#but he knows the witness might struggle to reconcile what they saw

[gyokutoll]

there are a lot of things i can say about hotaru as a character and the kind of person he is, but the truth of it all is that he's the sort of person to be covered in blood after being murdered in a horrific way and sincerely apologizing if the sight has distressed whomever he ran into

[irrealisms]

this might not be the type of question you’re looking for, but my understand is you’re a convert or at least someone who has become more devout over time. I was wondering if you were willing to talk about your faith journey? Obviously I know it’s a personal thing so I’m not looking for any prying details, just whatever you feel most comfortable with talking about!

this is a good question! prying questions are actively encouraged lol

i'm a convert! i was baptized on easter 2022, here are a couple pictures from that:

this was ... about two or three years after i started getting serious about Catholicism? uhhhh actually i should back up some more

i grew up nominally methodist but in practice my mom didn't believe in God and treated it as a convenient place for me to make friends and participate in a kids' choir and such and i picked up on this (and stopped going at some point, i don't even really know when, i think sometime in middle school). i also had my own elaborate mostly-animist theology that treated Christianity as blatantly laughable. in retrospect a lot of the theology was bc i heard voices a lot as a kid lol, both "this is what they tell me is true" and "i need a worldview that accommodates the experiences i am having". i feel a little weirder abt talking abt me-as-a-kid having delusional tendencies bc it was i think within the range of "imaginative autistic kid"? but i ... never grew out of it, and a lot of them are recognizably the same tendencies that got me labeled as delusional as a teenager-adult, so. shrug. i grew up with a familiarity with Christianity but not specifically Catholicism and it was never serious.

in high school i had, mmm... very varying theologies most of which were pretty shallow and focused on whichever girl i was currently in love with lol. but i was still drawn to Catholicism--i first observed lent in 2017 after Many years of flirting with it--and when i saw/experienced angels (2015? ish? ...arguably you could argue for 2007 but i do not think those were angels) i knew they were angels and was unsure how i saw it but definitely flirting with a Christian view of them. i did know that whatever view of them i took, they were important, they were serious, they were--the most important thing that has ever happened to me, that i have ever witnessed. they were beautiful and incredible and terrific in the sense of inspiring terror. and then i got put on antipsychotics about it within the year lol! the antipsychotics were uhhhhhh quite bad for me & then in 2019 i got off of them and embraced Catholicism more wholeheartedly. "so why the 3-year gap between that and getting baptized" uhhhh a few things going on there honestly? it took like a year or so to like. reconcile myself with Catholicism. i do/did actually struggle a lot with a lot of it--trying to figure out how i felt about hell and the problem of evil was ofc the biggest hurdle but i'm also side b and that was uhhhhhh not a painless process for me. which i can talk about any of that if you want but i talk about that less unprompted? and i prefer to talk about it in a conversation rather than just On My Blog, if that makes sense. but people should feel free to dm me if they're curious or want to talk more about any of this!

this....still gives a 1-year gap between Reconciling With Catholicism and Starting RCIA. this is because... i've been kind of eliding it with usage of "i" but at the time the body that currently uses "i" was Two People. and one of them (kit) was Catholic and one of them (sofia) wasn't. we ... talked about this with a priest a lot and he was helpful for a while but then he recommended me to a Catholic therapist who on her first session with us informed us that we were faking and she didn't believe us but even if she did then she'd just be focusing on trying to integrate us and get rid of our "doubting part". so we didnt go back to her and we (especially sofia) raged for a bit at the whole thing. as a result, for a while kit was kind of resigned to just ... not getting baptized, not getting to take the Eucharist. but in 2020-2021ish we sort of . integrated? not fully and i suspect we've been...splitting apart again more recently. idk! idk. anyway we eventually got integrated enough that we felt confident in saying yes, I believe in God, and have that be a true promise for the full body-soul. and we started RCIA in 2021 and got baptized in 2022 and now we're here! the angels aren't back. i hoped they'd come back when i got off antipsychotics, and-- they haven't. the belief has, the knowledge that they were real, but i haven't seen them again. i don't know if i'll get to see them again before i die. i hope they will, but i also know i don't need them anymore. it's a test, i think. i just have to live up to that test.

[ballisticbunni]

I'd honestly kill to have a reverse au.

Maybe a tired young lawyer is hunting down a disillusioned ex doctor and bringing him tp justice while he has to work with his own fked up childhood and his constant pragmatic ways of solving issues, wanting to conform to ideals that don't really help him. While also dealing with his estranged sister om the loose running after him.

Make it worse, by having the ex doctor be the reason our hero had so much hope in goodness amd fairness. Now seeing his idol stray from his path, he doesn't know what to do with his own morality.

Maybe i just want johan to have actual human expressions

This actually sounds. So amazing. In fact, I already have so many angsty, heartbreaking, and grotesque ideas forming for this reverse au you wrote here. I can see it now.

I can imagine Dr. Tenma's downfall rooting from Eva calling off their engagement, and Udo Heinemann demoting him after rebelling his orders to not perform surgery on young Johan (instead of him running from his career in order to take down the Monster he supposedly brought back to life). It might not sound like a plausible vengeful origin story. But let's face it. In this case, when trying to grow as a person, and creating the perfect life, only to be thrown back down out of nowhere with absolutely no one to lean on—can destroy a person. Because whether we'd like to admit it or not, if it weren't for Johan granting Tenma his wish, and those doctors mysteriously dying, Tenma's life wouldn't have improved like it did (example: being promoted to Chief of Surgery.) Though, even then, his reputation was still at stake when Lunge got involved, and assumed Dr. Tenma was the culprit after witnessing how much the doctor benefited from his peers being murdered.

Moving on to Johan, now. Like he said, himself—he saw Dr. Tenma as a father figure the moment he was saved from a terrible fate that would have taken him at a young age. Which he's never had anyone go as far as to RISK themselves for him. All of the adults in both Johan's, and Anna's life have been cruel, and proved over again that no one could be trustworthy. Until Tenma refuted that idea. It left Johan wanting nothing more but to better himself, and learn from his trauma instead of using it to deceive, or harm anyone around him. As he becomes a young adult, his mind and body actually allow him to experience, and show true emotions. He no longer lets the past consume him. "Tomorrow will be a better day." He becomes a law student, is actually able to build genuine relationships and bonds, and also has the goal to reunite with both his beloved sister he was separated from after the Liebert's incident, and the doctor that he considered to be the father he never had.

Though, he's torn coming to find out that the doctor is not who he used to be. Tenma is working underground, as a black market doctor. But not like the one we saw in the manga/anime, or hear about in the sequel, Another Monster. He's one who'd conduct evil, and inhumane experiments. Because "not everyone is born equal," as Eva had once told him, and he uses that to his advantage. His healing hands are used to make everyone who will ever doubt, or walk all over him—regret. It's a power rush he gets after being wrongfully used at the Eisler Memorial Hospital.

Johan struggles. Battling his morality while now hunting down the doctor he once looked up to, and attempting to reconcile with his sister who will possibly never forget what he put her through, or ever forgive him for it, too. What will he do?

[freydis-freydat]

The shift in Eivor’s body language was unexpected, unfamiliar. Freydis wasn’t sure if she had saw him shy away from much of anything except perhaps particular topics of conversation. It compelled her to move closer to him again, the concern she felt for him easily pushing the fear she felt to the very edges of her attention and out of the forefront of her mind. The warmth of a hand found its way to his shoulder and she learned forward slightly, to try and catch his eye. “Eivor, they will never have you again,” she responded firmly, the conviction in her voice making it clear that in her mind there was no option, no room for a reality in which her word was not the truth. Her hand shifted slightly, subconsciously, and her fingers sifted with the tangle of his dark curls, her nails arcing through them in gentle circles. 

Wasn’t he the one always reminding her that war meant death? Freydis did not vocalize this though, there was no point. She understood his drive to live, his desire to be in the world, to engage with it and taste it rather than to constantly struggle to remain in it. And with that thought, the color in her cheeks rose and she became immediately angry; ten years. Ten years, and each of them in hiding, each of them in a struggle for restraint, spent navigating through a thick cloud of anger while towing the titanic dead weight of a critical secret. That was hardly a life by her definition, and despite the aching need to reconcile what she had recently witness in her mind, Eivor deserved significantly better. It would have been easier to hide, both in theory and in practice, to hide in earnest in resigned passivity rather than behind the cloak of the Vanguard. That had not been his instinct, and pride in him swelled within her chest. “I will have more questions, the more time that goes by,” she responded quietly. “This is… a lot to try to understand. But it isn’t too much to accept.”

Freydis did not want anyone to struggle toward self and mattering the way she had, but she could not remove that circumstance from Eivor’s life for him. But she could walk the path with him, and for however long he would allow her to, she would. Her hand fell from the back of his head and into her lap as she wrung both her hands together trying to expel some of the anxieties. She switched back to Elvhen, perhaps to give him a break if anything or perhaps to try and measure if the change in tongue made a meaningful difference. “You are not a monolith of hate,” she protested, “not when your anger is justified.” But she did not know if he would believe her. She was quiet for a few moments, her hazel eyes catching the last of the daylight and glinting a mossy green for a moment as her mind worked on a worthy response behind them. “I understand why it did,” she said finally, a response so lacking in everything except the gentle acceptance in its delivery. "I don't know that it might have happened it any other way." Freydis wasn’t sure if she would have made a different decision in similar circumstances, especially if someone she held in similar esteem to how Eivor saw Nik hung in the balance. “Tell me of this restraint now; now that all of this has come to pass and is in the light, now that it may be moot.”

"I should be able to," he said slowly, though truthfully, he hadn't tried just yet. Eivor went silent for a few moments, unsure where Freydis' thoughts were leading her. Everyone he'd ever known would be gone from Avalon, and assuming that he could pass through the Moongate, in a form such as this, what would be there for him? More questions, but still – protection from Aetherians who could not pass through. It would be an option, at least for those who were like Eivor, like Nik, that were finally free from the clutches of the magisters. "I haven't tried," he said finally, putting his hands on his knees and leaning forward slightly. Hunched, to make himself smaller perhaps – uncomfortable, unsure – "If I shift, who's to say they can't reach me?" The Weave, it held little meaning to Eivor once. The time of the dragons was now – Blackrock would call to him for answers once more, and perhaps he'd find them there.

Her questions were perhaps warranted, but Eivor didn't understand the reasoning behind it. "Was it not you who spoke about wishing to live?" He put emphasis on the word, and while the Vanguard had become the perfect example of a construct of easily corrupted individuals, the rest of Eivor's choices had been his own. "When Nikandros and I fell from Aetheron, when we washed up on the shores of Iskaldrik, we went as far away as possible. Astoria and the Vanguard were always looking for those to absorb, and in a way that would give me the power to destroy mages? It was an easy choice." There was not much more to it than that. Means to an end, and easily manipulated, the Vanguard and its purpose became the perfect cloak. "I always had an aversion to the Blight, and to fight against it was an easy, singular thought that I could accept."

Her other question confused him, but he shook his head again, "Your presence gave me hope. A promise that perhaps I could figure out more of who I was – you and I, not so different." Freydis, forced from her home – Eivor, stolen from his. She wished to help him, but why? For her own destiny and legacy? If she questioned their friendship, their bond, it would not be Eivor's burden to reassure her. "I don't care about much, I never have. It's a void, filled with my hate." That was the easiest way to put it, wasn't it? "I have come to care for you. My restraint comes from a feeling where you could not truly know who I was until it came to light. It shouldn't have happened this way, but I can't change that." There were some things that would never be on Eivor's terms, it seemed. Autonomy at its finest, he'd been practicing it for a decade, but every step was a learned one.

[youlackconviction]

SCREENRANT ARE BACK ON THEIR BULLSHIT

warning - the following nonsense might cause psychological injury or confusion as your brains struggle to reconcile this utter claptrap with what they already know to be canon fact about the thor/LOKI franchise:

article source: https://screenrant.com/loki-thor-dark-world-death-survive-illusion-explained/

the article title is speculative clickbait, pure and simple. marvel has made no new statement about LOKI's survived deaths (not the same thing as a trick, by the way) in either original film to contradict what has already been established in canon AND confirmed in many press statements by directors, writers, kevin feige himself i believe and of course tom hiddleston himself as well, at the time the original films were screened.

this nonsense has no more substance than the prevailing fan theory when infinity war was released that LOKI wasn’t killed by thanos at all but escaped and hid himself from thor, which abounded at the time that installment was screening in cinemas. all kinds of claims tossed about that there was some flicker or shadow outside the statesman that "proved" LOKI had got away... no doubt fuelled by disappointment at the loss of his character AND rage at how stupidly and pointlessly he’d been killed off. *glaring at you, russo bros*.

that same fan theory was retroactively used in the LOKI series by classic LOKI, to explain how he survived facing thanos - but we know that he was a variant of the LOKI we saw die for his brother in IW, not the same person. that was richard grant’s LOKI. so it still changes nothing about tom hiddleston’s LOKI, who we’ve all been watching for the past eleven years. he actually did die, so it’s completely irrelevant.

marvel confirmed LOKI attempted suicide at the end of thor 2011, and, that instead of dying in the void he ended up in “some of the worst places of the universe”, and “the people he met were not kind”. tom hiddleston likened his probable experience to being kidnapped by a terrorist cell:

“I think he went, like with everything else, to a sort of... it was just like, the worst place imaginable. I think he went to all of the darkest recesses of the universe. I’m sure he had a brush with—several brushes with death. I think he ran into the shadiest characters you can find in the Nine Realms. I think he had to rely on his wits to protect himself. It was really, really, really unpleasant, I think. I don’t have any frame of reference for that, except for imagining what it might be like to be kidnapped by a terrorist or something and have to survive a very, very frightening and precarious existence. But whatever it was, it was important when Loki came back for The Avengers, that whatever compassion he had left was absolutely shriveled to a minimum because of the experience that he had. Harrowing, I think, and scarring for life—in a way that Thor and Odin and Frigga find very, very difficult to understand.”

src: Let's Talk Loki Popcorn Taxi Q&A With Tom Hiddleston (thanks to @nikkoliferous​ for researching this quote)

but sure screenrant, tell me again how LOKI did any of that on purpose? how he chose to fall into the clutches of the black order, that he intended all along not only to prolong an existence that had become emotionally intolerable for him but make it a thousand times more terrifying and painful?

the branches and roots of yggdrasil ONLY extend across the nine realms, like that’s the whole point of that piece of mythology. and LOKI telling thor in avengers that he'd been to worlds thor had never dreamed of indicates that they were far beyond asgard’s domains. remember the convergence, anyone? the whole plot of thor the dark world?

as for LOKI “faking” his death (honestly fuck off with that bullshit) in 2013, again, marvel confirmed the scene was filmed as a real final death, and because of test-audience negative responses to LOKI’s death, adjusted to a severe but survivable injury when the additional scenes were shot. an injury that not only fooled thor and jane but LOKI himself - and imagine how he must have felt when he woke up alone after suffering so much for his brother. there was no hint of it being an illusion or a disposable body double at the time.

the illusion came at the point that LOKI assumed the appearance of an einherjar and took the abandoned skiff back to asgard to report to odin, depose him and reclaim the throne - a much better alternative than being returned to the prison cell for 4,000 years. the same throne incidentally that LOKI offered to his brother at the end of that film, but was refused by him. “LOKI for all his grave imbalance understood rule as i never shall” were thor’s words as he walked away from his birthright and his responsibilities.

