shenanigans the blonde brings to the table even if they aren’t meant to be funny.

“oh thank god you’re here, mr. aizawa!” you hear yaoyorozu plead.

mina’s the next one to speak up, “yeah, these two were like totally going crazy! it was beyond scary!” her cheery jab lifts a weight off your shoulders. you’re glad to know that at least one of your classmates doesn’t hold bakuogu’s outburst against you.

“bakugou, (y/n). i hope you know this little scene the two of you caused will have harsh consequences,” iida’s practically shouting over all the other commotion of your classmates. you quirk a brow up at your friend, realizing that perhaps you did push it a little too far this time.

now standing next to aizwa, bakugou doesn’t have the restraints on him. instead, aiwaza looms over the blonde’s figure ready to strike at him.

“i agree with iida. what the two of you did displayed ignorance,” his black eyes stare you down from across the room. you shutter at his intense gaze. “and indiscipline.” he ends his sentence by pointedly glaring at a grumbling bakugou by his side. 

“detention for both of you will be required at the end of class starting today and ending next week monday. hope this’ll gives you two time to think how dangerous that stunt was,” you want to protest but you don’t feel you’re in the right to do so. so you nod, taking the heat from aizawa and just sit there. however, your partner in crime doesn’t handle the news as great as you do. 

bakugou let’s out a scoff, “detention? you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” 

enraged eyes clash with yours form across the room, it looks like he wants to say more but one harsh glare from your teacher has him shutting up. 

“glad we’re in agreement then,” bakugou let’s out a harsh whatever before strutting to his seat in front of you. “now everyone else take your seats, class is beginning.”

there’s a silence between the two of you that you can’t exactly pin point why it bothers you so much. once class was over, aizawa demanded the class to leave things the way they were so you and bakugou can tidy after everyone. 

it was a cruel punishment; cleaning, but you figured that at least bakugou was there which meant more hands to help. you didn’t know what you were expecting when the classroom finally emptied and it was just the two of you alone. 

perhaps you thought that he’d go after you again. it was the perfect opportunity to do so. your teacher was gone, your classmates were gone, and the two of you would be alone for an hour or so. when you came back with the brooms and mops, you slide the large door open and braced yourself for impact— but nothing came.

you froze at the door, clutching onto the cleaning supplies with your dear life waiting for bakugou to do something, anything... but when nothing came, you peeked open one eye only to be meet with the blonde a few feet away from you.

he scowls at your figure, nothing new, before coming towards you and grabbing the broom out of your grip, “hurry up, shitty girl. i have places to be after school and if we don’t get this done fast, i’ll—”

it surprises you when he doesn’t finish. it’s unlike bakugou to just let words die on his tongue unless something’s really caught him off guard. you can’t help but to be curious. following his figure, you creep behind him as he starts to sweep the floor.

lifting your self up on a desk, your legs dangle in the air. bakugou’s figure isn’t too far from yours. in fact if you reach out your hand, you could probably play with his hair. you stare at his figure, wide eyed and interested. what has gotten the bakugou katsuki so off guard and quiet?

“you’ll what?” 

he doesn’t bother looking at you. he continues to sweep at the dust refusing to give you the satisfaction of his attention. that’s probably what you want anyways. since day one, you’ve always been this force to be reckoned with. since you and him were kids, bakugou has seen you as the one constant in his life that, believe it or not, he didn’t absolutely despise (not as much as that green haired bastard at least).

you were his equal since day one, and when you finally developed your strong quirk the two of you ruled over all the playgrounds and schools. sure, you’d both butt head every now and then but you were and still are kids. that’s what kids do! 

it’s takes literal seconds for him to forgive you whenever you get too out of hand and the exact same thing could be said about you. that’s why there was no surprise attack. not only would that be a cheap shot, which is something bakugou never does, but also because it’s in the past now. if he did some stupid shit like that to you, you’d have instantly forgiven him. he knows because of past experiences...

“i’ll kill you.”

it comes out as a whisper. a mere mumble of words that said from anyone else, would worry you but it’s from bakugou, one of your closest friends (even if you won’t ever admit that). 

an unfamiliar feelings burdens your chest. it’s heavy as you feel it weigh down on your breathing, hitching your breath every once in a while. letting out a shaky sigh, your lips are pulled into a smile.

a real one this time, not one with malicious intent. not a smirk, that’s meant to make the blonde before you feel lesser. no, this is a real and rare smile with your teeth showing off and everything.

“predictable, much?” giggling, you grab at the dust pan laying on a lone desk. squatting down, you line the pan with bakugou’s pile of dirt he’s been working on since you got here. his gaze switches from the pile to you. his eyes linger for a little too long to be considered normal, before letting out a harsh sigh and sweeping it in.

“maybe only to you, freak.” he lets out on of those chuckles that he tries to play off as anything but a laugh but you know him better than that. and when you roll your eyes, you can’t help but admire the young boy before you.

you’re impressed to say the least. how he managed to control his rage just for you makes you a little giddy inside. an unfamiliar tickle in your stomach makes you suddenly queazy. as you stare, with a gleaming grin softly lined on your lips you figured bakugou thought it was a good time to return the favor.

he smiles down at you. head raised high and the ends of his lips barley turn up. if you hadn’t been studying him, you’d have missed his small but bright grin. as he stares down at you, one things comes to mind; maybe this loser isn’t all that bad after all. 

[onecanonlife]

In which Tommy travels back in time and tries to prevent a nightmare from happening to everyone he knows. Everyone else, meanwhile, is highly concerned. 

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first part) (previous part) (next part)

(word count: 4,598)

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Part Three: Wilbur

Wilbur oversleeps.

He doesn’t mean to. He never means to. But he does, and when he wakes up and finds the sun halfway to its peak, definitely mid-morning rather than the predawn he was hoping to find, it serves as a shock to his system, and all he can think is, shit. Because sure, he’s been pretty fucking exhausted lately, but that’s no excuse. He’s supposed to be the leader here, and leaders can’t lead when they’re sleeping.

And gods above know what Tommy’s managed to get into this morning, or what Dream’s done, because Dream’s been suspiciously quiet over the past few days and there could be an attack at any moment now, and shit, shit, shit.

He fumbles his way through dressing, tries to neaten his hair, fails utterly, and gives up and pulls his beanie on over it. Not very professional, but it’s fine. This is fine. He can’t hear any screams, so nobody’s dying. Probably.

He steps outside of the hastily-constructed house he claimed for his own, and it’s less of a house, really, than a single room with walls and a roof liable to cave in at any second, but it serves for now, and he never claimed to possess his father’s building prowess. There will be time for infrastructure development after independence is secured. But he steps outside, squinting against the sunlight, and finds—everything in order. Everything looks fine. Nothing is on fire, except for the ever-burning camarvan. The walls still stand.

That should be his next step. The walls.

He climbs his way up, surveying the area. The surrounding lands appear just as they were left last night. No ominous structures set up. No fucking TNT cannons. All is calm, peaceful, and he has learned not to trust peace, these past few weeks, but if everything is alright for now, he’ll accept it gladly. Even if it doesn’t last.

He sighs, bracing his hands against the battlements. All too often, these days, he’s found his mind wandering down paths they never would have before. He can’t help but wonder what Phil would think if he knew the full extent of what he’s up to. His father tried so hard, when he was younger, to shield him from war, from the legacy that he and his best friend laid out behind them. And Wilbur cannot blame him for that protectiveness; his first experience of war has only been a few weeks long, and he’s finding he doesn’t care for it, even if he’s discovered a knack for tactics.

The thing is, though, he’s always wanted a legacy of his own.

Phil always said that it would be through his music. He never told him that he had his doubts about that, that he loves his songs but that something in him always calls for more, something just out of reach, just beyond the crest of the next hill. He’s not sure his father knows how ambitious he really is, in the end.

He should probably write him. He’ll do it after the war is over. After he has a country to invite him to see. After he’s built something that his dad will be proud of. And if he leaves out the struggle it took to get it, nobody has to know but him, because it’s certainly better that Phil doesn’t.

“Hello, Wilbur,” Dream says, right by his ear, and he jerks, pulling his sword from his inventory in an instinctive motion. How he missed the bastard’s approach, he has no idea, but Dream is standing right there, right on the walls next to him, covered head to toe in netherite armor, smiling mask firmly affixed to his face. He holds no weapons yet, but Wilbur knows all too well how quickly that can change.

“You’re trespassing on L’Manberg property,” he snaps, trying to disguise the frantic racing of his heart. His feet shift into a ready stance, a movement that’s old hat by now, both from this war and from Technoblade’s training when he was a kid, even though the sword will never be his weapon of choice. “With armor on, too. You’re not allowed to wear armor within our borders.”

He doesn’t know why he bothers to try. Dream won’t obey. He never does. That’s why they’re at war in the first place.

But then, to his shock, Dream chuckles, inclining his head. And then, piece by piece, the armor disappears, accompanied by the familiar clink of metal landing in an inventory slot.

“Right, right,” Dream says, as if he hasn’t just blown all of Wilbur’s expectations out of the water. “Of course. I guess I really should be trying to get off on the right foot with you, here. Congratulations, by the way. I’m sure you were happy to hear the news.”

What is he—?

What is this? Is he trying psychological warfare now? Is that what this is? Because Wilbur has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. Is he supposed to know what he’s talking about? Dream’s acting like he should know what he’s talking about, and he doesn’t particularly want to give him the upper hand by revealing that he does not, in fact, have any idea what he’s talking about.

“Thank you,” he manages, a beat too late, but Dream doesn’t seem to notice, just continues on blithely.

“I just figured we should set up an official meeting of some kind,” he says. “One country leader to another. Get some peace treaties drawn up, write some trade agreements, draw some official boundaries, all of that stuff. I’ll admit, I’ve never done any of that before, but it can’t be too hard, right?”

“Right, I’m sure,” Wilbur replies, nodding along. Because, what?

“It doesn’t have to be right away,” Dream continues, and he just keeps talking. “I can give you a day or two to settle in, get stuff in order. There’s no real rush, but we should get it done soon. I don’t want to leave anything up in the air. That’s not the kind of thing that promotes stability.”

“Of course,” he says.

Dream goes to say something else, and then stops, tilting his head again. This time, it’s less mocking, more curious. “You do know what I’m talking about, right?” he says, and the game is up. Wilbur feels caught, but he breathes deeply, fights off his rising blush, gathers up all his composure.

“I’ll be entirely honest,” he says. “I’ve got no idea what the shit you’re on about right now.”

He’s not expecting that to make Dream laugh. But he does, tossing his head back and carrying on, loud and long, and then it devolves into a tea kettle wheeze. Genuine amusement, then, though at what, Wilbur isn’t sure. He doesn’t appreciate being laughed at, but he can’t help but feel like there’s something going on here that’s going straight over his head. He doesn’t appreciate that very much, either.

“Oh my god,” Dream manages, as soon as he’s capable of speech, mirth still dancing in his voice, “he didn’t tell you? Still?”

Something icy gets its claws around his heart.

“Who didn’t tell me?” he demands. “Who didn’t tell me what?”

“Tommy,” Dream answers, and those claws squeeze. His heart skips several beats, and suddenly, he’s casting back in his mind to the last time he saw Tommy. It was last night, wasn’t it? Just last night? He sent him to bed, because Tommy often tries to take late watches, claims himself capable, but he’s not even quite sixteen yet. Wilbur may have pulled him into a war, but he’s still a teenager, and Wilbur’s going to do his damnedest to make sure he comes out of this as intact as possible. And that means getting enough sleep.

He looked fine, last night. He was fine. He has to be fine.

He’s moving before he realizes it, his hand fisting in the front of Dream’s hoodie.

“If you’ve done something to Tommy, I’m tossing you off this wall right here and now,” he snarls. “Don’t test me, Dream.”

A year ago, a month ago, he never would have pictured himself making a threat like that. Never would have imagined himself capable of following through. But he is different, now, from the way he started, different already, and there is a part of him, a part of him that whispers to him in crows’ voices, that is scared of what he will be by the time the war is done.

“I haven’t done anything to Tommy!” Dream protests, raising both hands, though he sounds unconcerned. “I swear, I haven’t. He gave us a really good chance to, last night, but we didn’t take it. You should thank us for that. It was pretty stupid, what he did.”

“Explain,” he demands. “Explain right now.”

Tommy’s a resourceful kid. He can picture him getting himself in and out of an altercation easily. But the way Dream says it, it’s like he put himself in the situation in the first place, like he sought it out, and what the hell was Tommy even doing, outside of the walls so late at night? The walls are there for a reason. The walls are there for protection. The walls are there to keep his people safe, because maybe he didn’t exactly set out to start a country, in the very beginning, but he’s going to see it through. By all the gods, he’s going to see it through.

If, that is, this kid doesn’t give him a heart attack first.

Dream shoves at his hand, and he lets him go without an argument. Dream takes a step back, putting a bit more space between them, and then leans against the wall.

“Tommy came to us last night,” he says, “and traded his discs for L’Manberg’s independence.”

It’s a simple sentence. A very simple sentence. But somehow, the words don’t make any sense.

“Congratulations, President Soot,” Dream says, and he knows, he knows the bastard is smiling under that mask. “I look forward to establishing relations between our countries,” and he isn’t, Wilbur knows that he isn’t, but he’s enjoying this because he’s just dropped a bomb on him and he knows it, because—

“Leave,” he rasps. “Get out.”

Dream does a little salute, short and mocking, and then hops over the side of the wall. Wilbur hopes he takes damage, hopes he breaks his fucking legs. The sound of water hitting the ground tells him that he doesn’t. He can’t even be upset about it, because his heart has jumped into his throat, pounding in his ears, and all of the words were fine individually, but all together, they’re too much to process.