“Loki's death on Svartalfheim was written as a death, and I would say Chris and I played that scene for real. That was meant to be that he redeemed himself, he helped save his brother, he helped save Jane Foster but that he, in the process, sacrificed himself.“

src: tom hiddleston for Empire magazine

in actuality, the series script addresses none of this, and the article is reaching at best - and blatantly bullshitting at worst. screenrant is not a legitimate source of verified information, this is just one article-writer’s fan-theory and unfortunately for clarity’s sake, it’s completely wrong on so many levels.

[thehomothings]

Analysis of Kite's conflicting moralities, relationship with death, and the toll reincarnation may take on one's psyche

So, today I decided to compile all the thoughts I have had about Kite's interesting worldview since the first time I saw him into one post, mostly for my own sake, really. If you're familiar with the few posts I've made, you know it's gonna be a mess, but hopefully a comprehensible mess.

A heads up, this is going to be spoiler-heavy, and very much deal with subjects of death and dying as a whole. Also, some of these conclusions are drawn from my own experiences and close brushes with death, I'm not going to go into much detail but it might get personal and definitely dark. I'm not even sure if I can call this a meta-analysis, and I'm obviously no expert, so mayhaps take all of this with a grain of salt.

Been getting into drawing lately, and during the more simple and mindless part of the painstaking process of dotting every single star in this, I let my thoughts wander through the latest part of the fic I'm writing, and I got a better grasp on what exactly made Kite such an elusive character to me.

I'm not quite sure why I got so attached to Kite. Perhaps it was the air of tragedy surrounding him, how despite his sordid past he remained still open and gentle even if outlined by a healthy dose of cynicism.

But sometimes, I think it's the fact that he is so paradoxical. He's brave, yet fears death to such a degree that creates a whole Nen ability around it, is a pacifist yet will not hesitate to spill blood for his own sake or someone else's. Despite the many ultimatums and warnings of 'I will not protect you', he gave his arm and then his life to save Gon and Killua. He approaches each hunt and battle with a clear plan of action in mind, but his Hatsu takes the form of a roulette that gives him random weapons which are never what he wants, but what he seems to need for that exact situation, which he cannot dispel without using. When he draws a weapon, the decision is locked in and his or his opponent's fate is sealed. That's why each time he dubbs his weapon a bad roll. Every time he has to gamble, he sees himself as having run out of luck. When it comes to having to choose between himself and somebody else...well, there had never been a choice. In fact his aversion to using it may feed into its sheer power that we, unfortunately, saw too little of.

Let's go over his very first appearance when he saves Gon from the mother Foxbear.

It's not hard to see the strain searching for Ging has put on him; he's rash, prone to anger and punching a child for daring to get into trouble. In his mind, he's failing at his most important task, has not yet earned the right to call himself a hunter despite being in possession of his very own hunter license.

After killing the mother Foxbear and raging about having done so, he says this interesting line:

So yes, he finds killing for any reason rather irksome as most would do, yet I think something deeper caused him to absolutely lose it in this scene:

He had not been aware of Gon's identity, and despite being an animal lover and a naturalist, he made a choice to save the human instead of allowing nature to run its course. In fact, he says: 'No beast that harms a human must be allowed to live.'

How does one weight one life against another? How is the worth of it determined? The value of life... an impossible choice he's faced with and a choice which he seems to regret to some degree.

The Foxbear cub.

Here, he's speaking from experience, a tangible loss he has felt himself, and a hard and bitter life he does not want to impose on the cub.

His backstory is exclusive to the 2011 anime adaptation but there are hints alluding to it in the manga, for example, the fact that he does not seem to know his birthplace, or:

The choice of words is chilling.

Reading between the lines, one could draw the conclusion that he is an orphan. Something supporting this hypothesis is how he visibly deflates after Gon tells him his parents have (presumably) died.

So we see he is willing to go against his own moral code of not killing as to not doom another living being to the life he led, a lonely, hopeless existence that could barely be called one. He saw it best to put down the cub rather than leave it to die a painful, slow death.

The reason Kite himself isn't as cynical and cold-hearted as one would be after witnessing cruelty in its rawest form is those small crumbs of human kindness which he may have found in Ging.

It was not only a chance at an honorable life being Ging's apprentice gave him, but it also 'saved' him from being broken and twisted into what he hated and worst of all, death.

If we take that one minute of backstory as canon to his character-which I find myself inclined to do- these quirks of his make much more sense. He lived on the run. He lived on the knife's edge between giving up or pushing forwards. He lived as so a wrong move could be the difference between survival and the end.

Between rock and a hard place creates a mentality of black and white, absolute good or extreme evil, this or that. Except in reality, it's much harder than that. Deciding who to save and who to strike down is a heavy burden to bear.

It's almost easy to see how struggling to keep surviving could lend itself to a crippling fear of death and subsequently developing a Nen ability which once more goes against his own moral code in order to give himself a second chance...yet something about it strikes me as unlikely when I look at it this way.

Living life knowing it could end at any moment has the opposite effect, at least for me it did. One comes to accept that it is fleeting and while not eager to let it go, when death eventually and inevitably does come, there is no fighting it.

Especially when there is no hope that tomorrow will be a better day than this one.

Frequent near-death experiences numb one's fear in a way, even if it drives them to take precautions that render it unlikely to happen again and results in c-PTSD, but still, it does. It sparks a certain nihilistic view of 'if it all can end so easily, then what's the point of it all?'

Unless there are things to live for, a sure promise of a better future, and Ging gave Kite that. When he faced the threat of losing his second chance at life:

Really, what else could lead someone to develop the ability of 'the hell I'm going to die like this'?

I think a separate event, an even more brutal near-death experience that almost cost him his life as the hunter he so strived to be set him off to develop the secret roll of Crazy Slots, what I call Roll No.0, Ars moriendi. Unlike other weapons, it cannot come up in random and is directly summoned by him, or better said, summon by his overwhelming will to keep going and hopelessness of fighting a losing battle. I don't believe roll No.3 was the weapon that allowed him to reincarnate. I've named that one Wand of Fortune, a sort of armor instead of an offensive weapon since I find it hard to believe Kite, a Conjurer, would not focus on defences as well, and I will go into both mechanisms of these weapons hopefully in his backstory.

Despite knowing this battle to be a pointless one and being acutely aware of his soon to be demise, he did not immediately draw Ars moriendi, no, he stayed back and fought for the sake of the boys, kept Neferpitou occupied until they could reach safety. We can see evidence of this in the aftermath of the battle that seemed to have gone on until dawn, a torn apart landscape only signaling a fraction of the devastation that was Kite's power unleashed. It still wasn't enough.

In the anime sub I watched, when Gon apologizes to Ging about Kite's death, Ging said a sentence that infuriated me, because it belittled the utter suffering of the NGL trio.

"He would not die in your place." (No screenshot, sorry)

And I remember practically shouting at the screen, screaming 'how could you possibly say that? Of course he did. He absolutely did die in their place. How could you not know your own apprentice? Why-'

It was only last night that it hit me why Ging would say that.

Once upon a time, maybe Kite would not have given his life for anybody under any circumstances, even if he had a way out of it all. He would still need to die to come back to life.

His Thanatophobia could be attributed to the (possibly untreated) PTSD of the near-death experience in his later life, being so certain of dying that finding himself alive afterwards drove him to never want to go through that again. He quieted his fear by creating a sort of a loophole, that even if he lost the battle he would remain. Ging remembered that, but as evidence shows, something changed. Maybe he healed a bit, perhaps growing up dulled his fear to a certain degree, but eventually when it came down to his life or another's, he didn't choose himself.

Now, I can hear you saying 'but he didn't die, so what are you going on about??' And so I reply: Yes, he is alive, but he did die. He experienced that painful, horrible moment of staring death in the eyes and thinking 'This is it, this is the end', went through the actual process of having his soul removed from his body. And that moment stretches into infinity, ten lifetimes condensed into the mere seconds before oblivion.

Dying isn't so hard if one stays dead.

It's not so easy to open one's eyes and find oneself alive again after that, no matter how much that is the heart's desire. It's difficult, nigh-impossible to reconcile with life and walk amongst the living when everything had been so final, when death had been accepted to its fullest.

So Kite awakens, the twin of Meruem and back from the dead, his mind and identity both intact and fractured. In that he is Kite is no mistaking, yet he is not the same gentle pacifist whose first reaction upon sensing a monster's aura was to shield two kids from it at the cost of his arm.

I don't think many of you are familiar with Zoroastrian ideology, but Togashi is known for loving his religious imagery, and it's not only Christianism he derives inspiration from (evidence of which can be seen all over Kite's character and resurrection).

In Zurvanism-a branch of Zoroastrianism- there is talk of the twin spirits: Ahura Mazda -epitome of all that is good- and Ahriman -epitome of all that is evil-, the parent god Zurvin decides that the firstborn may rule in order to bring "heaven, hell, and everything in between."

Upon becoming aware of this fact, Ahriman forcibly tears through the womb to emerge first. Sounding familiar yet?

Zurvan relents to this turn of events only on one condition: Ahriman is given kingship for 9000 years, and then Ahura Mazda may rule for eternity.

Meruem ruled for 40 days, his death leaving the throne vacant for ant Kite, wearing a dead girl's face and seeming to be brewing some nefarious plan. No more is there any sign of that unrelenting pacifism and the sanctity of life he held so high, losing his own may have only served to show him how meaningless the pain and suffering he went through had been, dying only to be reborn as a member of the species that killed him. It may be that he has no desire to rule over the remaining Chimera ants or create an army of his own-

Yet I dread to think what a broken mind possessing limitless power might do to the world.

And that's it. If you made it this far, thank you for reading! If you found it interesting, stay tuned, as I think a lot and I will make it your problem.

[wistfulcynic]

till we be dead ourselves

I saw a thing today that made me a bit cross and reminded me of how unsatisfying I've always found the Brothers Jones reunion in the underworld. This is the result. It's not anti-Liam but it does change him quite a lot from canon, so if that's not your jam you may want to skip this one.

Basically, this is the Brothers Jones I would have liked to see.

Also, at least part of the inspiration came from chatting with @thesschesthair and @winterbythesea about alternative POVs on our OTP. So here, guys, have a Liam. Beware, there are feels. 

SUMMARY: Liam Jones has been waiting for his brother for three hundred years. When he finally arrives, he's not as Liam remembers. Some not-typical or particularly respectful of canon Brothers-Jones-in-the-underworld feels, plus a dash of Captain Swan.

words: 2025 rating: T tags: not canon compliant, underworld AU, brothers jones. Major characters are already dead. 

on AO3

-

till we be dead ourselves: 

He’s been waiting a long time for this. Three hundred years. 

Well, two hundred ninety-three years and eighty-six days, to be precise. He knows because he looked it up. He had to. It’s not easy keeping track of time here; some seconds tick so slowly they’re torture while years can pass in the blink of an eye. 

Years, such as they are. There aren’t really years in this place, or truly ‘time’ at all. There’s not really anything. This is nothingness, a void, a repository for whatever souls are made of, and different to each one. They’re trapped here, these souls, until they finish whatever business still remains for them, and over the centuries he’s seen so many come and go—some sorrowfully confused by what they need to do, others firmly certain. 

As for Liam Jones, he’s always known why he’s here. His unfinished business is Killian. 

On the day Killian arrives Liam can barely contain his excitement. Not just because he may finally be free of this place but because he longs to see his little brother again. He’s missed Killian, and also he’s keen to know what the devil took him so long. How is it possible that his brother’s life stretched on for over three hundred years? 

He walks quickly through the town—an odd little town, unlike any he encountered while alive. His afterlife has manifested it for only a few years. Before that it was ships and ports and then it was jungle. Ships and jungle, jungle and ships for so very, very long. He’s come to realise that his afterlife reflects what his brother does Above, though what precisely that consisted of he is not privileged to know. He’s hoping Killian will tell him. 

He knocks on the door of a large, blue house and waits, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. When it opens he turns with a smile that freezes on his face. 

The man framed in the doorway is his brother, unmistakably him, yet Liam finds he’s not prepared for how much Killian has changed. He feels foolish for being taken so by surprise; of course Killian is not what he remembers. He’s not still the eager young lieutenant he was when Liam died, obviously not. He couldn’t be. 

But the man before him is… hard. Jaw set and eyes cold, with an aura of both danger and command. A man not to be trifled with. His face is still youngish—mid-thirties, perhaps—but his eyes are ancient. Tired and bitter and heavy with the weight of ages, and abruptly Liam feels very, very young. 

“K-killian?” he ventures. 