Tommy gave up his discs. And now L’Manberg is free. Just like that, the war is over. And Tommy gave up his discs. Tommy walked straight into enemy territory without telling him and handed over his most prized possessions, all for the sake of L’Manberg’s independence. And he succeeded. He got it. He sacrificed something dear to him, something that Wilbur never would have asked him to give up, and he did it for them. For L’Manberg.

Giddiness is the first emotion that fills him, and next is pride. Because this—this is above and beyond. He never would have asked Tommy to trade away something so important to him, but somehow, he found it within himself to do it, and he got what he wanted from it. He got what they all wanted. Somehow, Tommy managed to end their struggles in one fell swoop, and they’re not related, neither by blood nor by adoption or anything like that, but Wilbur thinks that this must be the sort of pride an older brother feels when watching the younger grow up, watching the younger go on and accomplish great things.

They are free, and it is because of Tommy. He feels like he’s on cloud nine. He feels like he could fly.

And then reality crashes back in.

Tommy didn’t tell him that he was planning this. Tommy didn’t tell him, might not have told anyone at all, and that means he strolled straight into the arms of their bitter enemies, people who might have killed him without a second thought. No one has died yet, and he always intended to keep it that way, but the thought of Tommy alone, at night, creeping his way into the belly of the beast, sends a chill down his spine.

Tommy could have died. Tommy could have died, and he wouldn’t have known until he woke up this morning, woke up late, and saw the message on his comm. TommyInnit was slain by Dream.

And then, another thought occurs to him: Tommy hasn’t come to him. Hasn’t come to brag, hasn’t even come to just tell him, to tell him that he’s just single-handedly won their independence. And that is not a Tommy-like thing to do, to let something like that go unremarked upon.

Something is wrong. Dream might have lied. He could have hurt Tommy. Tommy could be injured right now. He doesn’t even know for sure that he made it back.

Tommy gave up his discs for L’Manberg.

It still barely makes any sense to him. But there’s no time to make sense of it. He rushes back down the wall as quickly as he can manage, and then it’s off through their settlement, eyes darting around, hoping for a glimpse of him. He checks Tommy’s house, first, the ramshackle, makeshift thing he’s been sharing with Tubbo until they can get better buildings erected, and he’s not there, and Tubbo isn’t either. The camarvan turns up nothing. He’s considering leaving L’Manberg entirely, going to check by Tommy’s other house, the one built into the hill, when Tubbo comes up beside him.

“Morning, Wilbur,” he says, and then frowns. “You alright, man? You’re kind of pale.”

“Tubbo,” he says, and grabs him by the shoulders. Maybe a bit too emphatically, because he suddenly looks a bit alarmed, but he’ll be concerned with that later. “Tubbo, have you seen Tommy today?”

Tubbo’s frown deepens. “I was coming to see if you knew where he was,” he says. “He was being a bit off last night. Think he had a nightmare or something. But he’s not with you?”

“No, he’s not.” With every word out of Tubbo’s mouth, he feels his own panic grow. It is one thing for Tommy to hatch some sort of plot and not tell him. That is—well, it’s not fine, but Tommy doesn’t tell him everything. But to keep Tubbo out of the loop? To, presumably, visit him before leaving and yet still not tell Tubbo what was going on? It’s unlike him. Very unlike him.

“Okay, well, he’s got to be around here somewhere,” Tubbo reasons, his brows creased. “L’Manberg’s only so big. Should we go look for him together, then?”

“Right,” he says. He breathes, in and out. Tubbo’s a good kid. Very sensible. Very down to earth. And he’s right, of course. Tommy has to be around here somewhere. Any other possibility is out of the question. “Right, of course, let’s go look.”

So they do. They take a systematic approach, first checking all the most likely places and then combing every inch of their land in a grid formation. Tubbo’s suggestion, again. But that turns up nothing, either, and he can feel the panic creeping back in, because what if he actually didn’t make it home? What if he was out there in the dead of night, distraught and alone, and something took advantage of that? What if some mob looked at him and recognized him for an easy kill?

He’s not dead. He can’t be dead. There would have been a notification. But he could be injured somewhere, incapacitated, in pain and all alone, and he can’t let that happen, can’t let Tommy be hurt like that on his watch—

“Oh, wait,” Tubbo says, and pulls on his sleeve. “There he is.”

Wilbur jerks, and stares in the direction he’s pointing. And sure enough, Tommy’s there, right in front of the camarvan, and Eret too, it looks like. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt relief as pure as in this moment.

“Gods,” he breathes, and starts toward them, calling out, “Tommy!” And as he approaches, he gets the sense that something is off.

The first thing he notices is Eret’s expression. Pure, unbridled confusion, mixed with what perhaps might be something like anxiety. And the reason for that is clear enough: Tommy is holding their face very firmly in his hands. Which is bizarre, and Wilbur blinks a few times to make sure he’s seeing this right, because Tommy doesn’t—he doesn’t just do that. That is a gesture reserved only for people he is very, very close to. Tubbo gets that treatment. He’s been on the receiving end a couple of times himself, but not often. And he knows that Tommy and Eret get along just fine, are friends, just like all of them are, but he really didn’t think that the two of them were close enough for this. And judging by the look on Eret’s face, they didn’t think so either.

And Tommy is just standing there. Not speaking, not doing anything else. Just staring Eret in the eyes—or the glasses, rather—with a startling intensity.

“Tommy?” he asks, as soon as he’s close enough that he doesn’t have to shout. “Is everything alright?”

And Tommy startles. Withdraws his hands from Eret’s face as though he’s been burned. Turns to look at him, and Wilbur freezes in place, because just for a second—

There is fear on Tommy’s face.

He doesn’t understand what could have caused it. But it is undoubtedly there, only for a moment before it is smoothed away into something more neutral, if strained. And he hates it, hates it viscerally. He never wants Tommy to look at him with that expression on his face. It makes him feel sick to his stomach.

“Ayup,” Tommy says, and his voice sounds—rough. Like he hasn’t slept at all. “Morning Wil, Tubso.”

It’s casual. Far too casual for what Wilbur has just learned, for the panic he’s felt for the past half hour or so, unable to find this kid, this kid who is basically his brother, for all he pretends to protest against the moniker. Tommy is his family. Tommy is his family, and he risked everything last night, gave up everything for the sake of Wilbur’s everything, his grand ideals, his great vision, and now he’s standing there like nothing at all has changed.

“Ayup, Tommy,” Tubbo says. “You feeling any better this morning?”

At Tommy’s side, Eret shifts uneasily. Their expression is still one of concern, and Wilbur wonders exactly how long Tommy had been standing there like that, or what their interaction even was to get them to that point in the first place. It’s confusing. He’s confused.

“I’m great,” Tommy says, and—no, no, they’re not going to do this.

“Tommy,” he breaks in, and Tommy stiffens. “Tommy, last night, why did you—you just—why wouldn’t you tell me?”

It’s not quite what he should be asking, but it’s what comes out. And his voice is annoyingly desperate, and he hates showing off so many emotions like this, especially in a public space, but he can’t stop himself.

“What about last night?” Tubbo asks.

“Last night?” Eret echoes, and looks to Tommy, who blinks, his gaze darting between the three of them but landing on Wilbur most of all, and it’s like he’s nervous, almost, anxious about how he’s going to react, and—does he think he’s going to be angry about this? Perhaps he is, but only in the sense that he’s angry that Tommy took such a stupid risk. Below that anger, that anger born of fear, his pride burns bright. Surely, Tommy must know that?

“I—look, I knew you’d say no, alright?” he says. “But I knew that I could do it, so I did it. Simple as that.”

Simple as that, he says. As if he didn’t give up his greatest possessions. As if he didn’t win them the war, win them their freedom, win for them the reality of the values that this country was founded upon.

“What’s going on?” Eret asks.

“Yeah, does this have something to do with what you were saying to me the other night?” Tubbo says, and then looks at him. “Wilbur, what are you talking about? What happened last night?”

Tommy sighs, and says nothing. Wilbur swallows, and maintains eye contact with him as he speaks, searching for some kind of reaction.

“Dream came to me this morning,” he says, and does not miss Tommy’s flinch at the name, “not even an hour ago. He said—he said that we were free. That the war was over, that L’Manberg was its own nation, that he wanted to set up a meeting for diplomatic ties and whatnot. He called me the president. And, um, he said that you won it for us, Tommy.” He pauses, just for a moment, trying to get his emotions under control. He mostly fails. “He said that you came to him, last night, and you traded your discs to him for L’Manberg’s freedom.”

“You did what?”

Tubbo’s voice is dismayed and disbelieving all at once. And Tommy flinches, draws into himself a little, and that’s not the reaction Wilbur would have expected, but literally none of this is what he would have expected.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding quiet, a bit defeated. “Yeah, I—I did. I knew he’d take the deal. And I just wanted—I wanted the war to be over, yeah? Before anybody got hurt. And I knew this would work, so I just went and did it.”

“You couldn’t have, though,” he finds himself saying, before he even know what he’s going to say next. “Maybe you could’ve guessed that he’d go for it, but—Tommy, what if they’d killed you? Taken what they wanted and killed you right then and there? I just—” He breaks off running a hand through his hair, remembering too late that he’s got his beanie on. His fingers dislodge it, and he readjusts it with more fervor than is necessary. “I just can’t believe you did that without telling someone. Without telling—” Me, he wants to say, but holds himself back. No matter his feelings regarding Tommy, the deep respect and even deeper love that has grown in him over the course of their friendship, he doesn’t have a monopoly on Tommy’s attention. Perhaps he would have preferred for Tommy to tell him, but he’d have settled for Tommy telling anyone.

“What, are you worried?” Tommy says, and Wilbur only spares a second to wonder why he sounds so disbelieving, because—

“Yes,” he bursts out.  “Gods, Tommy! Dream came to me with this and my first thought was that you’d died! Or that you hadn’t made it back, that you were out there somewhere, alone and needing help, and I didn’t—Tommy. Tommy, please tell me you thought of this. Please tell me, tell me that you were prepared, at least. Tell me that you—” He cuts himself off again, shaking his head hard, and under any other circumstance, he would be kicking himself for the display, for the outburst of emotion, for the lack of eloquence, but he thinks he can be excused for the moment.

Tommy’s mouth works for a second.

“Oh,” he finally says, weakly. “Um, right. Sorry, Wilbur. No, I had it handled, trust me. Sorry, I didn’t, um. Didn’t mean to scare you like that. Sort of just—did it, y’know?”

“It’s okay,” he says, even though it kind of isn’t, because Tommy’s continued to shrink into himself, and he doesn’t want that. “It’s okay, Tommy, I’m just glad you’re okay. And, gods above, what you did—” He steps forward, then, unable to help himself, and takes Tommy by the shoulders. Tommy stares at him with wide eyes. “I never would have asked that of you. I couldn’t believe it when Dream told me. And Tommy, I—I’m so, so sorry. But I am so damn proud of you. You hear me? So damn proud. I know what that must have taken, for you to do that. And I’m so fucking proud of you.” He smiles, then, wide and a bit watery. He’s not going to cry, he’s not, but emotion is rising up in his throat, thick and overpowering. “You did it, Tommy. You won us L’Manberg.”

Tommy returns the smile, if a bit tentatively. “Yeah,” he says, “I guess I did, didn’t I?” And then, the smile widens, and he puffs out his chest, putting his hands on his hips. “I hear that makes me the leader now. You’re speaking to Mister High President King Lord Innit, so show me the respect you owe me, eh?”

“Absolutely the fuck not,” he replies, but he’s laughing. “No, no, enough out of you, go, take Tubbo and go get yourself whatever you want out of our rations, you’ve fucking earned it, Toms.”

Tommy offers him one last grin, and then he ducks out of his grip, grabbing Tubbo’s hand and dragging him in the direction of their storage. He can hear Tubbo’s voice already, high and offended at the fact that Tommy went and did this without telling him, and perhaps all is right with the world after all. Some things do not change, even when everything else does.

He went to sleep last night a rebel, a general. He woke up a president. How about that?

“Do you think he’s alright?” Eret asks, and he starts, almost having forgotten they were there.

“Probably not,” he admits. “Not entirely. Those discs meant a lot to him. But we’ve got time to figure it out.” He turns to them, then, makes eye contact with himself in the reflection of their sunglasses. “What was he doing with you, before we walked up?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” they reply. “He came up to me, sort of yelling a bit? Punched me in the shoulder a few times. Couldn’t figure out what that was about. Then he thanked me for something, and then he hugged me, which was a bit odd, and then he did the, uh, thing, with the holding my face? And then you and Tubbo arrived. I honestly don’t know what any of that was about at all.”

He hums, and looks out after the boys, at their retreating backs. As he watches, Tommy slings an arm around Tubbo’s shoulders, his other hand gesticulating wildly.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says softly. “It’s Tommy. He makes it his job to be unpredictable.”

“You’re right about that,” Eret says. “I suppose congratulations are in order, President Soot?”

President Soot. It’s got a nice ring to it. He is the leader of a free country now, and it is thanks to the kid he sees as a younger brother, whether he’ll admit as much out loud or not. He is the leader of a free country, and that means there is much work to be done.

But he gives himself a moment longer, and smiles at the way the midday sun shines in Tommy’s hair.

It’s all for them, after all. Land is just land; as long as he can give his loved ones the freedom they deserve, that’s enough for him.

[swaps55]

This Hole You Left (Anderson)

Pairing: mShenko | Tags: Canonical Character Death, Grief

Post-Alchera. 

This is a stand-alone scene from a larger work, but I’m very fond of it, so I’m posting it on its own. 

~

Captain David Anderson stares out at the repair crews moving around the Presidium. Here, from the safe retreat of his office, it doesn’t look so bad. Scaffolding covers the damaged bridge. Debris still floats in the lake, turning the serene blue water a murky brown. The air circulators have almost cycled out the smell of soot and burnt alloy, but a trace of it still lingers. If he leans out far enough, the tip of the relay Shepard had barreled through using nothing but an M-35 Mako just four weeks ago is barely visible on his right periphery.

He doesn’t lean. Just as he doesn’t look at the datapad in his hand. Hearing the words come out of Joker’s mouth was enough. Seeing the helmsman’s face was enough. Anderson had remarked once to Shepard that he’d like to be there the day someone wiped the smartass off Joker’s face.

Shepard had snorted. Not me, sir, he’d said. If he gives up the smartass that probably means I’m fucked. I’d prefer my pilot remain an asshole at all times.

Shepard had been right, of course.

Anderson wipes a thumb across the corner of his eye. It’s all right. No one here to see.

They came back around for another pass, Joker had said, in a voice that was dull, dead, about as far a cry as you could get from the insubordinate ass who’d gone off on the stand in Vancouver just two weeks ago. Shepard had to be to blame for that display. Politics had never been his game.

We lost gravity right as he shoved me in the pod. Momentum from the blast…kicked him the wrong way. I didn’t see what happened after the door closed, but I didn’t need to. Drive core implosion doesn’t leave much to the imagination.

Anderson’s fingers grip the datapad harder. No. It doesn’t. That doesn’t stop his mind from filling in the blanks anyway.

All Shepard’s training. All the hell he’d put himself through to earn that N7 designation. There couldn’t have been a person more prepared to live through the Normandy’s destruction. And in the end, the realities of space had still won.

At least it had probably been quick. Probably.

The door to his office hisses open. For a moment, Anderson expects it to be Shepard. It should be Shepard. That son of a bitch has been putting Anderson’s heart in his throat since he was fourteen years old, but he’s never had the audacity to actually die. Hell, the kid had taken a reaper to the face and shrugged it off.

Kid. Shepard hasn’t been a kid in a long time, maybe never really was to begin with. But to Anderson, some part of Shepard would always be that fourteen-year-old with the thousand-watt grin and a glimmer in his eye that usually meant Anderson’s heart was about to leap into his throat. The smile had faded over time, but not that damned glimmer. He’d last seen it right here on the Citadel, when he’d stood up from the table at Flux Casino with plans to steal the Normandy right out from under the Council’s nose. And Anderson had helped him do it.

This can’t be how it ends. It can’t.

A voice speaks up behind him, crisp, formal. “You wanted to see me, sir.”

His expression tightens, but he smooths it out before he turns around. Lieutenant Alenko stands just inside the door to his office, shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back, chin in the air. Anderson can’t shake the feeling there’s an empty space next to him.

Probably because he’s never seen Alenko without Shepard.

Kaidan Alenko. Damndest thing.

Who do you want on your marine detail? Anderson had asked, after informing Shepard he was being transferred off the Myeongnyang and onto the Normandy.

You’re asking me?

I’m naming you XO. If there’s someone you want, just say the word.

Alenko.

Anderson hadn’t had a chance to blink before the name was out of Shepard’s mouth. Not another N. Not someone from the special ops teams Shepard had run when Anderson could pry him out of Captain Oseguera’s hands. He wanted the biotic from the ‘Yang.

Hackett was the one who’d argued for assigning Alenko to Shepard’s detail five years ago, when the dust from Torfan had finally settled. Anderson had thought it would be a mistake. Alenko’s file showed he could keep up with Shepard, sure. But Alenko embodied the kind of idealism Shepard would chew up and spit out.

If we’re going to put his mind right to get back on the front lines, he needs an anchor, Hackett had replied, with that calm, ice cold demeanor that has won him nearly every argument he’s ever been involved in. Alenko will do the job.

The old man had been right. Shepard didn’t get close to people, and that was before Torfan. But he’d gotten close to Alenko. Hell, Alenko probably deserves most of the credit for bringing Shepard back from the brink. Because after Torfan, Shepard had indeed been on the brink.

Alenko might be the one on the brink, now. There’s a look in his eye that Anderson recognizes, and it isn’t a good one.

“Sit down.”

Alenko shifts his weight. Not the sitting kind, then. Not today. Anderson’s going to take a wild guess that Alenko hasn’t stopped moving since the Marrakesh picked him up.

He sighs and remains standing, giving the lieutenant silent permission to do the same. “I thought you’d like to know we’re working with the elcor to get a salvage team to Alchera. We’re hoping they find the Normandy’s black box data. Be nice to get some clues on what the hell happened out there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hm. Brick wall is not Alenko’s usual MO, but that’s sure as hell what he’s talking to right now.

“Joker finished his debrief an hour ago,” Anderson goes on. “I assume you’ve heard his version of what happened.”

More shifting. The uncomfortable kind. Shepard’s done it more than a few times in Anderson’s various offices over the years.

“I haven’t, sir.”

Anderson takes a good, long look at him. He’s spent fifteen years worrying about Shepard. It’s never occurred to him to worry about Alenko.

“I see.” He exhales through his nostrils. “The Normandy was attacked by an unknown vessel. Whoever they were, Joker says they came out of nowhere. Shepard got him into the escape pod, but the ship lost gravity. He…well.”

Alenko stares straight ahead, silent. Anderson looks for a tell, but he only knows Shepard’s.

Alenko isn’t Shepard.

If this conversation is going to be one sided, Anderson needs backup. He moves to his desk, fishes a bottle out of a drawer that’s already half empty after being new just yesterday, and pours two glasses. He pushes one of them across the desk. Doesn’t occur to him until after the fact he has no idea if Alenko drinks scotch. It’s just one of the things Anderson and Shepard always agreed on.

“Have it if you want it,” he says, not up for bullying the lieutenant into a drink. “This is off the record.” He swallows half of his in one go, then heads back for the balcony. A few moments later, Alenko joins him, hands empty, still avoiding his gaze. There’s a chip in the brickwork, though. Not much, but something in his eyes wavers.

Yeah. It might be time to worry about Alenko. Losing two ships in the span of four weeks would do a number on anyone.

Except he doesn’t think it’s about either the Myeongnyang or the Normandy.

Anderson leans on the railing, gazing out at the wreckage of the Presidium. He takes another sip from his glass. “I’m sorry. I know he meant a lot to you.”

It takes Alenko so long to answer Anderson thinks he isn’t going to. But then some of the starch fades from his shoulders.

“He did.”

Anderson side eyes him. Had it been Shepard standing next to him, he might press. He could get Shepard to open up if he was careful enough. Sometimes.

But this isn’t Anderson’s business. And his own grief certainly isn’t Alenko’s business. But while most of the galaxy is preparing to mourn Commander Shepard, the soldier standing next to him might be the only person he knows who’s grieving for Sam. He swirls the remaining liquid in his glass.

“He was the most reckless SOB I’ve ever met,” Anderson says, watching a hanar drift along one of the intact pathways below them. “I’m pretty sure half the shit he pulled over the years was just to piss me off.”

Alenko raises an eyebrow ever so slightly in surprise, but doesn’t turn his head. “He’s always at his best when the plan goes to hell.”

“Since he was a kid,” Anderson agrees, not missing the fact that Alenko had referred to him in the present tense. “First time I ever laid eyes on him he was four. He’d wandered away from Daniel on Arcturus and he called in the cavalry to look for him. You know where I found him?”

Alenko shakes his head.

“In a fountain, playing with a model ship. I asked him what the hell his spaceship was doing in the water. He said, ‘I’m about to find out.’”

Alenko’s mouth curves in a brittle smile. “I didn’t know you knew him that young.”

“I doubt he remembered,” Anderson says. “His father and I were good friends. I dropped in on occasion while he was growing up.” 

Before Shepard was a soldier. Before he was the Butcher of Torfan or the Savior of the Citadel. Back when he was still Sam, all knees and elbows, so desperate to please he couldn’t sit still.

Anderson still misses that kid.

“He said you kept an eye on him when they shipped him to Ares Station.”

Anderson huffs. “Told you about that, did he.”

Alenko nods, resting his hands on the balcony railing.

Then Shepard had indeed trusted Alenko. Only a handful of people knew about Ares Station and Guthra Tulak. Shepard had been one of five kids sent to biotically train with the krogan, and the only one to realize any potential.

Leave it to the Alliance to come up with a program even riskier than BAaT. Leave it to Hannah Shepard to volunteer her own kid to be part of it. Anderson always wondered if Sam knew about Hannah’s role in Ares, and how hard Daniel fought to keep it from happening.

To Hannah, Sam was a legacy. To the Alliance, he’d been a tool with astronomical potential. Someone had needed to look out for the actual kid. Daniel had tried, but.

Losing Daniel still stings. What would he have thought about his Spectre son?

Hell, Anderson knows exactly what he’d have thought. He would have feared this day, this ending, with every breath he took. He’d wanted anything else for Sam. Anything but this.

And Anderson had helped him become everything Daniel was afraid of. Hell, what choice did he have? You couldn’t dissuade Sam from anything. Once he was target locked on something there was nothing you could do but get as many obstacles out of his way as possible and hope for the best. So that’s what Anderson had done. Mentored him, advocated for him, taken a few hits behind the scenes on his behalf and cleared the path as best he could. Maybe you couldn’t take the target out of Sam’s sights, but you could guide his aim to make sure he hit it dead to rights.

“He’s come a long way since then,” Anderson says, wincing when he realizes now it’s him who can’t let go of the present tense. “I wish I’d been at the inquest. From the secure feed it looked like he put an entire roomful of admirals on their asses. Would love to have seen it in person.”

Alenko stills, expression frozen in place like a mask. Whatever nerve Anderson just touched is a big one, so he steers the conversation in a new direction.

“Though what I really wish I could have seen is what he found to gripe about being stuck in atmosphere. The entire time he was in Rio for ICT, he never once complained about the work. Wouldn’t shut up about how much he hated humidity.”

The fragile smile returns. “He hated going down a well without a hardsuit.”

“Know what almost kept him from qualifying for N1?”

Alenko shakes his head.

“Bugs,” Anderson tells him. “Not twenty-hour days, not hostile terrain, not crawling around in the mud without food or sleep. It was the bugs that damn near washed him out.”

A laugh escapes the lieutenant. It’s a rusty sound. “That…doesn’t surprise me.”

Anderson smiles at the memory. “He got over it. Made it through, like he always did. Wish I’d told him more how…proud I was.”

“You meant a lot to him,” Alenko says, so quietly Anderson almost doesn’t hear him.

The lump that forms in Anderson’s throat takes him off guard. “He had a way of affecting everyone he ever met. I forget sometimes it could go the other way. He made it so easy to think he was fine on his own.”

“He wasn’t.”

Alenko’s stare remains fixed on the view from the balcony. Not many people saw the side of Shepard that needed anyone. Even Anderson only saw it on occasion. Alenko was so far from the kind of person Shepard would let his guard down in front of, but clearly he had.

If we’re going to put his mind right to get back on the front lines, he needs an anchor, Hackett had said. Alenko had done the job, all right.

Problem was, it looks like that had gone both ways.

Anderson draws in a breath. Might as well get this over with. “I called you here to ask if you would speak at the memorial.”

It’s going to be a spectacle, the likes of which Sam would have hated, but the Alliance sure as hell isn’t going to be denied their PR opportunity.

Alenko shifts his weight. He’s so damn still. Shepard would be pacing the room until Anderson wanted to strangle him.

“Is that an order, sir?”

“A request.”

“Then I respectfully decline.”

Anderson finishes his drink. “Can I ask why?”

Alenko’s grip on the railing tightens. “The Alliance cares about the symbol. I cared about the person. I can’t give them what they want.”

Anderson can’t help but wonder what the lieutenant would have to say. Shepard was so many different things to so many different people. What, exactly, was he to Kaidan Alenko?

Why Alenko? Anderson had asked Shepard back on Arcturus, the Normandy’s hull gleaming and new out the shutters.

Shepard had thought a long time before answering, like there was too much to say and not enough words to say it.

Because he grounds me.

The older Shepard had gotten, the rarer it was to get glimpses of Sam. Sometimes Anderson wondered if Sam still existed, or if he’d been swallowed up by the mantle everyone demanded he carry. But that answer had come from Sam.

“Ok,” Anderson tells Alenko. “I’ll hand it off to Hackett.”

“Why not you?” Alenko asks, looking in his direction for the first time.

Anderson gazes down at his empty glass. Twenty years ago he might have thrown it against the wall just to watch it shatter. Nowadays he thinks too hard about the mess it would make, and being the one who has to clean it up. “Because I cared about the person.”

Heavy silence settles between them.

“You should take some leave,” Anderson says. “You’ve more than earned it.”

“I’m fine,” Alenko replies, but that haunted look is back.

Soon enough you’re going to have to stop moving, son, Anderson thinks. After Torfan, Shepard had hit the same wall Alenko is cruising right towards. But Alenko isn’t Shepard, and he isn’t under his command anymore. All he can do is give him a hand if he asks for it, and from the looks of it he isn’t going to ask.

Not that it would matter. Anderson’s got no anchor to give him that could replace the one he lost.

“Just think about it. And get some sleep.” He gestures towards the door, freeing the lieutenant from further torture. While Alenko makes for the exit, Anderson heads for his desk and the untouched glass. No sense in letting it go to waste.