Killian’s brow wrinkles in confusion that lasts an uncomfortable beat or two, and then it clears. His eyes widen. “Liam,” he breathes. “Is it really you?” 

“It’s me, brother.” Liam attempts a smile again. “I’ve been waiting for you.” 

“Bloody hell.” 

Killian pulls him into a hug which he returns warmly, though the sound of curse words on his brother’s lips has stunned him. He smells of leather, and of the sea. And rum. Liam blinks through a fresh wave of astonishment. Killian has been drinking. Drinking rum. 

Killian pulls back from the hug but keeps his hand on Liam’s shoulder. His eyes are crinkled by a smile that Liam can’t help noticing barely touches the depth of sadness in them. “It’s good to see you, brother,” he says. 

“You’ve changed,” Liam blurts, then curses his impulsive tongue when the smile fades from his brother’s face. 

“Aye,” Killian says. “It’s been some time.” 

“Three hundred years, give or take,” Liam agrees. “How? How was it that long?” 

“Perhaps you’d better come in, Liam,” Killian says. He steps back and holds the door. “We’ve rather a lot to discuss.” 

-

Liam spends that first night in his brother’s house. Killian seems at a bit of a loss for what to do with himself in all the space and curiously reluctant to speak of why his afterlife has manifested such a dwelling just for him. Of course the dead don’t truly sleep, but Liam passes the night deep in thought, still in shock over what he’s learned about life his brother led. 

Killian is Captain Hook. A pirate. A man whose name Liam has heard in hushed whispers on the lips of many a soul who’s passed through this place. None of those whispers spoke of anything good. 

He cannot reconcile his little brother, even three hundred years of bitter loss and violent struggle later, as the cruel and vengeful villain of those tales. He cannot. It’s simply not possible. 

“Much of what they recounted was likely exaggerated,” Killian said wryly, “or hearsay. But I’ve done much I’m not proud of, Liam. I killed men without a second thought. I plundered lands across the realms. I have not led a good life.” 

“Then why are you here?” Liam demanded. “If you were as bad as all that, you wouldn’t end up in limbo.” 

“Perhaps I may have done enough in the past few years to warrant a chance at redemption,” Killian reflected. “I suppose we’ll see.” 

“And do you know what your unfinished business is?” 

Killian swallowed visibly, then nodded. “I believe I do.” 

-

Over the next week Liam keeps an eye on his brother. It’s not that he’s concerned—well, yes, it is that he’s concerned. There’s a restless energy to Killian that makes Liam uneasy, worried that he might do something rash. So he watches, from a distance, as Killian sets about finishing his business. He watches his brother seek out many of the men who bore the tales about him, those who still remain at least. He sees the fear in those men’s faces, and the anger. Sometimes he hears their voices, raised and vicious. It pains him to witness these things—not least the shame on Killian’s face—but he forces himself not to interfere. 

His brother is not a man to be trifled with. 

One day he observes Killian deep in conversation with a woman, dark-haired and statuesque. They stand close together in the manner of those who’ve shared a deep intimacy, and even from a distance he can see that they are crying. Killian pulls the woman into his arms where she weeps into his shoulder, and before they part he presses his lips to hers. 

It’s farewell. 

With every interaction Killian’s burden lessens, though he remains weighed down by things Liam can barely fathom. Each night they meet at the blue house, where they sit together and talk. They have three hundred years of catching up to do. As they talk Killian drinks, and Liam has begun to as well. He senses his brother could use company in more than conversation, and it’s not like alcohol can harm the dead. It doesn’t do them much good either, but the phantom rum seems to soothe Killian, and loosen his tongue. 

Though not enough, Liam comes to realise, for Killian to speak of why he’s really here. 

-

Her arrival sparks an uproar such as Liam has never experienced, even in all the time he’s passed in this place. She shouldn’t be here. She can’t be here. It’s not possible. 

Yet here she is. 

Word of it spreads like wildfire; Liam is polishing glasses at the bar where he inexplicably works when it reaches his ears. 

“They say she’s alive,” says one of the regulars, in hushed tones. “Alive, and here.” 

“That’s impossible,” Liam scoffs. “None of the living can come here. And even if they could why would they want to?” 

“She’s here to rescue someone,” the regular replies. “Her true love. That makes it possible, or so they say.” 

“And the man died in sacrifice,” another adds. “Huge sacrifice, before his time.” 

Before his time, Liam thinks. That should rule Killian out. Yet he can’t shake this feeling, this creeping suspicion born of Killian’s refusal to discuss how he died, or how he lived these past few years. There’s a reason this town is his afterlife, and Liam’s too. There’s a reason he’s alone in that big house. 

He sets the glass down, and the rag. “I have to go,” he says. 

-

It couldn’t be more obvious that the woman doesn’t belong. She’s visibly, ostentatiously alive, so full of life she glows. It draws the souls—ghoulishly, Liam thinks—but none dare approach too closely. The woman looks as though if anyone could kill a soul that’s already dead, it’s her. 

She heads down Main Street and Liam follows. Past the diner and the library, around the corner and up the street where Killian lives. A tight knot forms in Liam’s chest as she walks up to the blue house then stops, with her hand on the gate. 

The door flies open and Killian appears on the porch. He stares at the woman, who offers him a smile that strikes Liam as far too tremulous for her take-no-prisoners demeanour. 

“Swan,” Killian chokes. His voice sounds broken. “What are you doing here?” 

“I came to save you,” the woman replies. She opens the gate and takes a few steps forward. Killian stumbles off the porch to close the distance between them. 

“You shouldn’t have come,” he says. “You shouldn’t be here, not here. Not you.” 

“I had to, Killian!” She looks up at him imploringly. “You shouldn’t have died like that. You shouldn’t have had to make that choice.” 

She takes his hand and laces their fingers tighter. Killian’s breath catches. “Come back with me, Killian. Come home.” 

“I can’t,” he whispers.

“You can. I know a way.” Her voice drops as she steps closer, but Liam can still hear her words. “Don’t try to make me live the rest of my life without you, Killian Jones,” she says. “I won’t do it.” 

“Swan—” 

“I won’t do it,” she repeats. “I love you.” 

Liam can see the moment Killian breaks. He snatches the woman into his arms, holds her tightly as she clings to him and magic twines palpably around them. This is not what he had with the brunette, Liam realises. That was love, yes, and intimacy. It was grief, deep and terrible but of a normal sort. 

This is agony. This is two souls that should never have been parted and the connection that still binds them, so powerful it can draw a living woman into the land of the dead. 

No wonder Killian couldn’t speak of her, Liam thinks, or of the circumstances of his death. The pain must have been too great. 

Liam’s been dead so long he’s forgotten how sensitive a subject it can be. 

The man died in sacrifice, he recalls. Huge sacrifice, before his time. 

He died for her. And now she’s here to bring him back. 

-

“This feels too soon,” Killian says, as he hugs Liam tight. “I only just found you again.” He pulls back and gives his brother a shrewd look. “And I sense that when I’m here again, you no longer will be.” 

“No,” Liam agrees. His business is finished now. And Killian’s not coming back, not to this place. Not if Emma Swan has anything to say about it. The next time Killian Jones dies it will be with his life’s purpose fully met. 

He’s glad they had this time, though, and not just because he needed it to move on. He’s glad he got to know his brother as a man, a flawed and troubled one, yes, but one who has goodness at his core and is finally where he needs to be. It only took three hundred years for him to get there. 

He’s also glad Killian is still shorter than he is, for all that Liam appears ten years younger than his brother now. He’s glad because he can still wrap his arm around Killian’s neck and ruffle his hair. He does so now, though Killian’s indignant “Oi!” of protest twists his heart. He sounds so like his younger self, that boy Liam spent centuries waiting for and will never see again. 

“I love you, little brother,” he whispers. 

Killian swallows hard, and nods. “I love you too.” 

[write-ur-wrongs]

Thank you @itsjammin for the request! I didn’t fully proof-read this one so please forgive any grammatical errors!! I hope you like it !!

Geralt x reader where she’s having a really bad panic attack and Geralt’s not sure how he can help and he just holds her and helps her through it cradling her in his arms and just gently rocking her. After she’s calmed down, he just kisses her forehead and traces patterns on her back and just lots of fluff please!

Trigger warning: Anxiety / panic attack. 

_________________________________________________

You were fine. You’re breathing and you weren’t bleeding and you’re fine. You closed your hands into tight fists in an attempt to ground yourself, digging your nails into your palms as you breathed out slowly through your nose. You felt the weight of your legs on the fallen tree beneath you, pushed your toes into the tip of your shoes and felt the pressure you created. Slowly, you relaxed your fists and rested your open hands on your thighs, feeling the blood rush back into palms. The tiny crescent moon indents in your palm stung dully.

You weren’t injured. You weren’t in danger of being injured. You were fine.

Geralt was watching you wearily from across the crackling fire, his steaming mug of broth hovering inches from his face. You had been balling your hands into fists, knuckles white, and relaxing them slowly on repeat for too long now. He looked over at Jaskier quizzically, a brow raised, but the bard merely mirrored his confusion, returning the look with wide eyes and an animated shrug.

You were normally a steady presence in the group, matching Geralt in energy level and Jaskier in wit. They’d known you for over a year now and had only ever seen you in that light; steady with a silver tongue. Tonight, however, was a completely different story. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened today; you had travelled a peaceful route and stopped in a nice clearing. No one had crossed you and Geralt sensed no threat in the surrounding area. And yet, there you sat, breathing slowly but with great effort, empty eyes looking out at nothing while your forehead was creased with worry.

Geralt wanted to know what was up, but he was no wordsmith. Huffing slightly, he looked at the bard pointedly and jerked his head in your direction, silently begging Jaskier to ask you what was wrong.

Jaskier might be good with words, but never when the situation truly called for it. He could banter with the best of them and diffuse tension with ease, but you were giving off such a distressing energy, he didn’t dare say anything unsure of what you’d do once the tension in you boiled over.

As such, he shook his head wildly and pointed at Geralt while mouthing, “You ask her!”

The two men mimed wildly to one another, both desperate to have the other take charge, oblivious to the fact that you had transitioned from the desperate-to-keep-a-steady-breath phase and into the weight-on-my-chest-is-suffocating-me phase of your episode.  

Jaskier won out though, when he threw a torn piece of bread a the Witcher’s head. With a low grunt, Geralt gingerly placed his mug down and clasped his hands together and leaned over, bracing himself.

He cleared his throat a couple times before hesitantly muttering his question. Unfortunately, his noble attempt fell on death ears.

All you could hear was a dull ringing coupled with the amplified sounds of your body; every breath was deafening, your heartbeat was so loud you felt it in your ears, and you swore you could hear your bones creaking in their joints.

You hated this; all of it. You hated that you couldn’t identify the cause of your panic. That rationally, you knew nothing was wrong, but that wasn’t enough to keep you from spiraling as you were. Normally you could feel these episodes coming and stop them before the settled in full. Your mother had taught you countless coping methods and the healers you met along your travels helped you immensely; especially as new triggers made themselves known to you.

Yet nothing had happened, really. Geralt was a little colder than usual, and he did snap at you quite harshly but that wasn’t new. It was an occupational hazard. Jaskier had been moodier as of late, probably because Geralt snapped at him too, but they’re always squabbling and reconciling. It was their way.

You didn’t see this one coming. At the first sign of trouble, you grounded yourself and counted your breaths. When that didn’t work, you counted things around you; five conifers, three boulders, fifteen pinecones on the floor, and so on. But it didn’t work. You had even pulled out your vial of herbs – all to no avail.

Nothing was helping and everything was too loud. You were in pain but nothing actually hurt. The weight of your body against your bones was crushing but you felt like a ghost.

Oblivious to your internal struggle and unimpressed with the Witcher’s feeble attempt, Jaskier rolled his eyes at Geralt and whipped another piece of bread at him. Frustrated and frazzled, Geralt threw the bread back to the bard with force, shot him a death glare, and wiped his sweaty palms on the top of his legs before trying again.

“Y/N... hm… how –”

“I’m fine!” you barked, although your voice wavered in a way that clearly indicated you were far from fine.

Geralt looked to Jaskier in desperation, not wanting to have to try again, but Jaskier was already up and walking backwards towards Roach, mouthing ‘sorry’ and ‘good luck’ as he washed his hands of the whole affair.

Geralt rolled his eyes and muttered a quiet, ‘fuck’, before getting up to cross the fire and settle beside you uncomfortably.

The moment you realized Geralt had come to your side, your chin wobbled and you felt tears prickle at your eyes. You brought your hands up to your face and swiped at your tears quickly, doing your best to regain control.

Seeing you up close – how your jaw never relaxed, how you couldn’t sit still, the way you dragged the nail of your index finger down the side of your thumbs, seemingly unaware of the angry red lines you left behind – his heart broke.

“Come ‘ere,” he said, pulling you towards him.

Feeling his strong arms wrap themselves around you brought your tears to the surface in an instant. Before either of you could process what was happening, you were sobbing freely into his broad chest, hands grabbing at him desperately for comfort.

You cried for what felt like forever, raw and ragged sobs shaking you to your core. But no matter how deeply you surrendered into your panic, Geralt never wavered. He rocked you slowly, stroking your back softly. Every now and then he’d murmur words of encouragement into your hair and, despite all odds, you found that the low rumble of his voice comforted you greatly.

After some time, your sobs turned into whimpers, and your whimpers into choppy breaths. All the while, Geralt never released his hold on you. Only when he felt your heartrate return to normal did he lessen his grip and pull back to look down at you, smoothing back your hair.

“What –”

“I’m –”

You both laughed awkwardly into the sudden silence and waited for the other to go on. After a beat, Geralt tried again.

“Please –”

“Geralt –” you interrupted once more, shaking your head at the cyclical turn your conversation had taken.

“Y/N, you go.” He said softly, still drawing loopy shapes onto your back with his fingers.

“Oh Gods,” you breathed shakily, “I’m so, so sorry.”