Alenko pauses at the doorway and looks back over his shoulder. “Rain.”

“I’m sorry?” Anderson asks with a frown.

“You wanted to know what he found to gripe about on Earth. It was the rain.” He looks away without waiting for a response and walks away.

That empty space Anderson thought he’d been imagining when Alenko walked in feels even larger, now. Yeah. Shepard sure knows how to leave a hole in people.

[unsettledink]

Sunbeams Find You - Fluffuary Day 28

Prompt: Dreams

Word Count: 1365

Summary: If Peter’s sleeping, he’s dreaming. And if he’s dreaming— it’s of Tony.

*

Peter dreams.

He dreams about Tony’s hands. About the myriad scars covering them, smear of something—oil or grease pencil or soot or something—that’s always present. That Peter always sees, because he can’t miss Tony’s hands. No one can, the way he talks with them. Not with the way he’s always flicking through his holographic interfaces, with the most delicate touch, the whole system so tightly keyed to him that his command gestures have become so subtle as to be almost unnoticeable. He always has to dial it back for anyone else to be able to use it, but not for Peter. Not anymore. 

He dreams of Tony’s hands, the warm pressure of them on his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the small of his back. All the acceptable places for Tony to touch him in public, that Tony touches him constantly, public or private. It’s a comfort to Peter, to have that little reminder that Tony is there. Tony is there for him, if needed, at his back; and it is at his back now, letting Peter lead, managing to let Peter make mistakes here and there, knowing that, with Tony, almost nothing is unsalvageable. 

He dreams of Tony’s smile, the showy grandstanding one he saves for TV and assholes. The one he’s never turned on Peter, the edge of it always softening. Thinks of the small, almost hidden smile Tony gets sometimes, when they’re alone, when they’re with Rhodey or Pepper or some of the Avengers. It’s this barely there, one sided thing, soft and absent minded, that creeps in when he’s watching someone he cares about more than he has words for.

He dreams of Tony’s smile, the really, truly happy one Peter’s been seeing more and more of. The one that starts so small and uncertain, like this might be a joke, and grows until his whole face is engaged, until every bit of him is loose and content for as long as Peter can make it last. Dreams of his voice, the ways it goes softer when that smile comes out, the way he can hear it when Tony smiles like that even in the armor. 

He dreams of the armor too, of Tony working on it, of it on him piecemeal, one hand and arm gleaming red gold, the boots weighing him down, the helmet tipped over on its side, the interior full of blinking lights. Dreams of Tony in it, the sound of it when it flies by Peter, the back draft when Tony shields him. The way the new nano arm creeps over him as it forms, a glittering tide that honestly creeps Peter out a little, still. It’s so responsive to Tony’s thoughts, to his commands, and Peter— Peter worries about those snap decisions Tony makes, about who they end up putting most at risk. 

He dreams of every minute he gets to spend with Tony, whether it’s working together or fighting or slumped over in the aftermath, both of them worn out and needing to know the other is whole. The time spent with Tony doing press for Spider-Man, or training, or shared with anyone else at all is still time Peter is grateful for, that Peter wants. But when there’s the chance for it, the best time is when they can just exist. The lure of a great burger or a stupid new ‘it’ food—Tony loves to try all of them, even if they’re terrible—is often enough to get Tony out of the shop and out of the lab and out of the tower for at least a little. Even if they’re not alone, Tony’s attention is for him and him alone. 

He dreams of all of those things, and he dreams of them— 

He dreams of Tony’s hands on him, fingers linked together and pinning Peter’s hands against the bed. Tony’s hands, spread across his chest and ticklish down his sides and tight around his cock, of them opening him up and spreading his legs and curled behind his head as Tony fucks him. Tony’s hands grasping at him, clinging and desperate and careful, even when Peter’s been teasing him, even when Tony’s cursing him, even when Tony comes so hard he can’t put words together afterwards. Dreams of his smile, when it’s directed at Peter, when it’s the absolute softest and fond and exposes every bit of what he’s feeling. Dreams of it when it’s fucking wicked and Peter knows he’s in for a hell of a go, when it’s sleepy and embarrassed and amused and every possible tinge it can have. 

He dreams of Tony’s voice, telling him all kinds of things, things that definitely cannot be said in public. Telling him how good he is, how hot, how much of a perfect little slut he can be. Demanding that he behave—and mostly laughing when he doesn’t—, that he come back here right this second, that he let Tony come please, god baby, please. Dreams of the armor, even, of Tony stepping out of it all sweaty and flushed and ruffled, of how he never really protests when Peter shoves him back against that shiny red shell and blows him. Dreams of every single second he gets with Tony, every moment their skin is touching, every morning he wakes up to Tony, every every every time Tony tells Peter he loves him and Peter says it back, a loop they never break. 

He dreams of— of other things, of— 

armor, shattered and piecemeal on Tony’s body, disintegrating under the slightest touch, dull and burnt out. Tony’s hands, shaking and covered in ash and still, raw with burns, open wounds. Dreams of Tony, Tony, of Tony nearly unconscious and so hurt he’s barely breathing and his stare, almost blank as he tracks Peter’s movement. Of Tony, god, Tony, being held back and kept away, of not making it in time, of not taking Tony’s hand, of watching him die again and again. Dreams the sickening sound of the blade in Tony’s side, the crackle of energy frying his armor, the horrible hiss of the ventilator and waiting, waiting and waiting and waiting for a miracle. 

Dreams and dreams and dreams, and they all fade when he wakes, the details lost to him forever. He’s left with fragments, a flash of a smile and a lingering touch of a hand and a whisper or two he can’t quite make out. An ache, deep in his chest and his stomach and his head that tells him he was dreaming about Tony, again. 

Wakes and blinks and for a moment, can’t distinguish dreams from reality, can’t tell if there’s a warm body next to him or not, if those are lips on forehead, if—

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he hears, overlaid with dreams. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Didn’t,” Peter murmurs. “Still dreaming.” 

There’s a small huff of laughter, the dip of the bed. “Sure you are.” 

Peter blinks again, his eyes feeling almost sticky. Scoots forward until he’s squished up against Tony’s back, wrapping his arms around him. He tangles his fingers with Tony’s bad hand and kisses the back of his neck. “Was,” he says. “And I was dreaming about you anyway. Missed you.”

“Kid, I was a whole two hours later to bed than you.”

“Missed you anyway.” Peter tightens his grip a little more, because they both always sleep a little better like that. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Tony’s good hand reaches up and touches the back of Peter’s hand, briefly. “I won’t,” Tony says. “Promise.”

Peter knows it’s true. Knows he’ll wake up and Tony will be there, that Tony will be sleepy and a little cranky and mutter about old bones when he goes to get up. Knows that Tony will throw a pillow at him if Peter tries to go back to sleep after Tony’s up, that Tony will automatically still try to reach for things with the wrong arm and go tight-lipped and silent for a bit, that if Peter lets Tony try and make anything for breakfast it’s going to end in smoke.

Knows that dreaming is good, but waking up is even better.

*

AO3

[winterhawkwonderland]

2020 Exchange Round up!

It’s here!!! An easy to find complete list of works from our 2020 Winterhawk Wonderland Exchange event. It is listed by title of work and author or artist, and includes rating, summary, and word count (if applicable). Our event excluded any of the AO3 Big Four warnings, but please do check tags and warnings on each work before diving in, just in case you find something there that squicks or triggers you!

Once again, thank you all so much for participating and making this a great event! Love the Winterhawk fandom!

If you do not see your work listed, please contact the Mods and we will update the post - all works were pulled from the AO3 Collection, but it’s possible we overlooked something or made a mistake! Additionally - Tumblr (in true Tumblr fashion) would not let us tag some creators - their names are on the list but the hyperlink doesn’t work. We apologize for the technical difficulty, but have no way of fixing broken Tumblr links. Please know that no offense was intended. 

The 300 Club by @fosterthefuture for @gwhell. Rated T, 10,109 words “Me here?” Bucky asks, a little hysterically. “What do you expect me to do, be the one to haul your frozen body in from the snow bank you inevitably fall into and die in?”Clint chuckles, as though what Bucky’s asked is completely illogical, which it decidedly is not. “Nah, you can suit up if you want to come along to make sure I stay on track, but I’ll make it back just fine. I really just need you to be here to make sure the door stays open, help me get my boots off and into those blankets when I get back.”“Clint,” Bucky asks, eyes now closed. “Please tell me you wouldn’t do this if you were completely alone.”The silence that emanates from the sauna is telling.“Well,” Clint finally says, “I’m trying to not get into the habit of lying to you, Barnes.”

40k misunderstandings by @verdantbogmoth for @flawsinthevoodoo. Not Rated, 3,280 words. “Are they real?” Bucky gasps. “Who keeps bags of real rose petals just lying on hand?”“Tony, for special random events and for us to steal to have fun with,” Clint supplies helpfully. “Where do they go?”“Everywhere,” Bucky decides. “The couch, the table, the fucking tv stand.” Clint pops the bag and they spend several minutes turning Bucky’s living area into a very perfumed, petal draped nightmare. “Oh, my god.” Bucky says gleefully. “It looks like a porno,” Clint claps. “A serial killer porno!” Bucky amends. “This is fantastic. Why aren’t rose petals everywhere, always. Why don’t more people just throw them around for any old event?”

[ART] Christmas fluff by @elynehil for @chekov-in-a-dress. Rated G. Winterhawk Wonderland gift :)

[ART] Cooking By The Book by @not-the-blue for @thegrowingwordsmith. Rated G.  Clint attempts a holiday recipe from Bucky's childhood. He... might need a second attempt.

[art] i (heart) hawkeye by @gwhells for @lantaniel. Rated G. Art for lantaniel for the Winterhawk wonderland gift exchange!

[ART] i still feel this way when light catches your face by @quicksillver for @sevdrag. Rated G. Winterhawk Wonderland gift! :)

An Affinity for Elf Culture by @bella-dahlia for @trekchik. Rated T. 8,501 words. When Bucky Barnes was told he would be doing press and community outreach as part of his prosthetic program, no one mentioned to him it would involve dressing up like an Elf from the North Pole.The hella cute blonde elf in head to toe purple hadn't been brought up either.Hiding in his hoodie wasn't going to be an option, was it?

All I Want for the Holidays Is You by @merelypassingtime for @flowerparrish. Rated G. 7,205 words. Clint obligingly took the last name in the hat. Unfolding it he read the name, Bucky. Crap. What was he supposed to do with that? When Clint draws Bucky’s name for the Avengers holiday gift exchange, he struggles to find the perfect gift.

as long as it’s with you by @theproblemwithstardust for @theonlyceeceej. Rated T. 2,651 words. Clint didn’t know when the thing between him and Bucky became an actual thing. At some point the banter had evolved from a fun and engaging way to pass the time into a weirdly competitive game of flirting chicken.

A bad day turned good by @gabrielsammysangel for @misterknife. Rated G. 1,115 words.  Clint Barton was having a bad day, one kiss to take it all away. Aka how a full bad day can be wipped away when you have a good boyfriend.

Bandages and Soot by @fanbinbun for @hawkguyandthewinterdude. Rated T. 2,358 words. “Oh, you’re new. Hi! I’m Clint. I come here often.” “I have been warned.” Bucky said with amusement curling his lips. “Got a name, or should I just give in and start calling you ‘hot nurse’?”

Because of Coffee and a Chocolate Doughnut. by @jazzrose343 for @loonyloopylisa. Rated M. 5,257 words. Bucky is an Actor. Clint is stunt actor and coordinator. Shenanigans Happen

Better Than Fine by @vexbatch for @theproblemwithstardust. Rated T. 4,439 words. Clint promised Kate he'd bring a plus one to her engagement party, but now he needs to find one. Maybe Bucky will do him a favor? Maybe Clint's crush on Bucky won't be a problem for said favor?

[ART] The Cat doesn't agree by @misterknife for @Inktastic1711. Rated G.  5 words. Clint was determined to get the best family photo this year. Except now he's pretty sure that fighting alien hoards or doombot armies might actually be easier than wrangling a cat into a sweater.Bucky says that Alpine's sorry.Clint thinks she might kill him in his sleep.

cause it's just what you must do by @sevdrag for yamyamyam. Rated T. 3,399 words. Clint ducks away at Tony's holiday party for a breather. Little does he know this closet is occupied.

Christmas With the Barnes's by @jstabe for @claraxbarton. Rated T. 3,163 words. He knows Clint is nervous. If he’s honest, he is a little too. He and Clint have been dating just shy of two years but with their hectic work schedules, it’s rare for them to have full days off together so Clint isn’t used to large family gatherings.

The Common Room by @trekchik for @nana-evans. Rated E. 1094 words. No one knows they're together. Right?

Communication is key by @averyrogers83writes for @harishe-art. Rated G. 3,434 words. Bucky screws up and pisses Clint off possibly ruining any chance of having more than a working relationship with the archer.

[ART] Cookies For Two by madnerding for @hopelessly-me. Rated G. 29 words.  My prompt was for cookie decorating and I hope I delivered. Enjoy!

Coping Mechanisms by @mariana-oconnor for @feathers-and-cigarettes. Rated E. 4,321 words. After the events of Freefall, Clint Barton is exhausted, bruised and on everyone's Most Wanted list. Luckily, or unluckily, it's Bucky Barnes who ends up finding him.

Cover Me by @downwarddnaspiral for @feedmecookiesnow. Rated M. 8,618 words. Clint and Bucky end up off the grid and in close quarters. Featuring the world’s crappiest safehouse, a semi-retired spy, and an assassin with strong opinions about the cold.