“No, no,” he shushed, placing gentle kisses along your temple, “Y/N you have no reason to be apologizing.”

“Geralt, look at me!? I’m a mess,” you blurt, “and I’ve scared Jaskier.”

“Jaskier,” he replied with a small smile, “is a fool. He’ll be fine.”

“That might be worse! He’ll never let me live this down.” You say, your head in your hands. Geralt laughed softly at this, and gave your back a few comforting pats before holding you tightly and pulling you closer to him.

“If he dares,” he murmured in mock seriousness, his smile giving him away, “then I will kill him.”

“Geralt! Then who would write all those songs about you?” you said, turning back and smacking him playfully on his chest.

“Preferably no one,” he answered, face soft with laughter while his eyes remained trained on you, watching closely to ensure you were doing okay.

“Oh, you’d miss it, you big vanity.” You laughed, swiping at the last of the tears on your face and moving to stand up.

“Y/N… wait,” he said, reaching for your wrist and gently pulling you back down. “Are you… alright?”

“I’m fine,” you said, settling back down at his side, “Truly, I’m fine.”

Geralt let out a low, ‘hm’, in response, and looked at you dubiously, still acutely aware of your heightened heartrate.

“Okay, fine,” you admit, accepting that you couldn’t lie to him about this, “but I will be.” When he didn’t look convinced, you placed your hands on his arms and gave him what you hoped was a convincing look. “I promise, Geralt. I’m okay.”

He clenched his jaw tightly and breathe a sigh through his nose before speaking again.

“You didn’t just scare Jaskier tonight,” he said, slowly and with care, “you scared me too.”

You quickly cast your eyes downward, feeling shame prickle harshly at your chest. Geralt saw you bring the nails of your index finger to your thumb, ready to start your rhythmic stabbing once more, and hastily brought your shaky hands into his.

“Don’t punish yourself like this,” he whispered, rubbing his rough thumb over the tops of your fingers, “just talk to me.”

“I don’t know what to say, honestly,” you said, refusing to bring your eyes up to his. “I can normally manage by myself, I don’t,” you stopped to take a steadying breath, and Geralt responded in kind by holding your hands a little tighter, “I don’t know what was different this time. I’m… I’m -”

“Only human?”

“Gross,” you said, pulling one of your hands free so you could wipe your face, “and unfair.”

“Maybe so, but Y/N, I’m serious,” he said, putting his hands gently under your chin to bring your eyes up to his, “if you ever feel like you’re losing control again, you can come to me.”

“Yeah?” you asked, your voice small.

“Always.” He said, pulling your face towards him so he could lay another gentle kiss onto your forehead. “No matter what.”

At this, you allowed yourself to melt into his arms once more, letting his slow, steady, heartbeats soothe you as he continued to draw shapes on your back. 

[thecreativewolf]

OC Interaction(s) Feauturing: Askal, @pray-montana 's Katze and @fishincherrycola 's Cub!

Katze:

Askal is a huge fan of his. During his time in the university while on break he watched Katze's videos. Will definately ask him for an autograph and a selfie.

Askal will want to ask about Katze's daring stunts. He'll probably sit back, grab a snack and listen to Katze's tellings.

He also wants to ask Katze if he could teach him some parkour to which Bantay DOES NOT approve.

Speaking of Bantay, he will do anything to make sure Askal does not learn parkour. The thought of his master jumping from a building to another makes him jump. So Bantay will probably do something small like hide Katze's things. At first.

Later on, Bantay might get physical to Katze (since, "if the teacher can't teach, the student can't follow") but due to Katze's abilities he doesn't succeed much.

Katze might bring it up Askal to which he puts Bantay on a time out and have a "talk" with. Eventually, Bantay reluctantly agrees only if he can join.

However since Bantay joins the lessons as well, that means he can also do some parkour. Which is bad to some or rather most people in the protocol.

Despite Katze acting all arrogant, Askal knows that he has a heart of gold and over all a nice person (he knows this because his younger sibling, Bartolomew has similar mannerisms as well).

He somewhat appreciates Katze's opinion on Kingdom. The belief that everything has three sides (one opinion, second opinion and the truth) perks Askal's interest up since he too values truth as well.

Katze might be somewhat interested in Askal's tech and will probably give him some suggestions (mostly on parkour).

When there's an animal stuck on a high building that Askal can't get to he'll ask Katze instead.

Speaking of tech, Askal might create something that enhances Katze's Radiant abilities. Once the invention is done, he lets Katze try it out and maybe celebrate at a BBQ place.

Askal Dialogues to Katze:

"Katze look!" (Askal performs a basic parkour movement.) "See, see! I'm getting better at this!"

"Ano? Did Bantay do something again?! Diyos ko, do I have to have another talk?" (What?) (My God, do I have to have another talk?)

"Hey Katze, just a quick recommendation to you. Have you tried parkouring the Grand Hyatt Manila? Hindi? Dapat mong subukan!" (No? You must try!)

"Kuya Katzeee! Can I have a moment with you? There are some adjustments I need to make with the tech.."

Cub:

When they first met it was not smooth. Bantay straights up stalks her. He notices how she close she was with The Imposter-- Chamber. He got caught and might got a bit.. "snowed."

Cub confronts Askal out in the public and starts accusing him of using Bantay to stalk her and Askal on the other hand is on the verge of smashing her head with a wrench after he sees Bantay's condition.

Bantay realising that he fucked up tries to reconcile with Cub by either playing "cute," doing some tricks and presenting her with some presents. But always gets ignored by her.

While walking back to his room, Askal watches as Cub drives an axe into some Agent's room. He was so fucking terrified at what he witnessed. But at the same he couldn't help but yell, "HERE'S JOHNNY!"

I just picture them just awkwardly staring at eachother for a brief moment before either Askal or Cub (or perhaps both) leave.

Despite being really pissed at Cub, Askal kinda feels sorry for her. He sees how she struggles to speak English snd how terrible her social skills are.

So one day, Askal apologises to Cub and offers to teach her English.

Cue in a long awkward silence. Until Cub, to Askal's surprise, agreed to his proposal with a condition that Bantay must be out of sight.

Askal also tries to learn some bit of French. Bought a book and tries his best pronounce all the words correctly.

One time he saw her playing with some kittens. Once he brought it up, Cub acts rather defensive and insists she doesn't care for some kittens.

Despite that, Askal gave her some tips on how to handle them properly and show her a place where cats usually hang out.

Noticing how Cub and Chamber are rather close, Askal doesn't really share "private information" with her and if he does, he tells a half-lie.

Askal Dialogues to Cub:

"Hey Cub! Ready for today's lesson?"

"Cub, what are you doing with that-- Ah, kalimutan mo na yung sinabi ko!" (Ah, forget what I said!)

"Do you really have to be that mad at Bantay? I mean it's understandable but still."

"Hi Cub, what are-- aaaand you're walking away. Sheesh."

[gerrydelano]

so, the #bad-pelvis-time channel in my humble server is going buck FUCKING wild over the concept of buff jon. there is art, and betrayal, and i just sat back archiving it all to the point where this post legitimately lagged so hard i have to separate it into parts.

enjoy the ride!

EDIT: i’m actually going back (for the second time?) to try and add the real beginning context. pardon the spoiler in the name changes in the first few (if they fucking save. tumblr.)

it all started with ren:

and at first, it was going just fine.

but then parker enters the scene, and it’s all downhill from here.

oh my g-d nicole’s name. jesus. anyway.

they started talking about the buff jon fic, which i do link later on.

and then here’s where we started this post last night.

then griffin pops in with this bad boy

i can’t even reconcile this one it made me black out irl

reminder that this happened because ren saw a post implicating buff jon and said it was wrong and everyone really is just going HAM on this.

i’m really just sitting here chronicling this shit as ren is being flamed in the chat and i’m doing nothing about it like they’re all yelling and crying and gasping and i’m silently tapping out this archive of the event

but i did make that. sorry.

here we witness the slow decline of ren’s already minimal trust in humanity

they’re down to one ally. i’m still just neutral.

can attest. that is their face irl, still, even as i go back in time to type all this up. i’m right next to them and not even remotely aiding in their struggle. this is how you run an archive, right?

parker, on vc: i’m so glad no one has gone buffer than me because mine is taking by far the longest. i hope no one goes buffer than me.

me, in my mind: me too, parker.

ren, beside me: [dying sounds]

this has been happening while i archive. can’t wait to see what i’ve missed.

anyway, next up, we have kaylee - a champion:

OH G-D ASHLEY DREW ONE THAT LOOKS LIKE HE’S ACTUALLY SUPPOSED TO BE SEXY I HAVE TO PASTE THE WHOLE IMAGE

MAN.

MAN.

things are really heating up in the buff jon community right now

ARCHIVIST’S NOTE: buff gerry is, indeed, my sleep paralysis demon. i’ve said this to these people. they know. and yet? and yet i’m threatened? okay!

ah. kaylee updated her jon. once again i have to paste the entire image.

behold! i’m in hell.

i have decided to judge all my friends, finally.

yeah. i think they all might have to die.

me: oh, nipple window?

ren: you have seen fucking NOTHING yet, ron. you are touching ashes that are STILL HOT.

me: ok

hm.

parker, on vc: how tiny should i make his head in proportion to his body?

me: [silently takking away]

PARKER’S MOM: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING

ME: SCREAMS

okay, so i heard that venus made it worse since their introduction, i haven’t seen it yet. wish me luck, guys. i’m lagging.

boy! ren is making actual dying whining misery sounds beside me and pleading “no, no, ashley no!” so i think, maybe, ashley might have done something. can’t be sure yet! i’m still catching up. this is riveting.

huh. it LOOKS like venus is going to be on ren’s side of the war. but that name suggests otherwise... i’m surely in for a shock.

oh hm.

yeah, there it is.

this is its own masterpiece.

oh, hey! sy joined in. here’s the file:

thanks, sy! you’re a hero.

this post is legitimately lagging.

PART TWO

[transparenthologramrebel]

Chapter 6 Warrior au

Hollyleaf Chapter 6

POV

“Power, I have power!” Hollyleaf’s mind raced as she turned back towards her brother. Lionblaze’s eyes twinkled slightly with pride for his sister, yet his still fierce appearance kept her from joining her brother’s joy. 

“I think I stopped him...I think he won’t reveal the secret. Starclan, we might be safe.” she said breathlessly. Lionblaze nodded, affirmingly. Hollyleaf stared at her paws. Her emotions were in a whirlwind, anxiety and fear still twisting in her belly. Yet her heart was fluttering like a bird’s wings with joy. She had just witnessed her brother trying to murder their clanmate, yet she had stopped him and in doing so had discovered her own power in the prophecy. Starclan, it felt like her lungs were filled with cobwebs as she struggled to catch her breath!

“We need to head back to camp. We need to tell Jayfeather and...see if Ashfur made it back.” Lionblaze said, his voice gruff and hollow. His shoulders were sagging, heavy with guilt. Hollyleaf blinked at her brother, finally coming back out of her thoughts. 

“Right, we need to go.” Hollyleaf flicked her brother in the shoulder with her tail. 

“Go wash off in the river. You can’t go back to camp covered in blood and smelling of Ashfur.” she told him sternly. Lionblaze nodded, padding back towards the stream. Hollyleaf watched him, her blood running cold through her veins. Her brain was struggling to reconcile that her beloved brother had nearly been a killer. 

“He did it for us...he was desperate...just like I am… I was almost a killer today too...no it would have been the fox that did the killing. I am a code bound warrior. If Ashfur died it would have been his fault, not mine.” Hollyleaf thought to herself. She shuddered in disgust at herself. She had been hunting Ashfur as well today with the same intention just with a different plan. She had come across a starving fox on Thunderclan territory. She found its den and formulated a plan. She would lead Ashfur back to it, in the hopes that the fox would have killed him. Yet finding her brother already drowning the tom stopped her from carrying out her plan. 

Hollyleaf stood loathing herself. Her plan would just be another secret in their family, one she would never tell. Lionblaze padded back over to his sister, shaking his pelt dry.

“Come on, we need to get back to camp before any cat suspects something.” Hollyleaf said, flicking her tail. 

The storm quickly rolled in as the two siblings headed home. Rain began pouring from the sky soaking both cats.

“Thank the Starclan...the rain will wash away Lionblaze’s scent along with Ashfur’s at the stream.” Hollyleaf thought to herself as they pushed through the tunnel into camp. 

“Lionblaze, Hollyleaf!” Cinderheart’s terrified voice called out. The gray cat ran across the clearing, skidding to a stop in front of the siblings. 

“Thank the starclan you’re alright!” She cried bunting her head against Hollyleaf’s chin, before licking Lionblaze’s cheek. Lionblaze let out a weary purr, running his tail along Cinderheart’s spine. Hollyleaf stifled a growl, digging her claws into the soft earth. Protectiveness of Cinderheart washed over Hollyleaf like a wave. 

“If you only knew what he nearly did! You wouldn’t be cozying up to my brother!” her mind cried. 

“What’s wrong Cinderheart?” Lionblaze asked.

“It’s Ashfur! He came stumbling into camp covered in blood! He looked like a fox shredded him! He collapsed when he came in, Jayfeather and Leafpool are over seeing him now! Starclan, Firestar is beside himself!” Cinderhear explained, her voice was almost a whisper from disbelief. Hollyleaf nodded. 

“I saw a starving fox on our territory today when I was out with Lionblaze. It’s to the east near the stream. Lionblaze and I stayed hidden, until the fox moved on. It must have found Ashfur...Starclan poor Ashfur.” Hollyleaf, mewed sadly. She pinned her ears back, her tail dropping as she feigned sadness for her clanmate. Cinderheart looked up at Lionblaze, her eyes filled with worry.

“I’m so sorry, Lionblaze! I know Ashfur was your mentor, you must be upset! Don’t worry, Leafpool and Jayfeather will do their best to take care of him!” she purred, nuzzling his chin. Lionblaze opened his jaw to speak, but nothing came out. He closed his eyes, lowering his head pushing Cinderheart closer to his chest, seeming to be in pain. Hollyleaf flicked her ears. 

“Is he faking, or is he actually upset? Does he feel guilty for what he did?” she wondered. Hollyleaf cleared her throat, getting both of her clan mates' attention back.

“I’m going to go speak with Firestar and Brambleclaw. They need to know about the fox, we have to get rid of it before it hurts anyone else. Lionblaze you should go to the medicine and check on Ashfur and warn Jayfeather not to go out without an escort.” Hollyleaf explained. 

“Alright, I’ll see you later.” Lionblaze murmured, turning his attention back to Cinderheart. Cinderheart purred, nodding to Hollyleaf. 

“Thank the Starclan, Thunderclan has you Hollyleaf. Don’t worry I’m sure we’ll drive the fox out no problem.” She purred. Hollyleaf felt herself relax for a moment, before tensing up again.

“If only you knew! Thunderclan would be better off without us!” She thought sadly to herself.  

Hollyleaf turned away, heading towards Firestar’s den. Poking her head inside, she found Firestar, Brambleclaw, Graystripe, Sandstorm and Dustpelt sitting in a circle talking in low serious voices.

“Maybe it was Windclan!” Dustpelt hissed. Sandstorm blinked at him, lashing her tail.

“Why would Windclan attack a single warrior and not an entire camp? Even if Ashfur did run over the border I doubt they would have mauled him!” Sandstorm growled. Firestar shook his head.

“Windclan has no reason to attack us or our warriors!” he said gruffly.

“Maybe it was a rogue!” Graystripe chimed in. 

“It was a fox! A starving fox,” Hollyleaf finally spoke, catching the group's attention. Brambleclaw got up, padding over to her. 

“A fox, you saw it?” He asked, his amber eyes burning with concern. Hollyleaf nodded. 

“Lionblaze and I saw it. It's in the east of the territory near the stream. It didn’t spot us and moved on. We had no idea Ashfur was close by, otherwise we would have warned him.” Hollyleaf explained. Brambleclaw’s chest rumbled with a purr. He gazed down proudly at his daughter, before licking her head. Hollyleaf felt her fur crawl as if her pelt was filled with ants. 

“Don’t worry you didn’t know what it was going to do. Either way I’m glad you're safe. After the storm ends Firestar, I’ll take a patrol out with Hollyleaf and we’ll drive the fox out of the territory!” Brambleclaw promised. Firestar’s stiff posture relaxed. 

“Alright, make sure to only take those with the most fox fighting experience. I don’t want any more warriors almost lost to this beast! Good work, Hollyleaf.” Firestar praised. Hollyleaf opened her jaws, but all she could do was stammer.

“I...thank you..sorry. Today has been stressful, first the fire...then the fox.” she muttered. 

Brambleclaw ran his tail over her.

“It’s alright, we’re all a little overwhelmed right now.” He purred reassuringly. 

“If only you all knew!” her mind wailed like a kit.  Hollyleaf nodded to him, before leaving the den. As Hollyleaf exited the den she bumped into Squirrelflight. Squrrielflight looked up at her daughter with worried eyes. 

"I heard about Ashfur. You and your siblings need to be careful when you leave the camp." She began to explain. Hollyleaf didn't reply, only brushing past her former mother. 

"Hollyleaf…" Squrrielflight called, following after her. She trotted quickly catching up. 

"Are you listening to me? You and your brother should go with Jayfeather when he leaves the camp. He'll need an escort to protect him." Squirrelflight continued. 

"Stop it! You don't think I know that? Why do you even care? You're not my mother!" Hollyleaf hissed in a whisper. Squirrelflight's green eyes misted over with pain. 

"That doesn't mean that I don't love you!" She whispered back. Hollyleaf felt her stomach twist. She gritted her teeth, flicking her tail wildly before padding away, leaving squirrelflight behind. 

Hollyleaf pushed her way past the moss covering into the medicine den. Ashfur laid unconscious on a moss nest. His fur was matted in blood, cobwebs and poultice. He looked more dead than alive.  Hollyleaf swallowed hard as she looked at him. 

"Starclan...Lionblaze what have you done?" She thought to herself. 

"Hollyleaf are you alright?" Leafpool asked worriedly, carrying more herbs over to Ashfur. Hollyleaf nodded wearily to her.

"Yes I came in to check on Ashfur. I saw the fox that attacked him. Do you think he'll be alright?" Hollyleaf asked, secretly hoping that the answer would be no.  Leafpool blinked at her reassuringly. 

"So it was a fox then...while his wounds are deep he's a strong warrior. I'm sure he'll recover with time." Leafpool explained adding more poultice to Ashfur's wounds. As Hollyleaf watched Leafpool work, she couldn't help but notice that Leafpool seemed preoccupied even troubled. 

"Leafpool are you alright?" Hollyleaf asked, running her tail over her former mentor. Leafpool seemed to jump. 

"Oh yes I'm alright...just so much has happened to Thunderclan in the past few moons. The fight with the sun disappearing, the fire, now Ashfur being mauled by a fox. Not to mention I heard that we are struggling to feed the clan because of the fire! I keep praying to starclan but I'm not sure they're hearing me." Leafpool sighed heavily. Hollyleaf let out a reassuring purr. 

"Don't worry Leafpool. Thunderclan is strong, we'll make it through."

"Starclan, are you two going to jabber like birds all day? We have an injured warrior in our den!" Jayfeather hissed coming out from the herb store. Hollyleaf felt relief rush over her as her brother approached. 

"We need to talk." She whispered in his ear. Jayfeather flicked his ear acknowledgement. 

"We've done all we can for Ashfur for right now, Jayfeather. All we can do is wait for him to wake." Leafpool murmured as she began to clean up the den. "Take a break and go eat with your sister. You haven't eaten all day."  Jayfeather let out a huff before padding out of the den. Hollyleaf quickly followed after her brother.

"What happened? I know it wasn't a fox that mauled Ashfur. I found Lionblaze’s fur in his claws!" Jayfeather hissed when the two siblings finally entered their secret meeting place. Hollyleaf felt her heart stop.

“You know? Did Leafpool find out too?” Hollyleaf asked worriedly. Jayfeather shook his head. 

“No, I hid the fur before she saw it. Now what happened?” Jayfeather demanded again, as he did Lionblaze pushed his way into the hiding place. Jayfeather turned his attention towards their brother. “Why did you attack Ashfur?” 

Lionblaze flinched, his body lowering to the ground as he shrunk in on himself. 

“I wasn’t….I was trying to convince him not to reveal the secret, but it didn’t work. I attacked him, I was going to try and drive him away from the territory. I lost control...my power took over.” He whimpered. “I wasn’t trying to kill him...it’s just what ended up happening. Hollyleaf stopped me.” Hollyleaf shuffled uncomfortably. It was clear Lionblaze regretted his actions, yet the worrying part hung over the three like a storm cloud. Lionblaze had lost control of his power and terribly maimed their clanmate. If Hollyleaf hadn’t shown up in time Ashfur would be dead and his blood would be on Lionblaze’s paws. If he lost control of his power again, what would happen if nobody was there to stop him?

Jayfeather flicked his tail against the dirt, agitated.

“You’re lucky she was...Starclan, can things get any worse? Lionblaze’s scent wasn’t on Ashfur which is a good thing. Did you cover it up where it happened?”

Hollyleaf nodded. 

“Yes I used fox dung to try and cover any signs of Lionblaze there. Also the rain should wash away any remaining scents. I told Firestar it was a starving fox I saw out by the stream. They’re going to lead a patrol to get rid of it.” Hollyleaf explained. Jayfeather stood up, pacing nervously. 

“Ashfur is going to speak when he wakes up. He’s going to tell the clan about Lionblaze and most likely about the secret. What are we going to do?” Jayfeather muttered his words, shaking. Lionblaze let out a small purr, tapping his brother with his tail. 

“Actually, we don’t have to worry about that anymore. Hollyleaf discovered her power.”

Jayfeather stopped on his heels, spinning around to face his sister. 

“You discovered your power!? Hollyleaf, that's amazing! What can you do, how do you know that Ashfur won’t speak?” He cried, excitement burning in his blind blue eyes. Hollyleaf purred, feeling her pelt beaming with pride. 

“I don’t know what exactly I can do, but..when I looked at Ashfur I felt...I...I felt like I had control over him. I told him he couldn’t speak about what happened and he said he wouldn’t. I felt like my claws were in his head.” Hollyleaf explained, struggling to find the right words to describe what happened. Jayfeather straightened up.

“Do you think you can control other cats?” He asked, blinking curiously. Hollyleaf licked her chest, trying to think.

“Maybe? I’m not sure.” Jayfeather blinked thoughtfully, flicking his tail.

“We need to run an experiment to find out exactly what you can do.” He said. 

“What kind of experiment?” Hollyleaf asked. Jayfeather walked over to the entrance of the hideaway, poking his head out, listening for a moment before coming back in.

“Berrynose is over by the freshkill pile. I want you to use your power to get him to do something. Try to get him to give you his prey.” Jayfeather instructed. Hollyleaf shuffled uncomfortably.

“Use my power on my clan mate? I don’t know Jayfeather.” Hollyleaf protested. She had used her power on Ashfur because she had to protect her family. Using it even for a test on a clanmate felt like a misuse. Jayfeather flicked her ear with his tail.

“Come on Hollyleaf, we have to know what you can do! Besides, there isn’t anything in the warrior code against it.” Hollyleaf felt her fur stand up in annoyance. 

“Fine!” she hissed stalking out of the hiding spot. 

Hollyleaf felt her throat tighten as she spotted Berrynose, pawing his way through the freshkill pile. He finally picked up a squirrel, and started walking across the camp. Hollyleaf drew in a breath gathering her courage.

“Berrynose, can we speak?” She asked, padding over to the cream tom. Berrynose flicked his ear in curiosity, setting down his squirrel. 

“What about?” he asked. Hollyleaf opened her jaws, but nothing came out. Berrynose tilted his head.

“Hollyleaf, are you alright?” 

“Yes! I...I just really want that squirrel. It was the fattest in the pile.” Berrynose let out an amused purr.

“Yes it was. I’m sorry though, I'm going to share it with Honeyfern. There’s other squirrels in the pile.” Berrynose said firmly. Hollyleaf shuffled, digging her claws into the earth. 

“You should really give me that squirrel Berrynose.” Hollyleaf muttered as she stared into his eyes. Once again she felt as if there were vines wreathing their way around her legs, tugging against her fur. Berrynose stared back blinking, his eyes distant. The moment was over in seconds. Berrynose blinked, shaking his head. 

“You know what, take it. There are other squirrels on the pile. I’ll get another one for me and Honeyfern.” Berrynose muttered, pushing the squirrel towards her, before walking away. Hollyleaf shook her pelt, trying to feel better about what she just did. She bent down picking up the squirrel, heading back to her brothers. Both Lionblaze and Jayfeather were poking their heads out of the hideaway, watching with wide eyes. 

“Hollyleaf, that was amazing!” Lionblaze purred, licking her shoulder. Hollyleaf pulled away from him. Jayfeather blinked thoughtfully, a purr rumbling in his throat.

“We’ll that confirms it. Your power can control what other cats do. That’s really powerful, it’s just like what Yellowfang said.” he purred. 

Hollyleaf purred, feeling pride and excitement falling off her pelt in waves. She had finally found her power and it was powerful. She had found her place in the prophecy among her brothers. 

“Starclan, I promise you, I will use the gift you have given me as best as I can. I will use it to protect Thunderclan and preserve the warrior code. I will leave my paw print on the forest and place myself among the legends of the clans!” Hollyleaf thought. 

[neitherever-nornever-goodbye]

Number Five Fic Recs

I have spent days reading Five fics since season 2 aired, so I decided that I might as well start jotting them all down for anyone’s interested. It’s a long list, here we go xD

Completed

1.  Blood and Steel by @e-vasong, T, 6900 words

Diego gets shot. Five is evasive. There is a bit of an emotional reckoning, and neither of them are even vaguely equipped for it.

2.  Carry Him by ClaraCivry (Kat_Of_Dresden), not rated, 2422 words

`Five times Five's siblings carried him, took his weight.

Some hurt Five, some fluff, but mostly Hargreeves being worried and looking after him.

3.  Small Changes by calypso42, T, 3509 words

“I need to ask you something.” He set down the large stack of books he was carrying beside him. Klaus glanced at a few of the titles - Consciousness in the Brain - Memory & the Role of the Hippocampus - Soul vs. Matter: A Comprehensive Look at the Origins of Sentience - and grimaced.

“Are you… having an existential crisis, or something? Because I am possibly the worst person you could go to for that.”

...

When Five goes to Klaus to ask him something about his powers, Klaus doesn’t think much of it. At least, until he realizes that what he thought was simple curiosity was actually deeper than that, leading to a revelation about Five himself.

4.  Strike A Violent Pose by @ford-ye-fiji, T, 1268 words

And here he was, limping along with a twisted ankle, going to save his siblings from certain doom yet again.

5.  You are not alone by my_monster_are_real, T, 4259 words

Five doesn't like to be taken care of, but Allison doesn't care.

6.  They Could Care Less (as long as someone’ll bleed) by @ford-ye-fiji, M, 2835 words

Number Five is cornered once again by commission agents, but this time with his family.

-

Diego and Klaus learn something about their littlest-oldest brother.

7. Didn’t Give Me Time to Say Goodbye by rookflight, Gen, 1769 words

After dealing with the second apocalypse, Five takes time to think about everything that’s happened. Klaus seizes the opportunity for some quality sibling bonding.

8.  With Two Arms by karcheri, T, 3345 words

What it comes down to, really, is that Five had been too eager for results. Once it became clear to him that there was a connection between his powers and his energy level the obvious course of action, as he saw it, was to test this information. The hypothesis was this: higher energy levels = stronger powers and the easiest way to get more energy is to eat more. Pretty simple stuff. Too simple.

or Five times that Five starves himself and one time that he gets called out on it.