Delicate, hand wash only by @mollynoble for @pherryt. Rated E. 6,074 words.  “Hey, Buck, what do you need?” Clint moved closer, he wanted to reach out but he resisted the urge, that could be a bad idea right now. “What can I do to help?” He pitched his voice low and soothing. There was a pause, then Bucky's eyes focused on him. “Right now all I want is a bath and then sleep.”

Draw Me Like One of Your Frenchmen by @alchemistdoctor for @thwip. Rated M. 1,410 words. This is written for andthwip in the winterhawk wonderland exchange, who requested sexting during inappropriate times, date night ends in trying a new kink, or getting off in the field. I managed the first two!

Fate or Natasha by bear_shark for @kidd-you-not. Rated G. 1,663 words.  How it ended: Bucky watched the rise and fall of Clint’s chest while he slept. Every few minutes, he would snuffle and rub his face against Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s phone pinged, and he carefully checked his texts. Natasha: How did your date with Clint go? Bucky sat up quickly, jostling Clint. “What the hell?” 

The Fight Before Christmas by @theonlyceeceej for @jstabe. Rated E. 4,040 words. Now, don’t let it be said that Bucky couldn’t take a joke. He could. Really. But sometimes it was just too much. Clint was just too much. Clint is the epitome of a schoolboy with a crush; Pulling pigtails, calling names, the lot! Ok, maybe it was more than a crush, judging by the many thoughts about being thrown around by the Winter Soldier. He just needed to get his attention... But will it work?

For This by @endof-theline for @elynehil. Rated G. 5,652 words. Bucky and Clint are moving in together and it's not just the boys we have to worry about, because Lucky and Alpine are moving too!

Getaway Car by @feedmecookiesnow for @genderfluid-and-confuzled. Rated G. 4,405 words. The guy regains his balance and starts running again. He slips one more time, slides a little more, and then suddenly he’s right next to the car, fumbling at the handle of the passenger side door. A blast of cold wind comes as he yanks it open, practically falling into the seat in a swirl of snowflakes. “Go, go!” he yells, and Clint goes. He doesn’t even question it, just slams the car into drive and shoots out into the street, skidding a little on the ice.

Guardian Angel by @chrissihr for @spacetimeconundrum. Rated T. 3,469 words. Clint attracts strays like moths to flame. All he wanted to do was bring home a puppy he found in a box marked ‘free’ in crayon. It was just sitting out in the rain under the awning in front of his neighborhood pizza place.He couldn't just leave it there ... right?

Hit Me With Your Best Shots by @thegrowingwordsmith for @fosterthefuture. Rated G. 2,185 words. As a barista, Bucky has witnessed a lot of crazy customers and their creations. He has made drinks with so much syrup that there was barely room for coffee, and gotten orders with so many modifications that it had to print on multiple stickers. None, however, even came close to the strangeness of Too Much Caffeine guy.

[ART] How do you like them apples? by @lantaniel for @vexbatch. Rated G.  Because Clint is incapable of 1.doing a calm activity, and 2.not climbing a tree.

Howl by @drgrlfriend for @mariana-oconnor. Rated T. 9,729 words. Excerpt: Bucky gets that uncomfortable feeling again, like he missed something. Lost time maybe. It’s been happening less and less, but it still happens. “I don’t know what you mean.” The man runs a broad hand up the back of his neck, mouth pulling to the side as he seems to consider his words. “Skin feels too tight sometimes? Feels like you gotta keep moving, but no place feels right? Got an ache deep in your bones that you just can’t seem to get rid of?” “What —” Bucky swallows, the rest of the sentence jagged in his throat. He knows there are Avengers who are witches, or telepaths, or whatever, but he’d never heard of Hawkeye being one of them. “How are you — are you in my head? —”

[ART] I got you by @vexedbeverage for @gabrielsammysangel. Rated T. 100 words. I decided I wanted to do some art but then my writing brain told me I couldn't stop there. I've never done a drabble before so I thought I'd give it a try!

I Love How Your Soul is A Mix of Chaos and Art by @flawsinthevoodoo for @merelypassingtime. Rated T. 5,745 words. This is basically a 5+1 where Clint "Borrows" a great many hoodies as a coping mechanism and Bucky decides Clint needs to be a part of his life, not just his laundry.

if these wings could fly by @flowerparrish for @hawksonfire. Rated M. 4,018 words. He waits a few moments, pretty sure he’s going to have to start knocking again, when the door swings open. There’s Bucky, shirtless, disheveled, wings spread out behind him like some kind of tragic painting of an angel. Not that Clint knows much about art, but with the dark colors and dim lights he thinks this could totally have been something one of those old dudes dreamed up.

It Must be Winter in my Heart by @harishe-art for @jazzrose343. Rated G. 3,055 words. It's the holiday season and for some reason Clint and Bucky keep getting mistaken as a couple. They hadn't even planned to meet up most of them time. Why does this keep happening to them?

It was Only a Winter's Tale by @harishe-art for @averyrogers83. Rated G. 1,628 words.  Clint and Bucky prepare to celebrate their first winter holiday together when Bucky has a realization during an argument.

it was peace by @loonyloopylisa for @drgrlfriend. Rated G. 1,932 words. “Um, hi, I’m Bucky?” he said, hating himself for the way it came out like a question. “Hi Bucky,” the man answered, a wide smile on his tan face, “I’m Clint. What can I do for you?” Inwardly thankful for this therapist for making him practice he said, “I was wondering if you had any volunteer opportunities?” Clint gave him a considering look, bright blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Bucky was sure he was assessing him and finding him lacking, taking in the missing arm and coming up with a reason Bucky wouldn’t fit in. He was bracing himself for the rejection when Clint said, “sure.”

A Kind of Magic by @sian1359 for bear_shark. Rated G. 7.034 words. Bucky has some help adapting from being Hydra's Winter Soldier to becoming the Avenger's Winter Soldier

Lilac you a lot by @hawkguyandthewinterdude for @harishe-art. Rated T. 6,490 words.  It starts with one purple sock and just escalates from there.

Lost Time by @lissadiane for @vexedbeverage. Rated T. 10,029 words. Clint’s always known the universe doesn’t like him all that much. But all he knows now, as his heart beats out a rhythm and there isn’t a heartbeat to harmonize with it, is that he’s found his soulmate -- and he’s been dead for over 70 years. It’s ironic. It burns. It shouldn’t surprise him. Barney won’t be surprised. Barney’s been saying the universe has it out for them for Clint’s whole life. And this is just further proof. In which soulmates exist but Clint's parents are proof that sometimes, they go terribly wrong.

The Maybe To Your Story by @kangofu-cb for @mollynoble. Rated E. 5,162 words. Bucky walked out of the shared bathroom whistling under his breath, happily ignoring Steve’s groan as he whipped off the towel around his waist to half-assedly swipe at the water droplets on his shoulders. “Oh, you’re still here?” he asked blithely, toweling at his hair. “Might want to shake a leg before you get an eyeful of something you want to see even less than my dick.” “I’m going, I’m going,” Steve grumbled. “Fuck. Can’t believe I’m getting sexiled for the third time this week. For Barton.” Or, instead of talking about their feelings, Clint and Bucky decide to fuck about it.

my hands no longer an afterthought by @shatteredhourglass for @quicksillver. Rated T. 2,922 words. Bucky's moving on with his life. Shaking off the Soldier. There's still that one nagging, blond idiot-shaped regret, though.

Nowhere to go but with you by Lacerta for @sian1359. Rated G. 5,905 words. Clint fights the urge to cross his arms, keeping them hanging loosely by his sides instead, and forces himself to relax his shoulders. It’s just a small precaution in case he needs to react fast but, god, he hopes it doesn’t come to that. He doubts any precaution that doesn’t include a loaded weapon would help him last more than a minute. He watches the man sitting across the kitchen table from him, curled in on himself under Clint’s warmest blanket with his hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, and tries to wrap his head around the very unusual, very alarming situation he has gotten himself into.

On The Fifth Day of Christmas, The Winter Soldier Stole For Me..... by @ch3ls3ara3 for @alchemistdoctor. Rated T. 8,178 words.  “Are these pears? Why the hell is there a pear tree in my apartment?” he asked Lucky who was now sitting patiently, staring up at the bird with his tongue hanging out and tail wagging. “What is happening?” Clint Barton knew he was a disaster, it never really shocked him anymore when he ended up in strange situations. These twelve days leading up to Christmas, though? Those days he would have never seen coming.

the one where Clint hates christmas horror by @thwip for @bella-dahlia. Rated M. 2,898 words. “We take turns, Clint. This week is Nat’s turn, next week is yours,” Tony quips, sipping from his own mug. “We can watch The Holiday, for the third year in a row, then.” Clint opens his mouth and starts to protest Tony’s eye roll because The Holiday is a cinematic masterpiece and Kate Winslet may give her best performance yet, Tony! Not to mention Cameron Diaz! Singing Mr Brightside! It’s a great film, when the front door opens and Bucky and Steve walk in, laughing about something. Clint's mouth snaps shut and his eyes immediately flicking towards Bucky, admiring the way the navy fabric of his henley clings to the thick biceps that are almost bursting out of it.

Operation Snowbound by RedTeamShark for @heartonfirewrites. Rated G. 4,048 words. The mission is a simple job: tag a convoy as it drives through the pass and then skedaddle back down the mountain. Easy enough that Clint could do it in his sleep. And he doesn’t even have to pull the trigger, that’s what Bucky’s there for. Until an unexpected weather event leaves the two of them stranded on a mountainside in a blizzard, battling the cold, Clint’s taste in coffee, and Bucky’s idea of idle conversation.

Outside the World by @pherryt for @verdantbogmoth. Rated G. 4,767 words. Bucky doesn't really remember who he is, and what little he does remember is impossible. All his therapists have said so. There's no way he can be who he thinks he is - a character from a children's book.And yet, the world around him just doesn't *feel* right - its too dark, too colorless and doesn't match the vibrancy of his dreams. Dreams he tries to capture both on paper and on his walls.Bucky doesn't have any answers he can count on, just the hat he's kept all these years, but that guy that started following him - as vibrant and eye-catching as the pieces of Bucky's dreams -Well, he just might.

The Prince's "Delivery Boy" by allyouneedissleep for @endof-theline. Rated T. 4,917 words. He wouldn’t have any issues at all with the secrecy rules stating that only people in confirmed legal marriages could tell their significant other about their job if he was planning to marry anyone except the Prince who was first in line to take over as King of Brooklyn after his marriage went through. Clint was about to effectively become Queen of Brooklyn and he couldn’t even tell his fiance what he did for a living. As far as Bucky knew, he was a delivery boy. A DELIVERY BOY.

[ART] Snow Way Out! by @inktastic1711 for @fanbinbun. Rated G. 24 words. Prompt: While on a mission, Clint and Bucky end up on an impromptu sledding trip down the snowy hill/mountain to escape the bad guys. Bonus points if the sled isn't actually a sled.

Snowed In by @chekov-in-a-dress for @ch3ls3ara3. Rated T. 4,332 words.  Secret Santa Story for CarafeOfColdBrew! Dad Bucky and his daughter Nat are on their way to Bentonsport where Bucky is supposed to check out a possible site to build a resort when they get overwhelmed by a snowstorm. How lucky that they get pointed to a bed and breakfast owned by a certain handsome dork.

So much to say (I just can't speak) by @hopelessly-me for Allyouneedissleep. Rated T. 3,260 words. Bucky has never considered himself the jealous type. But when Steve and Clint start hanging out more and more, Bucky starts pulling back to protect his own feelings.

Some Luck by @claraxbarton for @not-the-blue. Rated T. 3,558 words. “Cowboys?” he asked. Judith smiled at him. “I love to give my darlings what they want.”

a storm is comin' in by @heartonfirewrites for @chrissihr. Rated T. 9,686 words. Sasquatches don’t exist. Clint is sure of it. So what’s that fuckin' bigass yeti doing outside Tony’s upstate cabin in the middle of a nor’easter, looming ominously and ruining Clint’s plans for a quiet Christmas alone with Lucky?

Time and Time Again by @pherryt for @shatteredhourglass. Rated E. 6,497 words. The past has a way of catching up to people and Clint knows that better than most. Despite that ingrained life lesson, he still doesn't expect it when a part of Steve's past turns out to also be part of Clint’s. He's... not sure where to go from here.

too cold to feel (but i know you're there) by @hawksonfire for @trashcanakin. Rated T. 1,983 words.  Clint’s been cold his whole life. He doesn’t mind, really, has learned to always keep a pair of gloves on him, even in the summer. He gets weird looks for it, but he stopped caring what people thought of him a long time ago. His apartment has always got spare blankets laying around, and his dresser is jam packed with thick pairs of socks.

[ART] A Walk in the Woods by @spacetimeconundrum for @downwarddnaspiral. Rated T.  One finds the strangest things in the woods...

What's a Guy Like You Doing in a Place Like This by @sevdrag for @kangofu-cb​. Rated T. 8,091 words. A 5+1 fic for Winterhawk Wonderland: Five Times It Wasn't A Date, and One Time It Actually Was.

Word Search by yamyamyam for RedTeamShark. Rated T. 3,858 words. Bucky doesn't understand why he should have to see a doctor about a measly little bullet wound. Steve doesn't understand why that would be optional, Jesus Christ, Buck, we can have nice things now. Clint doesn't understand why he can't visit Bucky in the super-secure lockdown ward. The NYFD doesn't understand why Clint can't get out of a baby swing without the jaws of life. Natasha doesn't understand why she puts up with any of these idiots.

[ART] You Come Here Often? by @trashcanakin​ for Madnerding. Rated G.  winterHawk in the vents.

You had me at Loathing by @kidd-you-not​ for Lacerta. Rated T. 5,715 words. "What?" he asks absolutely no one, completely baffled. Movement to his left catches his eye and he twists around, still hanging from the balcony railing by his legs, and gapes. There, right there on the adjourning apartment building, is a man. A man clad all in black, with chestnut brown hair falling to his chin and a mask covering the lower part of his face. Holding a sniper rifle in his right hand and giving Clint a mocking little salute with the left. "Motherfucker!" Clint screams. Hawkeye and the Winter Soldier work for competing companies. Unfortunately for everyone involved, they cross paths on more jobs than either of their handlers can endure.

Honorable Mention:

The Opposite of Love by @teeelsie-posts for @loonyloopylisa. Rated E. 10,000 words. You know that social media post where the guy says he’s a felon and he’ll come terrorize your family for Thanksgiving in exchange for a free meal? Yeah, that’s what this is. Except that Clint is Clint, and Bucky is Bucky, and they’re both Avengers, but Clint’s family is a bunch of assholes and Bucky decides to help him out with that. Oh, and it’s Christmas, not Thanksgiving. Mod Note: This fic was begun for last year’s exchange then discarded for another idea, but Teeelsie finished it unexpectedly and asked permission to include it in this year’s collection and we were happy to allow that. Please enjoy!

[selfwriting-sugarquills]

Something more infinite Chapter 7 [FINAL]. If your last words aren’t “I love you too,” I’m personally gonna go to the afterlife, bring you back and kill you again.

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |

A/n: Sorry this took literally months to get finished. What a ride it's been. Hope you're all well.

warnings: Oh it's angsty. Descriptions of death, injury and violence.

word count: 2.6K

This was really happening. You have to remind yourself for the third time just tonight, here huddled together with dozens of your former fellow students and friends in the room of requirement. You’d known it was coming, the end of the war. It had to end at some point, and your family had kept up with the portable radio you’d brought with you on the run (you’d taken to wander the surroundings of your tent and have your father relay the information to you, as to avoid listening to the voice of George, which caused a flurry of emotions in you that you simply didn’t have the time or energy for in the freezing English countryside)

Once ‘River’ had started to hint at the coming battle, you’d dug out your old DA coin. You’d grown quite attached to it, as it reminded you of a simpler time, where your biggest concern had been coming up with witty comebacks to George, not how to survive should you be caught by a snatcher or death eater. And when said coin began to heat up in your pocket, in the wee hours of the morning on May 2nd, you knew it. It was happening. The directions on the coin were plain and short:

Get to the Hog’s Head. Seek Aberforth.

You didn’t really feel like you had a choice in the matter, though something tugged at you as you climbed through the portrait hole. George. There was no way he wouldn’t have gotten the call from the DA too. Would he be there? and if he was, would he care that you were? Trying to push your more sentimental thoughts of the ginger to the back of your mind, you focus instead on trying not to fall as you feel your way through the tunnel until there’s a smell of coffee and heat from a fireplace and the murmur of voices greeting you as you reach the room of requirement. Friends greet you, make small talk and embrace you. More people arrive after you, and there’s a nice moment of relieved sighs and laughter as friends speak face to face for the first time in months. It’s quiet but the most genuinely happy most of you have felt in a long time. Finally, resisting the urge to ask for him, you look around to try and spot him.

But he’s not there. One of your friends must have noticed you looking around, for they inform you that him, Fred, Lee and other members of the order won’t be here until later, something had held them up, you don’t hear much through your disappointment, which was silly, you knew that. But a part of you had really hoped to be able to see him before everything goes down.

As Harry, Ron and Hermione arrive with Neville there’s an even bigger wave of emotion going through the room, one big enough to break the silence completely with cheers and applause for the scruffy-looking kids who look more tired and wrung out than anyone their age ever should in your opinion. They ask for your help, all of you, to help them find the Horcruxes. The last pieces of the puzzle.

What are they? They don’t know.

Not good.

Where are they? They don’t know that either.

Really not good.

“We think it’s hidden somewhere in the castle, but that’s all we have to go on, for now, so we’ll just have to search everywhere,” Says Harry, clearly unhappy with the conditions of the hunt himself,

“Well that’s not exactly going to be easy,” Says Seamus,

“No but it won’t be impossible,” counters Ginny, who looks determined. And so you all split up, searching everywhere, you ended up talking to a portrait for possible clues at the hospital wing,

“Well fancy seeing you here,”

You pull out your wand by pure instinct. Months of being on edge have made you somewhat jittery, your fingers knowing the motion of grabbing your wand and pointing it at any unexpected noise all too well.

It’s only when you take in his face, his eyes, the bright red, unmistakable hair that you let your hand fall to your side.

“George,” You say, heart pounding.

And there he is, in the flesh. He looks a little scruffy, very tired (as do you and you really can’t blame him) but he’s there! He’s breathing! And now you’re slapping pathetically at him while tears of rage fill your eyes,

“Ow! Y/n- Hey!” He wrestles himself free from you, holding you at an arm's length,

“Months!” You shriek, “It’s been bloody months since we’ve spoken and that’s what you say?!” Maybe it’s the fatigue or the paranoia or maybe the unresolved business between you but you’re sobbing now, wiping at your face with your sleeves, sure that they only smudge the dirt on your face. He tries to pull you toward him but you jerk away from him, you don’t want him to be soft now, you don’t have time for the conversation you both need to have right now, you remind yourself to pull yourself together, there’s a war going on for Godrick’s sake!

“Don’t worry about me,” you tell him courtly, though your sniffling makes it less credible, his brown eyes are soft as they look you over,

“Just,” you gesture around you, “not now,” he looks confused for a split second, then nods.

“What are you doing?” He asks then and it’s clear in his intonation that he really wants to ask how you’re doing, you pretend you don’t notice that and instead point to the painting,

“We’re searching for the last Horcrux, I’ve been asking the portraits if they know anything,”

“Any luck?” He asks, crossing his arms,

“Nope,” You pucker your lips in annoyance,

“Would you like some help?” He asks, a ghost of the sly smile that’s haunted you for months sneaking onto his lips, You sigh,

“As much as it pains me, yes, George, I could use your help,”

He looks far too pleased with that response, you think to yourself as he begins to chat with a portrait further down the hall.

Asking the portraits leads you nowhere, and so you end up back in the room of requirement along with several others who’ve had no such luck either.

You and George wait together while people file into the room announcing that they’ve not found anything.

“So, about that night,” He begins, though he halts at the look you shoot him, his brows raise, “not yet?”

You gesture around, “does it look like the war is over yet?”

“Well, we don’t know how long that will take,” He counters, “So I think we should talk about it now before it’s too late,” You roll your eyes, you’d once heard him use a similar excuse to chat up a girl at a party once, “What if the world ends tomorrow?” it hadn’t worked then, and it wasn’t working now,

“I’d rather we don’t, George,” You say,

“Why not?” He asks, grabbing your attention with the sudden change of tone in his voice, which is now quiet but demanding, “Are you so against us being happy together? Really?”

“Yes, I am,” You say, feeling heat rise to your cheeks,

“Why?” He demands,

“Because, George, we don’t do happy, we’ve hated each other for years, I don’t think one shag is going to change the fact that we haven’t been compatible for nearly a decade,” you say,

“Oh I wouldn’t say we weren’t compatible,” he grumbles, and when you’re about to ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean there’s a voice booming through the room announcing that you all need to come to the great hall,

“Something’s happening!”

The next moments are difficult to place, hazy through the adrenaline fog that fills your body and brain, the great hall, Snape leaving, Voldemort’s voice echoing through the halls like an angry phantom haunting the castle’s inhabitants, the sullen look you share with George as it becomes clear to all present: This ends tonight, and it’s not going to be pretty.

Somehow George stays by your side as the fighting starts, you don’t know how he manages to keep track of you. You move at a fast pace from place to place, hoping it will help you stay alive but somehow there’s never a moment where you’re caught in a fight where George isn’t there, it’s first later that you realise it’s because he knows you, he knows all your routes through the castle.

You shoot a jinx at a death eater, paralyzing him before you,

“Nice one,” he says,

You allow a quick smile at him, “thanks,” then as if on queue, a sharp pain hits your chest, and you fall to the ground, the pain pounds and seems to vibrate inside you, sending waves of pain out through your limbs like an electric current. From the cold stone floors of the corridor you used to wander so often as a child, you hear the echoes of shouts and the sound of curses and spells being thrown through the air, the impact of them hitting flesh and the impact of bodies hitting the ground,

Then he’s by your side. You’re laying hopelessly and it hurts, even more, to see his expression as he examines your body, a look of exasperation on his face. He grabs your hand, and places his other hand behind your back, pulling you closer to him. You’re sure the battle isn’t over but somehow it’s quiet in the corridor there, with just you and him together, the same you had been for years and years, the thoughts of yours and his rivalry only makes the tears flow easier,

“I really wish I wasn’t crying,” you say behind gritted teeth, “I want you to remember me as the cool person I was, the one who could fully kick your ass not... this,” you gesture vaguely down your body. George lets out a quiet laugh as a tear trickles down his face leaving a trail of clean skin through his sooted and dust-covered face,

“oh, not you too,” you say as more warm tears spill out down your cheeks, they tickle your ears and caress your hair and you don’t try to stop them anymore, you find you somehow don’t have the power to fight them, which sends a wave of anxiety through you. Your breath hitches and you gasp for air, trying desperately to keep your breathing steady, but it feels as if someone’s put a foot on your chest letting it bear more and more of their weight, and George’s eyes widen,

“Oh no, you don’t get to die on me, not now, not like this,” he says, grabbing at your body as if hoping to find a cure hidden somewhere, “Y/n, I mean it, don’t-” his voice breaks off and he bites his lip hard, he doesn’t even sense how hard until he tastes his own blood,

“Don’t leave me,” if you weren’t already crying the sound of his voice sounding so fragile and desperate and almost childlike certainly would have you bawling by now but you’re more occupied with your eyes which insist on closing despite you wanting to look George in the eye more than anything,

“It can’t end like this,” he says, pleading to no one in particular, “it’s not supposed to be like this. You’re supposed to be here always, we were supposed to be together,” he says, sniffling to contain the sobs that are aching to burst from his chest, you muster a small smile at the dark blob with ginger hair in front of you, eyes half-closed,

“Gee, Weasley, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you love me or something,” you don’t recognise the wispy voice that speaks but you know the teasing intonation is your own,

“I do,” he says, you feel a large hand tighten on your shoulder as he pulls you even closer to him, “I love you so bloody much that you can’t even fathom it,” now he sobs as the reality of the situation settles on him. Your lip quivers somewhat uncontrollably, and you want to reach up and touch his face because of course, this stupid boy loves you, just like you love him, even if he’s also your worst nightmare he’s yours nevertheless, and you wouldn’t want to live a day without him annoying you endlessly. Yes. That’s what your relationship is supposed to be: endless. Endless teasing, but just beneath it a more infinite affection, a love as endless as your bickering.

“Do you? that’s funny,” you say, your head falls back onto his arm. You can’t see anymore, something tucks at your navel, something unlike like how apparating tucks at you, where it pulls you in hastily, this feeling gropes at your very core, beckons you to come with its long fingers, seducing you into its darkness. Infinite darkness. Weren’t you just thinking about something infinite? a loud, almost animal cry echoes through the dark to you and you free yourself from the tugging feeling just enough to feel George’s chest shake as he weeps,

“Because I love you too.” You say before you succumb and dive into oblivion.

***

The first thing you hear is a beep. Then another. Again. Beep. Beep. Beep. it speeds up as you think to yourself just how irritating that beep is. Just like the darkness tugged you into itself, it seems to have spat you out again. No matter how much you long to escape the beeping and snuggle back into the vast darkness, you find yourself just staring at your own eyelids instead. Much less interesting darkness indeed. You open them, blinking a few times before you realise that you’re in a hospital, which explains the beeping but doesn’t make it any less annoying.

“You’re awake,” the sound of his voice startles you. You lock eyes. Yours wide in shock, his are swollen and tired. You let yourself rest back onto your pillow with a sigh, closing your eyes again to shield them from the stark hospital lighting,

“You always were sharp, George,” you say, your voice grainy and raw. Speaking brings tears to your eyes and you realise how thirsty you are. You feel the mattress dip under his weight as he sits down on the side of your bed. You feel his fingers move a piece of hair away from your face and most unusually, you don’t slap his hands away or scowl at him. You smile. When you do open your eyes he’s smiling at you too, and you take in this different version of George. This George is not young, bursting with energy with a gleam in his eyes. This George is older, somehow aged beyond his 23 years of age, with ginger stubble on his unshaven, pale face, his eyes are dark and covered by a shadow of exhaust. His hair is ruffled and messy as if he’s run several hands through it. You long to touch it, to touch him. You have hardly touched him in an affectionate manner and it’s all too exciting,

“You look like shit, Weasley,” you say, smirking. He looks shocked for a split second before a ghost of his old grin shapes itself on his face,

“And I was just about to offer a truce,” he says,

You stick out your tongue at him, “I shall never stand down, you know that by now,” he leans in, and just before your lips meet, he whispers, “Believe me, I know.”