9.  Number Five The Monster Under The Bed by Kraeyola, T, 5460 words

It's easy to forget sometimes when you look at Five; small lanky body, little boy-scout shorts, and a perfectly pristine uniform. A smooth youthful face that's always wearing a too-serious expression for someone (supposedly) so young. Not that the siblings don't respect Five as an equal, it's just... well. It's hard to take him so seriously. Especially when he gets mad and makes such an adorable pouty face.

It's why they find it so difficult to deal with reconciling Five to the boy they (thought they) knew, to the boy they're seeing standing right in front of them. But you can't really blame them, can you?

After all, it's hard to believe things without witnessing them first hand.

There is a monster under the bed and it's in the shape of a thirteen-year-old boy.

10.  Nonlinear theory for dummies by Inkjade, Gen, 4786 words

After forty-five years of fighting, it's kind of hard to know how to stop.

11.  Vital Signs by aye_of_newt, M, 3524 words

Sometimes, it's difficult for Klaus to tell if someone is alive or dead.

When Five shows up, covered in blood after killing the Board, Klaus panics.

12.  Not with me by Claracivry (Kat_Of_Dresden) Gen, 5681 words

They never asked if any of that blood was his.

Five is bleeding, and he is also giving up.

AU to 2X07, with hurt Five because after all that boy has been through...

13.  Nothing’s Going on (and that’s the problem) by briegretful, T, 5231 words

(Directly after the season 2 ending, except everything's normal and everyone's still around) He did it. Five saved his family. They landed in 2019 and everything, somehow, worked out.

He's not sure how to deal with that.

or

Five struggles to deal with not having an apocalypse to stop, and his family tries to help him.

14.  A New Life by BirdInTheCave, T, 3884 words

Allison had convinced Ray to come back to 2019 with her and her family and after a month of being cooped up in the house with the other Hargreeves plus their own unconventional guests, Ray suggests they spend some time alone. He's still struggling to fully comprehend the new world he's stepped into but he's determined that with Allison at his side he can get used to anything. Allison can't find a reason to say no. She should have said no.

Luckily for her, Five will always be there for his family, now that he's back.

15. Side Effects May Vary by CivilBores, T, 6565 words

Allison crosses her arms. “Five,” she says firmly, “when was the last time you slept?”

“I don’t know,” Five says honestly. At Allison’s expression, he quickly adds, “But it doesn’t matter. I don’t know what it’ll take for all of you pea-brained idiots to realize that.”

“We may not be as intelligent as you, Five,” Allison says, “but at least all of us are smart enough to know how to take care of ourselves.”

OR

A week after the world is saved, Five convinces himself that he is still experiencing lingering side effects of paradox psychosis. His family has something to say about that.

16. The Walls Kept Tumbling Down by @ingu, T, 64888 words, 8 chapters

It started small.

There was a nagging ache in his chest, phantom pain from where the bullets had pierced his flesh, in the overwritten timeline that never will be.

(the one where rewinding time doesn't miraculously resolve mortal gunshot wounds)

17. Stay by maddienole, T, 6027 words

Five had saved his life once, many months ago. Maybe it was time for Klaus to return the favor.

18. Growing Pains by kakashi_mole, Not rated, 10520 words, Fiveya (personal fave, angst too much)

Number Five remembers his first kiss

Notes:    

Takes place after Season Two. A Five-centric fic. Some teenagers get growing pains, some don’t, but the last “cycles” of pain usually occur around age 13.

19. Another Cog in Murder Machine by @ford-ye-fiji​, T, 2463 words

Five finally gets the breakdown he deserves 

20. Sorrows Like Thunder Clouds by Emotionally_Detached (Yeah_Toast), T, 6953 words

He makes it. He time travels and makes it through another apocalypse.

He makes it, but his siblings don't.His siblings don't make it, except he's in his own childhood and they're still here, alive and thirteen and he can fix things.

He will fix things

On Going

1. “I’m Too Tired” by beastboy12, T, Chapters 2/?

A slight re-telling of the barn scene. Five manages to save his siblings, but at what cost?

In which the author takes a throw-away line in season 2 and runs with it.

2.  And We All Turn To Ash by @golden-redhead, Gen, Chapters 1/?

Seconds, not decades. 

The blue glow pulsed between his fingers and he pulled at the familiarity of the feeling, pulling until time and space bent under his touch, parting as he struggled to squeeze himself through just enough to jump and change the course of history. 

The energy, familiar but somehow different, courses through his body and then he moves, for a few precious seconds existing within the time and yet outside of it. 

-

a.k.a. Five is so, so close to getting them back home and making things right. And then he isn't.

3. Tangled in The Hanging Tree by TiredPigeon (TwistedSkys), T, Chapters 2/?

The timeline is still messed up, obviously. There is still so much work to do, still so much to fix. His siblings have questions and concerns, and they want answers.

Five just wants his nose to stop bleeding.

(Post-season 2, but I have no plans to speculate on season 3, so consider this fluff.)

Five is tired, his family is starting to notice.

 Thats all for now!

@tomatojuicem apologies for making you wait ;)

Lmk if theres something wrong with the link Notes: All these fics posted after season 2 aired, but not neccessary related to season 2

[trahottie]

Trahearne x F!Commander

(Ao3) Ch 2 / ? - It is the eve of the Pact’s final assault against Zhaitan. A morning unlike any other awaited them all and unspoken truths must be shared before it is too late. Marshal Trahearne and Commander Rhea struggle to reconcile with the meaning of their friendship as they realize they might never see each other ever again.

---

Commander Rhea couldn’t tell how long she had been staring at the starlit sky. Once again, her thoughts drifted towards the person she considered her closest friend. 

Upon leaving the briefing room, General Soulkeeper had mentioned she had further meetings to attend to with the Marshal and the rest of the Pact’s administrative leadership, despite the already late hour. 

He must be so tired, she thought. 

Growing weary of her own fatigue, Rhea shook herself out of her reverie and refocused on the task at hand. She leaned forward and scribbled away:

  Dear Marshal,

 Rhea paused, her quill tip lingering over the parchment.

So formal. This won’t do,  She thought. Not for something like this. She crumpled the sheet and threw it aside, before pulling another from the corner of her work desk. 

The room was nearly pitch black, if not for the lit candle that stood by her writing materials, and the moonlight peering through her window. She leaned back in her chair and let her gaze drift over the ocean’s horizon for the umpteenth time as if it would offer a final boon of inspiration. 

As what may be expected in an old, dilapidated fort quickly made over into a fully functional military stronghold in a matter of mere months, the furnishings of her room were simple and modest. Nonetheless, as a reflection of her rank, she was afforded a room with a generous amount of space and windows that overlooked the rest of Fort Trinity and the shorelines of Terzetto Bay. 

Now and then, she can hear a pack of soldiers shuffling past her doors with equipment, and the echoes of hammering steel ring outside her windows. The hour was late, but there was always more to do. Especially when a morning unlike any other awaited them all. 

An hour prior, she and the rest of Destiny’s Edge had broken from their exhaustive day-long intelligence briefings and strategic overviews. Everyone involved in the frontal assault was ordered to return to their quarters and get as much shut-eye as possible. There wasn’t much time left and so much was at stake.

However, Rhea could not sleep just yet. As was the case for many soldiers this solemn night, there was unfinished business to tend to. There were farewells to be made. Lifetimes of meanings needed to be truncated to brief letters for loved ones that many may not ever see again. 

Rhea leaned back further and rubbed her temples. She was used to risking her life every day, but there was no question that tomorrow will be unlike anything she has ever faced before. How do you kill an Elder Dragon? No less one who has managed to upheave an entire lost civilization?

This time, she and her comrades may truly die a horrible, permanent death. The idea of never seeing her friends and family again never quite struck her the way it did now. Everything she worked towards and bled for would come to a bitter end. All of her hopes for the future would be snuffed out like a candle. She felt as though she dangled over an endless precipe, held by nothing but a thin thread, and the anxiety made her heart ache and stomach churn nonstop. It was debilitating. 

Rhea shook it off and returned her attention to the blank parchment. All that remained to do now was say goodbye to him. Thinking about what to say was numbing. After all, how do you say farewell to someone who might not be able to understand what he means to you? 

Not only was he her superior officer and the leader of a massive armada that the survival of the entire world depended on, but he is not even human! Even better, he was the first of his other-worldly kind. Everything about his identity was the substance of pure legend. How do you confess something so horribly vulnerable to someone of such incredible, almost supernatural importance? Why risk such painful embarrassment?

Because he’s my best friend, Rhea thought. 

And I might never see him again. 

This was the one fact that brought Rhea peace of mind in the storm of her emotions. It took her a painfully long time to accept the truth.

In these past few weeks, it nearly drove her mad to not come to terms with what she was feeling. She thought of him day and night. What was he up to? Is he holding up well? Or is he overburdened, from being buried neck-deep in paperwork, logistics, and the emotional trauma of being responsible for the deaths of countless brave souls, young and old? Even worse, was there someone or something making another attempt on his life, whilst she is unable to shield him from danger? 

Her juvenile instincts often fantasized of an alternate universe where there were no Elder Dragons to kill, no Pact to lead, no other-worldly dangers to run from or into. It would be just the two of them, perhaps strolling along the roaming green hills of Kessex as they muse about history, literature, or the humble and charming livelihoods of the farmers they pass by. 

Or perhaps they would walk beneath the lush canopies of Caledon, where she could learn more about the wondrous idiosyncrasies of his people and admire the boundless potential of the Sylvaris’ future. 

Rhea realized that she ached for such fantasies because no matter the danger that surrounded them, every moment spent in his company made her feel... warm. Safe. Happy. When was the last time she had such a reliable source of pure contentment? If ever? She thought life would forever be an uphill battle for acceptance, belonging, and survival. But it all became so small when she was at his side. With him, she was enough. If not more.

Of course, however, they would never have crossed paths had there been no Zhaitan, or armies of Risen or the impending doom of the world. Thus, here they are, a sunrise away from facing their ultimatum, and she, Commander Rhea Hanaku, must confess she is hopelessly in love with Marshal Trahearne. 

She continued. 

  Trahearne, my dear friend, 

It should be without surprise that I consider you my closest companion. My firmest ally. After everything we have endured together over the past year, you would probably agree when I say there are no words that can complement the significance of our friendship. 

As usual, your confidence in me is overwhelming, and you assure me that we will certainly see each other again on the other side of this upcoming battle. And as usual, my pessimism has compelled me to overcompensate in light of the worst. 

 Rhea's lips curled to a small smile. The sentiment took her back to what felt like an ancient memory. 

  “You seemed to have known each other well,” Rhea said quietly, her eyes glumly fixed on the dark waters and misty horizon that surrounded their ship. 

“We did,” Trahearne replied with a gentle smile. “I’ve counseled the Vigil on many of their campaigns against the Risen. As you might expect, Forgal was often the point-person for those initiatives. We had spent countless missions with our backs against each other. And, well,” he cleared his throat, “countless celebratory drinks at many-a-tavern. As many times Forgal has saved my life, there were just as many times he threatened it with one too many pints.” 

Rhea’s eyes lit up towards Trahearne, and she surprised herself with the light laughter that escaped her lips. “You and me both,” she said with a small smile. Her eyes studied the sylvari before her. Despite the poise in Trahearne’s composure and the graciousness of his smile, she could sense a deep sadness in the golden glow of his eyes. 

Forgal had always complained that ever since his “old age”, he only bothered fraternizing with those he held in high regard. After all she had witnessed from Firstborn Trahearne in the few hours they’ve known each other, it wasn't hard to tell why this sylvari fell in that category. The thought of her mentor made her eyes water once more. Rhea turned away quickly. 

“I’m so sorry, Rhea,” Trahearne said softly. “I can tell you two were close, as well.” 

Rhea stared back at him. The sadness he shared with her and the concern he expressed made Rhea feel closer to the sylvari. For the first time since they embarked on this forlorn voyage, she felt warmth creep back into her chest. 

“You know what hurts the most?” Rhea whispered,  as she couldn’t help but give in to the sincerity in his eyes. “He always said that I was the kid he should have had.” It took everything she had to gulp back her emotions. Countless memories of laughter and heart-to-hearts with her mentor rushed through her. Countless memories that gave her hope for a future that she could be proud of. They were the kind of memories she never had with her own parents despite the many years she spent under their cold gilded rooftops. “I thought he was just joking. But I wish I could've told him... I wanted to tell him, he was the family I wish I had, too.” 

She was undone. The truth of what she had lost today dropped on her like a torrential downpour. Her tears followed suit. For some reason, she wasn’t surprised when she felt the sylvari gently wrap her arms around her in a comforting embrace. 

“Forgal never needed formalities to know the truth,” Trahearne said quietly. “In all the years I've known Forgal, I've never seen him look upon someone with as much pride as I did today. He understood what he meant to you, Rhea. That is why he made the choice he made today." The low timbre of his voice sent a soothing pulse to her senses.

Rhea’s breathing slowed, finding comfort in his words. Trahearne slowly withdrew so he could look her in the eye, “He knew what you were capable of. And I saw that with my own eyes today. His sacrifice will never be in vain because of you. I believe that wholeheartedly.” 

At that moment, she was dumbstruck. Rhea could not understand the intimidation the Lionguard soldiers at Claw Island felt in Trahearne's presence. All she could see before her was a sylvari with a world of kindness and mature understanding in his eyes. It was the kind of deep, soothing warmth one found in a finely aged wine - a sweetness tempered by the mellowed nature only earned by years and years grounded in earth. His sharp, strangely handsome features suddenly appeared all the more gentle and noble. He was stunning.

 Rhea continued to write. The memory reminded her of how much Trahearne inspired her to confide in him. At the end of the day, he was her friend first and foremost. What was the worst that could happen...? 

Please allow me once more to overcompensate for my pessimism. Please allow me to prepare for the possibility that this is my last chance to speak to you truthfully. 

There is a confession in this letter that I’m afraid you won’t be prepared for, Trahearne. My heart is hurting from simply writing this. My heart hurts every time I think of you.

Forgive me, my friend, but I'm afraid I love you.

---

[ibijau]

Nobody asked for it, but let me interest you in an extra for the Age Reversal AU

Lan Xichen struggles with the song that killed Nie Mingjue, and takes steps toward reconciling with his brother (warning for some mental instability, and for some brief suicidal thoughts)

The song never stops.

It gets quieter sometimes, when there are other noises around, when Lan Xichen focuses on other musics, when conversations get loud enough, but it never stops.

In silence, the unending melody rises high and loud, constantly reminding him of the worst day of his life, making it near impossible to fall asleep or concentrate. Lan Xichen has barely meditated since he first awoke after the attack. He has barely slept without the help of medication as well.

The song never leaves him alone.

Lan Xichen thought, briefly, that it had gotten under control when he went to see Nie Huaisang in the Unclean Realm. It's always noisy there, there's always people shouting, sparring, chatting. There's Nie Huaisang's birds. There's even Nie Huaisang himself, who snores even if he denies it, and even that managed to cover the song, at least long enough for Lan Xichen to fall asleep.

But in the Unclean Realm there was also the shadow of Nie Mingjue everywhere Lan Xichen looked.

Lan Xichen saw his dead friend in every corner, heard his laugh, felt his presence.

After a month there, Lan Xichen could hardly even look at Nie Huaisang anymore without noticing how much he looked like his brother after all. They have the same eyes, which Lan Xichen never realised before, and though he's had little cause to see it on Nie Huaisang during his visit, they have the same smile as well.

It is unbearable, and unlike the song, Lan Xichen can do something about that.

So after Nie Huaisang and him finish preparing their plan to denounce Jin Guangyao and have him pay for his crimes, Lan Xichen goes home.

It's a mistake.

After the constant cacophony of the Unclean Realm, the silence of the Cloud Recesses is a constant torture. The song rises higher than ever, inescapable, driving him half mad. His uncle notices, of course, but cannot do anything about it.

Lan Wangji too notices, and tries to express concern on afternoon when he visits his brother in the house Lan Xichen still shares with their uncle.

It's too late for that, Lan Xichen tells him. Lan Wangji's concern was needed years ago, when a madman launched evil spirits and fierce corpses at every sect to slaughter them. Lan Wangji made his choice then, and Lan Xichen isn't about to forget that.

Lan Wangji takes in his rage with nothing more than faint sadness.

“I made choices that day,” he agrees, reaching out to take his brother's hand. “I am making choices now too.”

Lan Xichen moves his hand away before Lan Wangji can touch him. Pain flashes on his brother's face, and it must be intense indeed to show so openly, however briefly, but Lan Xichen doesn't care.

“I want to help,” Lan Wangji insists.

“You don't even know what's wrong,” Lan Xichen retorts, the song rising higher again, as it does when he's angry.

He nearly drowns in it.

It's tempting sometimes to let it submerge him, to just give in, to give up. Lan Xichen is exhausted beyond anything he thought possible and he just wants it to end. Just wants the song to leave him alone.

It won't until he's dead.

Lan Xichen has thought about that a lot lately, especially since coming back to the Cloud Recesses. Sometimes, when the melody gets too loud, he feels half ready to do whatever it takes to make it stop. Anything would be better than this song. Anything, so long as his mind can be silent again. Anything...

But he can't die. Lan Xichen is the only person to have witnessed Nie Mingjue's murder, the only person to know that cursed song. He has to last at least until justice prevails.

He can't die anyway because Nie Huaisang will be alone again, truly alone this time, and Lan Xichen still feels sick to his bone when he remembers how the man he loves looked when he first arrived to the Unclean Realm to tell him what really happened to Nie Mingjue. Just a broken shell, much like Lan Xichen feels as well. They'll never be together the way they wanted to be, not anymore, but Lan Xichen can't abandon him either, can't make Nie Huaisang face all this alone.

But it's so hard, the song never leaves him alone.

It's so hard.

He just wants it to stop.

Lan Xichen blinks, and realises that he's started crying. Not only that, but he's no longer sitting stiffly. He's curled up on his brother's lap, clinging to him the way he used to do when he was little, when Lan Wangji was everything to him, when he still thought brothers were people one could trust.

It's rare for Lan Wangji to touch anyone. Even when they were young, Lan Xichen knew his desperate need for physical affection was in conflict with his brother's distaste for it. But Lan Wangji never once pushed him away back then, and apparently even pulled him into his arms this time.

It makes Lan Xichen sob harder, loud enough to almost hide the song.

He is so tired.

“Tell me how to help,” Lan Wangji quietly asks, petting his hair gently, pulling him closer until Lan Xichen can nearly pretend that he no longer despises his brother for his betrayal.

“You can't,” Lan Xichen sobs. “Nobody can. It's so quiet here, it's always quiet.”

“Hm. The quiet is bad?”

Lan Xichen nods weakly.

“Do you want me to play music for you?” Lan Wangji offers.

The idea is so unbearable that Lan Xichen tears himself away from his brother's tight embrace, his eyes round with terror as he shakes his head hurriedly.

It's different, of course it's different, but it's too similar as well. A brother, a calming melody...

Lan Xichen can't bear it.

Lan Wangji looks more concerned over his panicked reaction. Lan Xichen knows that when he leaves, his brother will go ask their uncle to explain to him what happened. Lan Qiren will refuse, because they've agreed that they still don't know how much they can trust Lan Wangji, not yet, not until he's proven that what he did in Nightless City was only a lapse in judgment.

It's awful to be keeping secrets from him. Lan Xichen resents him for this as well, because he misses being able to trust his own brother.

He misses being able to trust anyone at all.

After everything that has happened, Lan Xichen doesn't know how to trust anymore. Even Nie Huaisang... he almost didn't tell him about what happened that day, fearful that Nie Huaisang was part of the plot, that he'd gotten a taste for power after all. It would have contradicted everything Lan Xichen thought he knew about the other man, but in a world where Lan Wangji could leave him behind and save Wei Wuxian, where Jin Guangyao could use Lan songs to murder their little brother... Lan Xichen doesn't know what he knows anymore.

“Hm. No music,” Lan Wangji promises, reaching out for his hand again. This time, Lan Xichen allows it, too exhausted to resist. If he dared, he'd fall again into his brother's arms. He doesn't dare. “But silence bothers you?” Lan Wangji insists.

Lan Xichen nods.

“I will put you on duty with the children,” Lan Wangji offers. “The young ones. They never stay quiet.”

“I don't have the patience for them,” Lan Xichen confesses. Then, having admitted to this much, he adds. “I don't sleep well, it makes me unsuited for most duties.”

Lan Wangji doesn't insist, for which Lan Xichen is grateful. Gossip is forbidden but he's heard whispers, people saying he should be recovered now, that he's lazy for not resuming his old duties, that he's making excuses, that he's like his father, like his brother, trying to run from his obligations, trying to...

“Tomorrow, you spend the day with me,” Lan Wangji decides. “I have classes, and meetings with petitioners. There will be as much noise as can be found in the Cloud Recesses.”

“I cannot, I have to...”

“You are unwell,” Lan Wangji states in a tone that allows no objection. “You have been unwell for a long time. Until you are better, measures must be taken to help you. If silence is unbearable to you, we will find ways to avoid it.”

Against his will, Lan Xichen feels tears gathering at the corner of his eyes again which he fights to contain.

He used to wonder if Lan Wangji would hate them after his punishment. If his brother would hate him. He must have hated him all along, to chose a murderer over him.

It might have been easier if Lan Wangji did hate him, because then everything would make sense at least.

“If it is easier to you, return to Qinghe,” Lan Wangji continues. “Or go to Lanling to see your other sworn brother.”

Lan Xichen flinches. “No. No, I'm not going back there.”

“To Qinghe?” Lan Wangji asks, a visible frown on his face.

“To Lanling. Don't ask why.”

Immediately, Lan Wangji relaxes somewhat. He's never been fond of the Jins to begin with, and this whole business with Wei Wuxian didn't help. Lan Xichen feels half sure that his brother would try to help if he knew about Jin Guangyao, just to avenge Wei Wuxian.

It certainly wouldn't be to avenge Nie Mingjue, whom people say helped kill Wei Wuxian. It might be true, or it might not. Even Lan Xichen never got the truth out of him. Nie Mingjue refused to talk about that day, though he looked haunted by it sometimes, the same way Lan Xichen remains haunted by the song, by the absence of his best friend, his sworn brother.

“I don't want to go to Qinghe either,” he whispers, curling up on himself without noticing. “It's too sad now.”

“We can invite Nie Huaisang,” Lan Wangji offers. “To discuss matters that have to be handled in person.”

“I don't think he wants to see you,” Lan Xichen counters with a grimace. Nie Huaisang is many things, but he isn't forgiving.

Lan Xichen might someday let go of what happened in Nightless City, but he doubt Nie Huaisang ever will, least of all now that Nie Mingjue is dead.

“True,” Lan Wangji admits. “You would have to entertain him and lead negotiations on my behalf.”

There's a slight glint in Lan Wangji's eyes as he says that, something that Lan Xichen knows means his brother is amused. He must know, then. Lan Xichen hasn't told him about the plans he had with Nie Huaisang, and he knows Lan Qiren won't have spoken of them either... but they've both forgotten how observant he can be. After three years, they've forgotten a lot.

Lan Xichen wonders, briefly, if his brother would have noticed what Jin Guangyao was planning. It is not a train of thoughts he wants to linger on, fearing it will make him resentful again. Things happened the way they did, there's nothing to be gained in wishing to change the past.

“I don't think Nie Huaisang would accept the invitation,” Lan Xichen remarks. “He's... busy.”

“Too busy for you?”

“He has a lot to do.”

Lan Wangji's frown return, but he does not insist. Lan Xichen would not have explained anyway. For a brief moment, silence falls between them, giving the song a chance to return, haunting and taunting. It doesn't last though. Before long, Lan Wangji, who never says three words if two are enough, starts talking again, asking about Lan Xichen's day, about his duty, telling him about the rabbits. None of it is of particular interest, but Lan Wangji speaks anyway, just to keep the silence at bay.

Lan Xichen finds himself grateful for that effort, even if the song returns with a vengeance the second he is alone again.

He has lost a lot, but he might not have lost his brother after all.

[barnesandco]

White Feathers and Melting Wax

Bucky’s trigger words are redefined with Sam’s help.

This is an entry for @star-spangled-bingo​ 2020. Word count: 7029. Square filled: “Mutual Pining”

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Violence, mentions of blood, questionable food preferences (blame Hasan Minhaj), slight language, nightmares, slow burn, fluff that will make your teeth ache, cliche ending.

A/N: This one is dedicated to @searchingforbucky because I saw her post something about how much she loves SamBucky, which gave me an idea for my SSB, and one thing led to another, so long story short, this story is for you, Meg. Thank you for providing an invaluable and unimaginably difficult service to our fanfic community - you’re a real gem. 

It’s Armageddon. Hell on Earth, as if its crust has been made to split open, and all that fury and heat and horror, alongside creatures that nobody could conjure in their worst nightmares, is pouring out. Taking revenging for millenium upon millenium of imprisonment, it is biting and scratching and clawing its way through the best of humanity, bringing out the worst of humanity – the murder, the anger, the rage – in the process. Wakandan skies, once bluer than the surface of Lake Tiorati on a July day, are raining ash and smolder. 

Sam’s arm is bleeding. A particularly agile alien caught the bared portion of his bicep – stupid, stupid, uniform design – and blood drips as he tries to increase his altitude, and find a better angle. Steve notices him from over the shoulder of his own opponent – of course he does, Steve never misses anything – and frowns in a moment of concern that the enemy recuperates in, because Sam is now a more visible target, but he is also good at math. The risk-benefit calculations are telling him that it’s worth it, and the glint of gun-metal fingers he sees in the distance, the owner of which is struggling to cope with half a dozen demons, confirms that.

Barnes is doing the best he can, teeth bared as he attempts to fend them off with a very impressive, but near-empty machine gun and a dagger that’s doing more harm than good. Moments away from defeat, and from an unholy death. His hair is nothing but a second skin sticking to his face and scalp with sweat and monster slobber. Should’ve tied it back, Rapunzel, Sam has time to think before landing in the thick of it. Growls and roars and snarls mix as he manages to join backs with Barnes, both at each other’s six, until nobody can tell which battle cries are animal and which are human. He must be longing for a fight like the one at Leipzig now.

Within minutes, the horde has thinned, but not ended, seemingly infinite in magnitude and strength, and they’re still fighting. The pain from his arm has dulled to an aching throb, lulled into faint numbness by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and has joined the other innumerable wounds that litter his body. He can hear Barnes’ gun behind him, like bass-boosted fireworks. It’s a square dance – an intuitive one rather than practiced, because he knows his partner as well as he knows what else the cosmos might hold for them - his back against Barnes’ as they parry and spar with each of their individual opponents. A twist and a turn, a lucky, peripheral glimpse at someone trying to blindside the other resulting in as short a tight-lipped nod as they can afford to convey their gratitude.

Sam’s stomach is sinking, he wants to throw up in the face of the evil creature he’s fighting; the scent of ozone an impending warning. They seem to have understood that the winged man and his metal-armed companion are a threat, and a ring of them has coordinated to close in around them. Sam finds a gap in which to press the for emergencies only button on his control panel at the same time as Barnes’ unleashes a series of small grenades in his arm.

The wings leave Sam’s back and turn to lethal blades, spinning like a deadly boomerang around them, and his ears ring when the grenades detonate. In the eye of the storm, Sam and Barnes are safe, but shooting adrenaline-deaf and fear-blind, the battle overcoming their every sense and soul. When the smoke clears, there is a moment of quiet amidst the terror, where sparrow brown meets ice blue, framed by blood spatter, and they quirk the sort of intrinsic, basic, smile at each other that can only emerge from overcoming something inexplicably tremendous as one unit. But then the moment ends.

Barnes shouts – an unintelligible sound of shock - and the sky cracks like an egg.