_____________________________________________________________

taglist: @schlongbottom-neville @cardboardbenmazzello @unseensilver @mochamiilk @quie-pls @sarcasticalphaofthelooserspack

[recycledcactus]

c!Wilbur & Eight by Sleeping At Last analogy

because apparently c!Wilbur was based off that song? Link here

!!!!Okay so this is not all in canonical order. It’s just based on every lyric/line!!!!

Most of it is during the Pogtopia arc and Wilbur insanity arc though.

For @soot-spots I hope you like it. It’s written very weirdly and not like a regular analogy so bear with me here:

Lyrics are in italics like this [My analogies are bolder and in brackets like this]

I remember the minute It was like a switch was flipped I was just a kid who grew up strong enough To pick this armor up And suddenly it fit

[I think here, during the unknown of time before L’Manburg and after his childhood, Wilbur is thinking about his past with Philza. How Philza ‘raised’ him, AKA was an absent parent half the time. He knew how to survive, yes, and he knew Phil was somewhat proud of him. But Wilbur always felt he needed to prove himself. Techno constantly had Phil’s attention, so Wilbur wanted some for himself. He forced the metaphorical armour to fit. He forced himself to be responsible and strong. To act like he knows what he’s doing. People believed him, they followed him, so maybe the armour could fit.]

God, that was so long ago, long ago, long ago I was little, I was weak and perfectly naive And I grew up too quick

[I’m thinking this is probably in Pogtopia. Wilbur reflects on his past self and laughs. How naive could he have been? Thinking if he started a nation, Phil would pay attention to him? He was so stupid. So needy. Phil never cared. He forced himself to be responsible and grow up and prove himself that he didn’t take the time to be a child. And now look where he is, in a ravine, without his home, country, or people. Just Tommy. (Tommy, who also grew up far too quick. Tommy who should still be growing up and not exiled in a ravine separated from his best friend).]

Now you won't see all that I have to lose And all I've lost in the fight to protect it I won't let you in, I swore never again I can't afford, no, I refuse to be rejected

[(Pogtopia arc). He stops writing letters to Phil. He stops ranting on and on, filling up the pages with messy scrawl, about his victories, his losses, his thoughts and feelings. He stops pouring his heart out in these letters and telling Phil about everything he’s done. He rarely gets replies and when he does, they’re always short and blunt. His heart can’t take how little his father cares anymore, so he stops all contact.]

I want to break these bones 'til they're better I want to break them right and feel alive You were wrong, you were wrong, you were wrong My healing needed more than time

[(Pogtopia arc). Tommy tried desperately to encourage his brother and tell him that things would work out, that Wilbur could be better with more time. But Wilbur could only lash out and yell, punching walls and pacing wildly and tearing at his hair until small indents were carved into the floor of Pogtopia. He yelled at Tommy, screamed and berated him. And for what? Tommy was a kid. Tommy was forced into this. Tommy was trying to help. Wilbur can’t take back those words now. He couldn’t do anything. Nothing was enough. Nothing could bring him out of his head. He’d lost. It’s over. There’s nothing left, there’s— he’s—]

When I see fragile things, helpless things, broken things I see the familiar I was little, I was weak, I was perfect, too Now I'm a broken mirror

[(Pogtopia arc). Wilbur looks at himself in a mirror and doesn’t even recognize himself. The bags under his eyes are too big and his hair is too matted. There’s dirt cakes on parts of his coat and his shirt is covered in patches to keep it together. But he thinks maybe he’s stronger. He’s learned from his old self. He used to get too attached to people and things only to be betrayed and thrown out of his own country. He was weak. But now that he had nothing, he was stronger than ever, right? They say a man with nothing to lose can do anything he wants, right? There can’t be a harsher consequence than being exiled and thrown out of the country you built. Wilbur can do what he wants. He looks into Tommy’s eyes and sees a reflection of himself––broken, too. Broken and lost. But not the same. Tommy is so much stronger than him and maybe that does make him mad.]

But I can't let you see all that I have to lose All I've lost in the fight to protect it I can't let you in, I swore never again I can't afford to let myself be blindsided

[(Pogtopia arc). He puts on an air of self-confidence and (albeit grim) cheeriness for Tommy. He can’t show his little brother that he has no hope. He can’t show him he’s truly planning on blowing up L’Manburg and that it’s not just ‘Plan Bomb’. He can’t bring himself to talk to Tommy about how shitty things are for him because he knows Tommy has it shittier. Tommy is 16 and scared and traumatized and is holding himself up for his brother & Tubbo. He doesn’t need more problems to worry about. Wilbur smiles only to walk away and break down. He covers up how hopeless he feels and how far gone he thinks he is. He offers up plans of taking his country back just to see Tommy’s eyes light up. But he can’t help but know L’Manburg will all be blown up. He can’t get distracted from doing that because it’s the one thing that might make this pain go away.]

I'm standing guard, I'm falling apart And all I want is to trust you Show me how to lay my sword down For long enough to let you through

[(Pogtopia arc). Wilbur needs Tommy or Phil or hell, even Techno. He just needs someone. Someone to snap him from his intrusive mind. His thoughts that run rampant and scream at him to destroy everything. His plan that is both self-destructive and literally destructive that will leave everyone he cares about in shambles.

But he has no one. He can’t speak to Tommy without further scaring or hurting the boy. He refuses to write to Phil because he doesn’t even care (he wouldn’t come running to save his ‘son’ from himself). And Techno only supports the idea of destroying L’Manburg——he wouldn’t bother helping Wilbur with his problems.

Wilbur doesn’t know how to make the first move and let his guard down. (His mind briefly flashes to Eret and how much he used to trust the man. It was thrown away as soon as the Dream Team walked out of those walls though). That’s one of his last mistakes.]

Here I am, pry me open What do you want to know? I'm just a kid who grew up scared enough To hold the door shut And bury my innocence But here's a map, here's a shovel

[(At the beginning of L’Manburg and the drug van). This symbolizes Wilbur starting L’Manburg——starting a country from nothing but a van, his brother, and a crazy dream. He left his small childhood home behind––finally being able to breath in relief when he doesn’t have to relive all the times he and Phil had yelling matches when he walks through the kitchen, or to feel a bitter sadness remembering Tommy waking up screaming from nightmares and being the only one to console him whenever he passed the blond’s room. He can finally push the past behind and open up to people he cares about and trusts–– his friends and citizens.]

Here's my Achilles' heel

[(During L’Manburg when it was still a new country and they still wore soldier outfits). He soon realizes that L’Maburg is more than a country. It’s his home. It’s his family. His weakness. He cares about it because it’s the only place he could ever truly call his own. A small, nagging part of his brain whispers to him that if he’s not careful, it could be his downfall. He pays no mind though, because that seems so unlikely. He’s happier than he’s ever been and he won’t let intrusive thoughts ruin in]

I'm all in, palms out I'm at your mercy now and I'm ready to begin I am strong, I am strong, I am strong enough to let you in

[(Pogtopia arc). It dawns on Wilbur that L’Manburg has not been his downfall yet. Sure, he’s exiled, but he always imagined his downfall would be dying for his country. His country still lives though and he is not dead. Instead, the game is still on. His Achilles heel has not yet been struck. So maybe L’Maburg was not his Achilles heel all along? With that belief, Wilbur can’t help but still want L’Manburg back. He can’t push L’Manburg away when he’s trying so hard to get it back. He thinks maybe if he becomes president again and gets rid of Schlatt, his downfall would not come. He would be safe.]

I'ma shake the ground with all my might And I will pull my whole heart up to the surface For the innocent, for the vulnerable And I'll show up on the front lines with a purpose

[(Pogtopia/insanity arc). There’s still a possibility of L’Maburg being the end to Wilbur. With plans of war and overthrowing Schlatt, the thought is more prominent than ever. While Wilbur goes mad in Pogtopia, he’s quickly realizing that L’Manburg can’t be his Achilles heel if there is no L’Manburg. If he gets rid of L’Manburg, there will be no other problems. His symphony won’t be finished and therefore his Achilles heel will be protected.]

And I'll give all I have, I'll give my blood, give my sweat

[Oh but... but what if he is his own demise? L’Manburg was his. His dream. His home. He pushed everyone away for L’Manburg. He ignored his son, his brother, his best friend. Would it not make sense if he fell too? Should he not perish too? To let his brother rest? He knows the way they look at him——like he’s unstable, untrustworthy. Which he is. And Tommy... Tommy who still trusts him, who still looks at him like he could do no wrong, like he’s still a fearless leader. (He catches his small flinches though, the way he sometimes bites his tongue and hesitates before blurting out his words loudly, like usual). No matter how many times Wilbur hurts Tommy and tears him down, he’s always back——loyal and unwavering. Tommy did not deserve this. Tommy should be free. Wilbur cannot live in a world knowing Tommy is hurt because of him. Wilbur cannot see Tommy free with knowing what happened daily in that stupid, sold ravine. Wilbur cannot live and be anything to Tommy.]

An ocean of tears will spill for what is broken I'm shattered porcelain, glued back together again Invincible like I've never been

[Wilbur watches the leader who took his place, fall. He watches as his people cheer and fall over each other in exhaustion. Their wounds are deep, but smiles deeper. He elects Tommy, who in turn elects Tubbo (the discs again, when will it stop?) Wilbur listens to the man he once called father try to convince him not to destroy L’Manburg. He listens to the screeches of Withers and muffled cries of people.

It’s time.

Wilbur takes the arrow and strikes his Achilles heel.

He watches in twisted, painful satisfaction as his world blows up before him. People cry out for other reasons. They——especially Tommy——look at him in horror. But why does the arrow not kill him? Nothing else can hurt him like this does, right?

No, the wound is not deep enough. He is too happy to be injured like this for it to be fatal.

“Kill me” He begs. He thinks it’s good revenge on his father for being ignorant. And a good way for the arrow to strike him dead.

Philza stabs him.

The arrow in his heel digs deeper.

And then all is calm,]

----

[Also I feel like every one of those strong brassy bursts in the song is like a fist against the wall——Wilbur striking out against the walls of Pogtopia in anger and (self-)hatred and frustration.]

Hope you liked it. It was certainly an experience to write and I really enjoyed doing this

[sizhuyu]

I’m not sure if you do platonic relationships since I can’t find any in the rules. I want to request a male reader who was the older brother of Wei Ying and treated him the kindness and love he deserves but then got killed by the Wens during his reign as the Yiling Patriarch. Then the reader reincarnates into a man who has very identical features from his past body. So the reader goes on a journey to find their younger brother and eventually the reader does find Wei Ying again. Also when the reader reunites with Wei Ying they have this emotional reunion of seeing each other again!

Long overdue request!! And yes I could try this.. And I love thissss! So here is to your request! ( longest fic I have ever written.. )

☆*: .���. .｡.:*☆ I Finally Found you Brother ☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

You and Wei Wuxian always had a strong relationship. You both were adopted by Jiang Fengmian and studied in Gusu together with Jiang Cheng and Nie Huaisang. Had been quite the troublemakers. You always thought your brother had developed a liking towards Lan Wangji and you. Of course helped them get together but your brother had no clue... Thankfully Lan Wangji took the hint and tried his best to show your clueless brother... THAT HE LIKES HIM. "A-Xian! How is it with Lan er-gongzi?~" You say to him but.. "Oh it was so boring! He doesn't talk or whatever! But the perfect target for pranks!" You were dumbfounded on how clueless your own brother is toward Lan Wangji's feelings. You feel bad for the boy to be honest.

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆ When Jiang Cheng lost his core☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

Your brother pleaded Wen Qing to transfer his golden core to jiang Cheng but you interfered and offered yours instead.

"Are you serious?! You both are insane! The process is painful and almost unbearable! You won't survive!" Says Wen Qing to the both of you.

"Well... What about 50%? Jiang Cheng needs a golden core more than I do."

"Ge..." Wei Wuxian tears up

"F-FINE!" Wen Qing and you have developed a strong friendship but she was against this crazy idea but you insisted.

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆ When you transferred your golden core ☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

You felt so much pain during the process... But you don't regret it at all. Jiang Cheng was tricked into meeting Baoshan Sanren. Wei Wuxian cried during the process of seeing you in pain. When you were done, you went down the mountain and saw a little bi- I Mean! Wen Chao. "Oh? The older Wei is here? What a coincidence!" Wen Chao just laughs as you held in your pain "Wen Zhuliu! Melt his core!" You start running but Wen Zhuliu caught you "Oh? Trying to run away?? COWARD!" Wang Lingjiao just laughs with Wen Chao "I hear a drunk dog and a bratty hyena." you say to them "Oh hohoho so thats-" Wen Chao was interrupted by you as you said "What are you now? Santa Claus?" You insult him "You little.." Wang Lingjiao kicks you in your stomach. And since you don't have your golden core, and not to mention.. You just got through the procedure of pain. "Bring him with us." Wen Chao orders Wen zhuliu to carry you by your arm as they land on.. "The burial mounds?!" You exclaim as they laugh like animals. "Nobody has come here, and nobody ever survived! Your dead!" Wen Chao grabs your messed up hair and whispered one last thing to you "Burn in hell Wei Y/N." As he threw you down.

When you woke up you saw lots and lots of resentful energy dancing around you calling your name. You didn't know you were already absorbing the resentful energy. With this new found power, you can take revenge on the Wens.

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆ Battle between Lan, jiang and Wens☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

You arrived quite late you must say. Your brother was badly wounded and in shock you died.. And so was the others.. "Looks like it's my turn." You say before putting your Dizi to your lips and play a menacing tune. "Who's that?" Jiang Cheng asks as he and the others stare at the figure with red eyes and and long robes. The dead bodies emerge with new life and the others ready their stances as the zombies rush at the Wen's

You stop playing the flute when it was just Wen Chao and Wen Zhuliu left.. "W-who are you?!" Wen Chao crawls back at your presence "Oh? Don't remember me?" He recognized your voice... "Wei Y/N?!.. How.. You died!!" He shouted in horror as you are standing before him as you laugh. "Took you awhile to remember." Wen Chao being the coward he is calls for Wen Zhuliu. You grab his arm and twist it "What a loyal dog we have here!" You shout "Y-You-" After realizing who he is facing with... "That's right! It's me, Wei Y/N." they all gasp as you announce your presence. “Y/N-ge?! They said you were dead!” Wei Wuxian shouts “They were right, I did die but in the same time I did not.” Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian were absolutely relived you were safe. “Wen Chao.. You evil son of a gun. You will pay!” You played your flute rapidly and Wang Lingjiao’s corpse lunges at Wen Chao. “Help me! Wen Zhuliu!!” He cries “His name must taste good in your mouth hm? How about..” You ordered Wang Lingjiao to stop as you cut of his tongue “That will make you shut up.” You also broke Wen Chao’s and Wen Zhuliu’s golden core. You then ordered Wang Lingjiao to attack him once more. “Ge! Stop this!” Your younger brother screams but you didn’t listen. Your brother may be shamless and carefree but now.. He didn’t want this. Jiang Cheng on the other hand laughs like a maniac as other watch in horror. You collect the remaining resentful energy and walked to your little brothers. "A-Cheng, a-Xian, long time no see. Did you miss me?" You smile and the green fire died and corpses fell to the ground. "Ge.." Wei Wuxian's tears began to flow again as he jumped to your arms "Don't leave ever again! Got that?! DON'T." Jiang Cheng says as he joins the hug while you rub their backs to comfort them.

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆ First meet in Wen refugee camp for Wen's ☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆ ( No, a-Yuan belongs to Wangxian and it shall stay that way. Instead I take place because I want in on the fun )

You meet Wen Qing again when you stroll around Yunmeng "Wei-gongzi!! Help me!" She shouts as you run to help her "Wen Qing! What happened?!" You ask as her face was all scrunched up and dirt and soot covered her face "W-Wen Ning! Grandma Wen! Uncle four..." Tears roll down her face as she says almost every name of the Wen's who are in danger "They all might die! Please help us!" She pleads with you as you agree to help her and when she showed you exactly what she meant.. The people at this point you could compare them to a skeleton ( Sorry if I offended people ). The Jin's were ruthless.. They were whipping some elderly women and some they made them trip and fall. And mind you but it was a cold and rainy night they might catch a cold! "Stop!" You say as the Jins pause for a minute "Or what? Wei Y/N... You can't kill us!" The audacity of some of the people.. "Grandma!!" You hear from the other side and you see a grandma protecting a little girl as one of the Jins raise their sword at them "Die in hell!!" he says as you run to block him from hurting the 2 "People like you hurt the innocent, they did nothing during the war! What makes you have the right to make them suffer!?" You shout at them "Their Wen dogs that's why!" One of them shouts and other agree. This time nobody stopped you from protecting all the Wens in Qiongqi path.. "Wen Ning!" Wen Qing shouts as she found her brother while you help the other Wen's stand up "Wen Ning!.." He was dead. No heartbeat, no movement.. You were too late. But not really to late, the resentful energy was absorbed by Wen Ning and he came back to life! "Wen Ning!" Wen Qing shout but he didn't listen "Wen Qionglin!" You shout at him and he stops. "W-Wei... Gongzi.." He says as he regains his conscious. "Wen Qing, everyone. We will go to Yling since Yunmeng is out of the question. We can stay there." You announce as they nod. "Ge! What are you doing!?" Wei Wuxian shouts from above "Wei Y/N! What are you planning?!" Jin bast- I mean! Jin Guangshan shouts at you, clearly mad about the whole situation of his slaves leaving him. "A-Xian, a-Cheng.. I'm sorry.." and you left them breaking your promise.

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆ In Yling where you all settled in ☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

"Y/N-ge!" Wen Xiaoyue shouts as she jumps to your arms "Woah! You're getting heavier!" You laugh "Are you saying I'm fat?.." Xiaoyue's big smile turned into a small pout accompanied with tears in her eyes "No! No! It's a good thing!" And you wipe her tears. "Y/N-ge! There are some people outside the barriers one looks like Y/N-ge and there was 2 other boys. Should I get them?" You immediately knew who who she was talking about.. "Yes, bring them here. I'll be waiting!"

Xiaoyue runs quite fast since she ate too much sugar.. She brings down every barrier with no sweat "Hi!" She finally brings down the last barrier "Really? So the cultivation world is scared of a mere child?" Jiang Cheng looks at Lan Wangji "Hmph!" She kicks jiang Cheng where it hurts =D ( *Not* Sorry Jiang Cheng ) "Watch your mouth purple man." * Que the purple guy xd * "My name is Wen Xiaoyue!" She smiles at them "Follow me to Y/N-ge!" They follow Xiaoyue and Wei Wuxian carries Jiang cheng ( because I kick hard in real life too ) as they reach you "Y/N-ge!!" She hugs you again "Hi guys! And what happened to Jiang Cheng?.." You ask your brother "That brat kicked me in my-" Jiang Cheng was interrupted when Xiaoyue gave him a death glare with a evil smile "basically she kicked him where it hurt the most." Lan Wangji said while Wei Wuxian laughs "She kicks hard right? I am proud to say Jiang Cheng is the 4rth victim of Xiaoyue." You smirk at finally someone felt your paino "Anyways.. Why are you here?" You say as you carry Xiaoyue in your arms "Oh we wanted to check up on you ge!" Wei Wuxian says to you with a smile as you all begin to talk on what happened and Xiaoyue jumps down from your arms "I will go play with a-Yuan!" ( Wen Yuan eats quite long and Xiaoyue eats fast okay? ) You nod and continue with your conversation with your brothers and brother-to-be.

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆ Fall of the Yling Laozu ( burial mounds siege )☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

During the start of the siege even after Wen Qing and Wen Ning and others sacrificed themselves they still are after you.. "A-Yue! A-Yuan!" You call as the 2 children ( not siblings ) "Y/N-ge!" They cry "Why did everyone leave?" Wen Yuan asks you and you feel their foreheads "You guys have fever!" You say at them "It was cold at night.." Xiaoyue answers. You sigh and give them medicine and food, you hear shouting outside "Shoot.." You tell the children to hide and so they did as you go outside "Why are you here?" You ask the people "We are here to kill you!" A young cultivator says. You laugh as the battle commences. "A-Yuan let's go!" Xiaoyue cries "Mn.." He grabs her hand and they went outside all the barriers "Xiaoyue?! What are you doing?" Wei Wuxian asks them "Y/N-ge is fighting with some people and we hear metal.. Help him please!" Xiaoyue begs Wei Wuxian "Lan Zhan, Carry the both of them back to Gusu or Yunmeng. Make sure they are safe." Lan Zhan nods and carries them both back to Gusu.

"Ge! stop it!" Wei Wuxian joins in the battle "A-Y/N! Enough!" Yanli joins in "JIe?! What are you doing here?!" Jiang Cheng asks her "Is it bad I want to protect my family from further harm?" She asks Jiang Cheng "Ge! Xiaoyue and a-Yuan is scared! They need you! Snap out of it!" Wei Wuxian shouts "Shut up Wei Wuxian! Wei Y/N is out of control! I told you he couldn't handle it!!" Jin Guangshan bursts out "No one talks to my brother that way!" You play the flute and Wei Wuxian runs to you Yanli follows but you called Wen Ning at the wrong time... "Wei Wuxian!!!" Jiang Cheng and Yanli shout out "A-Xian!" You run up to your brother "Ge.. I'm fine-" He coughs out blood "No your not.." Tears run down your face "Enough ge.. Stop it.." Wei Wuxian still coughing blood says to you "Okay.." You stop the fight and a cultivator swings his sword high "Die Yling laozu!" You block it with your Dizi. "Shut up.." You say to him as you kill him. "Bandage a-Xian, jie.. Please.." She does and Jiang Cheng and Yanli goes to the physician. "A-Xian is hurt badly.. A-Xian.." You say bringing your hand to your hair "Ha..Haha... Damn you all!!" you say and your last words were "I'm sorry, a-Cheng, Jie, a-Yue, a-Yuan.. I have to leave you." You fall down until your body wasn't found... "Ge.. Why did you leave?..." Wei Wuxian asks himself

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆ Ressurection ☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

( me and a-Yuan remember each other but not everything else but we have some flashbacks when we see something familiar or we hear something about the Yling laozu )

ages :

Sizhui, Xiaoyue, Jingyi, Zizhen : 16

Jin Ling : 14

Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng, Jin Zixuan, Nie Huaisang : 37

Yanli, Xichen, Mingjue : 38-42(?)

Mo Xuanyu : 21

You woke up in a shed with white and red rouge on your face "What-" A foot stomps on your temple "Hmph! How dare you tell on me?! Lunatic!" You hear a sh- I mean! a 'LoVeLy' voice "Yea! How dare you tell on the young master!" A another voice chimes in "Your just a damn bastard!" Young master Mo says to you “Ha.. Do you know who you just kicked down?” You say to him as you slap him “T-this isn’t over! Mo Xuanyu! You will pay!!” The servant shouts and you grin to yourself “My, my! He’s weak as hell!” You look down to the floor and see the sacrifice ritual written in human blood, tailsmans on the floor, some rogue in the floor for no reason. “Oh?” You say as you look at your arm “Looks like I can’t leave yet hm?” You ride on the donkey and ride to Mo manor

☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆ Meeting you again ☆*: .｡. .｡.:*☆

“And so I would like you to please ged rid of the evil spirts trying to kill our people at night, esteemed cultivators.” Lady Mo asks the 3 juniors. “Don’t worry miss, as long as all of you stay inside and not touch or bring any of the flags. All of you will be saved.” Xiaoyue speaks to the Lady Mo and sips a cup of tea “Yes, like what Xiaoyue said. Everyone should stay inside for the night while the 3 of us work on excorsing the spirits.” Sizhui adds. ( they don’t remeber everyone but they remember each other okay? Refering to Xiaoyue and Sizhui. I wanted to tag along since I can’t let you have all the fun now can I? ) Wei Y/N ( you ) listened to their conversation. At night everyone went to sleep but not everyone.. Young master Mo was one of the hard-headed people stayed up and got one of the flags from the flag formation “Haha.. Mo Xuanyu.. You will die tonight!” He announces, but you were already outside “Hm? This guy is the real lunatic.. Those Lans already warned you.” You cross your arms. Young master Mo fell to the ground absorbing the resentful energy “Oh no..” You say as Xiaoyue turns her head at the noise and sees... “Mo-gongzi! Please stay inside-“ She was interrupted when the man lunges to her. “Sizhui I will deal with this.” She says as she brings out her sword “I’m sorry Mo-gongzi.. But you didn’t listen.” As she pushes forward “Be careful Yuyu!” Sizhui tells her. “Your finished.” As she freezes him with a single strike “You still cease to amaze me when you freeze opponents Xiaoyue.” Jingyi tells her “Thanks and..” She walks up to where you hid “What are you doing?” You scream causing everyone to wake up “Mo Xuanyu! What is the meaning-“ Lady Mo gasps as she saw her (trashy) son “My son!” She cries and calls his name “You! You couldn’t even protect a child!” She points at Xiaoyue whose name seems familiar.. “Child? He was like... 17? Perhaps? Ans he’s a ‘child’ despite his age he acts like a 3 year old.” You tell her and Jingyi just tries to hold his laugh. You hear the wind rustle and push Lady Mo away. “What are you doing?!” She tells you and she sees the servant already going to choke her “Everyone! Stay inside!” Sizhui tells them as they do as what they are told, afraid for their lives. You hear the sound of a Dizi and a flute combined “This must be..” The 3 look up “Hanguang-jun! Senior-Wei!” They run to the pair “How was the mission?” He pats their heads “Good, but 2 people died in the latter.” Jingyi reports “Wait..” Your younger brother spots the sleeves of the corpses “It’s right ( or left ) arm is missing..” He examines the corpse “Check if anybody else is outside, they might be possesed by the spirit.” At just at the moment he said that, Lady Mo attacked him but Lan Wangji blocked her struming the strings of the Guqin “Are you okay Wei Ying?” Wei Wuxian nods at the man which is.. Lan Wangji?! You take a look around to see if you can escape but Xiaoyue found you again.. “Mo-gongzi, I thought we told you to stay inside.” She says to you and the 2 older men stare at you “Ge..” Wei Wuxian’s tears began to form “It’s me a-Xian.” You open your arms wide to hug your little brother “We thought you died..” He tells you “I was summoned, I’m happy to see you again a-Xian.” The both of you cried in each others arms until the next morning you had alot on your plate to catch up on.. “You remember Lan Zhan right? And Lan Xichen? I married Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng is in a relationship with Xichen!” He announces as you spit your tea out “Really?! Congrats!” You say to them “Oh and.. a-Yue! A-Yuan! Come over here!” The 2 of them walked towards you “Introduce yourselves.” Lan Wangji tells them “Lan Yuki, used to be Wen Yuki courtesy name Lan Xiaoyue.” She bows “Lan Yuan, used to be Wen Yuan courtesy name Lan Sizhui.” He too bows to you “A-Yuan.. A-Yue..” The memories start to flow to your brain as you remembered the 2 and what had happened “We missed you, Y/N-ge.” You tear up seeing the children you took in all grown up “I missed you guys too..” And the both of them and Wei Wuxian hugs you while tearing up again