--- 

Bucky wakes up in an open field, the sky the color of egg yolks, golden, glistening, nourishing. For a moment, he thinks he’s still in Wakanda, the threat miraculously eliminated, but then he gathers enough strength to sit up and note the absence of obsidian skyscrapers in the distance. He can’t evaluate any other landmarks before his eyes lower to the ground he’s lying on and realize that he’s not alone. Scores of bodies litter the grass; his stomach flips and writhes, and he turns onto his hands and knees and heaves up the contents of today’s – is it still today? – breakfast. Closes his eyes to shut in the water that elicits. When he opens his eyes, the vomit is gone.

Moreover, his hands are clean. Not a trace of blood, dirt, and death on the metal or the accents that run across it like tributaries of a golden river, nor on the white skin of his human limbs. In fact, it looks like it’s been scrubbed pink, his epithelium infused with roses. There is no risk of tears now, the surprise so visceral he knows not how to treat it. It doesn’t lessen when something stirs, in the corner of his eye, and he stills the scream in his larynx just long enough to recognize the shape of Sam Wilson, his dark-brown skin shimmering topaz in the sunlight they seem to be laying in. A sigh of relief – intuitive, subconscious - loosens Bucky’s shoulders. He’s not as alone as he might have thought. Sam is confused, too, and he stands up quickly, reaching for a gun that isn’t there. 

Bucky waits, knowing better than to scare him as he reorients himself, and watches as Sam grapples with the black trousers and shirt he finds himself wearing instead of the weapons he’s seeking. Others move, and Bucky – not knowing where this cold peace that fills his lungs is coming from – finds it prudent to speak up now.

“Wilson,” is still all he can say, but it’s enough. That one word, two syllables, six letters – sufficient to erase the taste of rusted blood from his mouth. Sam turns to him as others call for their loved ones, the amber gold of his irises meeting his icy ones. Bucky doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know how he got here, he’s so tired dammit, but if this man – this man who has defied law and land for the people he trusts and the values he holds, this man who he knows nothing about besides the fact that he has a moral compass like the North Star – if this man has his six, they can fight their way out. Sam’s eyes and Bucky’s brain tell him that this isn’t heaven or hell or purgatory. They’ve both seen too many prison walls to not recognize more, be they grey concrete, the insides of their own skulls, or a vaulted arch of sunshine above their heads.

---

Clouds have built and gone grey-black, iron heavy, and are preparing to mourn the loss of a good man, but not a single tear escapes Sam’s eyes the day they bury Steve. Old, feeble, fulfilled Steve, that is, who passed on to wherever noble souls go. Bucky couldn’t make himself give the eulogy, so it was, like the mantle of Captain America, passed on to Sam. Sam, who has spent every other day of the past year on the porch of his house with Steve’s wisdom and wit, and knew him better than Bucky who forced himself to make a trip every week.

Bucky, who now stands in front of his tombstone, head bowed and brow furrowed, couldn’t make himself reconcile this Steve with the one he knew. Sam doesn’t fault him that, would never give himself any right to. They’ve all seen some shit, but he can’t bring himself to even touch the tip of the iceberg that weighs on his companion’s shoulders. He’s tied his hair back into a bun at the nape of his neck, chestnut waves tamed to an orderly presentation. Domestic, even. Sam looks behind him and through the graveyard gate at the sound of a car door shutting, as Sharon gets behind the wheel and smiles at him, her own tears long gone, before making her departure.

Intentions to give Bucky his silent farewell are also interrupted by that background sound, and he turns to look at Sam, whose heart leaps to his throat at the sight of him. He’s been seeing him all day, but the veil of public appearance has fallen, and Bucky – Sam reprimands himself for the morbid comparison – now looks like as much of a skeleton above the ground as those under it. He’s pale, eyes not hollow but sad. His hands clench and unclench, reflexively, protectively, drawing Sam’s gaze. Those knuckles must be sore with how tightly the ghost-white skin over them is stretched. Sam’s own hands are in his pockets, and he looks back at Bucky with the warmth of seventeen bonfires.

A desperate attempt, futile in result and heavy in empathy, to ease some of the hurt, the hurricane that Sam is certain is throwing Bucky’s insides around like a rag doll. Bucky’s recovering, he’s better now, he’s working to be alright, and it’s working, but climbing the glaciers of his trauma is a Herculean task. Which, now that Sam thinks about it, can only be accomplished one step at a time, like any other. Ice melts a drop at a time.

“Hey, man, how are you feeling?” He says, approaching him, clasping a hand on his shoulder. To anyone else, the question might seem insensitive – his best friend, or this new version of him – has just been buried, of course he’s not feeling good, but their language is like that. Straightforward. Blunt and no-nonsense, but layered with understanding that has come to be through shared experiences and an emotional connection that speaks more between them than any words they exchange. Bucky turns back towards the tombstone, and Sam, too, looks at the epithet of Steven Grant Rogers, beloved husband, father, and friend. Human, not superhuman, in the end, the way they all want to be. They way they long to be acknowledged as.

“I’ll be alright, Sam. Just a little confused,” he answers eventually, after a long-suffering sigh. Sam is relieved, because the hope in Bucky’s voice is the best he could want to hear. And the fact that even now, when articulating what he feels must be the hardest thing in the world, he still manages to, as honestly as he can. Honesty is the beacon Sam’s heart searches for, and he’s found it here. It’s incomplete sometimes, and offered in brief words because Bucky isn’t always fond of sharing, but it’s always the truth.

“Me, too. Me. Too.” Sam nods in agreement, thinking of the muddle of thoughts and prayers and desires in his mind, as the first drop of rain falls from a steely sky, washing away old wounds, cleansing their skins for new ones.

---

The mass of blue-black ink that is the night sky is the first witness when Bucky starts writhing under his sheets.

He’s stuck in the cold. Not the glass walls of the cryochamber he knows so intimately, no, he’s buried in snow up to his neck. The unending scene of the icy mountainside stretches out before him, like a postcard from a nightmare, and he can’t move. Tries to wiggle his toes, and the snow bites and nips at his feet. Hands are frozen to his sides, and the panic starts to claw at his chest. Icicles seem to have wedged their way between his ribs, and pain sears through his abdomen.

He screams. An echo. He screams louder, hot tears turning to ice halfway down his cheeks. He screa-

Eyes the color of the first hour of daybreak appear inches from his sweat-stained and misery-sodden face, and he sits up, almost hitting Sam’s head with his own. His breathing is broken, every inhale cuts at the inside of his lungs, and every exhale tears at his trachea. Sam, trying to fix that, takes Bucky’s clammy hand in his calloused, safe one, places it over his chest.

“Breathe with me, c’mon,” he urges in a midnight rasp, exaggerates his breaths, and Bucky follows the movements he is making. Follows the way Sam’s bare chest, dusted silver by moonlight, rises to accommodate the air he takes in. Follows Sam’s eyes, the silent plea they convey to do as he does, holding that breath. Follows the release, pretends that he can hear the breath traverse his trachea, and exit his lips as his mouth parts to release it. Bucky’s calmer now, eyes fixated on how Sam’s tongue peeks out to lick his lips, the lush pillows of light brown now shining wet. It’s only when they start moving that Bucky’s gaze returns to Sam’s eyes, and his words reach his ears.

“You haven’t had one that bad in ages.” It’s a fact. A statement, an accurate observation, but because few serious words ever go wasted between them, it is also an open assertion. An invitation for Bucky to say more, with the option to nod and agree left on the table.

“Yeah, it was. I’ll be alright, though, Sammy. Thanks,” he responds, and Sam nods warily. Sits back on his haunches, knees digging into the mattress.

“Good. Do you, uh…” He scratches the back of his head. “Do you want me to stay?” He asks, and Bucky is suddenly, keenly aware of how close they are. He swings his legs over the edge and stands on shaky knees, hiding the blush that originated from fear and adrenaline and has been maintained by something he can’t name or explain. A nervous laugh as he makes his way to his dresser and pulls out a fresh pair of sweats.

“No, no, I’m going running. There’s no way I’ll fall asleep right now, and it’s almost dawn anyway.” Bucky waits in front of his bathroom door. Hears Sam get up and make for the door.

“Alright, Bucky. I’d go with you-“

“You pulled that muscle yesterday, yeah. It’s okay, don’t worry about me,” Bucky says, and when the door shuts behind Sam, rushes to the bathroom to wash off the watercolor that interaction painted across his cheeks. Gripping the granite vanity with both hands, he watches it drip off, eyes radiating a bewildering plethora of emotions. Hears the nightingale depart from his bedroom windowsill, and fly off into the night.

---

It’s a beautiful morning, punctuated by the dot of the golden, glowing Sun in the distance, but Sam doesn’t have it in him to appreciate the first sunshine after a spell of rain. Sam is disgusted. Horrified, mortified, petrified by this new development. He didn’t think the former Winter Soldier could get any scarier when he wanted to be, but he has grossly underestimated the cruel ways of his best friend. Anyone without a direct line of sight into the cereal bowl in front of Bucky would not know what he’s so upset about. But Sam, standing at the stove on the kitchen island across from Bucky, watches in horror as the latter lifts a spoonful of dry-as-the-Sahara-desert Froot Loops to his mouth, chews, and then takes a sip from a glass of milk.

To say that Sam regrets introducing Bucky to sweet breakfast cereals in an effort to sate his incurable sweet tooth is a severe understatement. When Bucky had disapprovingly forced down soggy, sweet Froot Loops the morning before, and grumbled about the disgusting experience for the rest of the day, Sam did not think that this would be the solution. He thought he’d be forced to finish off the rest of the box, and dreaded the toothache that would follow.

“I’m eating it like this, or not at all.” Bucky finally addresses the outrage written all over Sam.

“I think I prefer not at all,” he says gravely, his tone out of sync with the cheery scent of sunny-side-up eggs that his words waft across to reach Bucky.

“Too late, I love these,” Bucky says through another mouthful of dry cereal. He’s intentionally pushing as many buttons as he can at one time, a master at multitasking his way to maximum irritation. Sam shudders. Puts his eggs on a plate and goes to sit down next to Bucky at the island, one stool between them. Saturday mornings after a good night and a better workout are a good look on Bucky, as much as he hates to admit it.

Aureate beams of bubbling sunlight illuminate his side profile, his cheekbones glowing rose-gold and light dispersing through a bead of water that slides down his temple. All of a sudden, Sam isn’t hungry anymore. The last bite of his first egg feels like clay in his mouth, and he empties his glass of water in one go. Bucky looks up from his almost-empty bowl – thank God it’s almost over -  and looks at Sam with concern. It takes all of Sam’s power, and then some, to tear his eyes away from Bucky’s teeth biting into his pink lower lip, and up to his blue eyes.

“You okay, man?” He asks, and Sam nods.

“It’s nothing, just got lost in thought,” he answers, and he’s being truthful. Doesn’t know what came over him, just that the slow surveillance of Bucky’s features led him down a different path than it usually does. They’ve always watched each other cautiously, know each other’s movements with the kind of precision that makes you wonder if the haven’t known each other for centuries rather than years, a couple of which were spent in animosity. Bucky’s eyes flit between his again, and they find nothing to prod at further, so he returns to his cereal.

Sam hurries to finish his breakfast and clean up after himself, before heading back to his room with a half-coherent excuse and a heat in his cheeks too hot to be caused by morning sunshine. Thanks God for melanin and for intimate knowledge of the super-soldier hearing range on his way down to the garage.

The rumble of the car’s engine is a relief, and the first breath he takes off the premises of the compound even more so. A little guilt nibbles at him, but it would’ve eaten him alive if he didn’t know that Bucky intended to work on the plans for the library today, and so he keeps driving.

Sam isn’t stupid. That furnace warmth, the magnetic way Bucky’s being drew his gaze, it’s unmistakable. In his sound head and solid heart, he knows what it is. And that’s why his heart is beating so fast, why it won’t take a goddamn break around those blue eyes and sunny smile. Sam is too self aware to be too stupid, too blind to his feelings. He’s just nervous. A cup of coffee from his favorite place downtown won’t do much to settle, but it will give him room. And he needs room. 

Because Sam has never done this before. Never acted on feelings for someone who he can’t afford to lose. Maybe, the risk-benefit balance is not tipping in his favor. However, he can’t say for sure, if he knows what result is in his favor anymore. Is the torment of this schoolboy crush worth not risking his friendship?

Sam exhales through his teeth, and looks out the window. Decides to go flying when he gets back in order to clear his head. Maybe that canopy made from blue satin holds the answers.

---

Birds are chirping on the balcony railing, their silky brown bodies picturesquely contrasting against the cottony blue sky behind them. Pretty enough to frame, and Bucky commits another scene to memory that he might want to paint some day. Closes his belt buckle and then picks up the brush but does a double take at the reflection that looks back at him from the dressing table mirror.

He looks healthier than he has in years, but that’s not what’s remarkable. No, it’s the length of his hair. The brown waves reach his collarbones, and he runs his hand through it with a huff, putting down the brush and leaving his room. Sam’s in the living room, and he can hear Earth, Wind, and Fire playing from down the hall. He enters the room to see Sam lounging on the sofa with a laptop in his hand.

“Hey, Sammy, you busy?” He asks, walking up to him. Sam looks up, turns the music down.

“No. Why, what’s up?” He says, placing the laptop down next to him, and Bucky sees that he was online shopping for clothes. 

“I need you to cut my hair,” he tells him, sitting down on the sofa. Sam blinks. Once, twice, thrice. His face splits in a toothy grin of agreement, and it disarms Bucky so much that he forgets completely to be angry at the smug look on his face.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to ruin your hair, Rapunzel, but are you sure you don’t wanna go to a barber?”

“Yes. You do it.” Bucky nods assuredly, willfully ignoring the nickname, relieved to be rid of it soon, too, but hoping that Sam will know, unspoken, what he is trying to say. He’s gotten better around people, around strangers, but he doesn’t trust them. Not with sharp objects, and especially not with handling sharp objects in such proximity to him. And there’s a part of him, perhaps the old romantic, the one who is just a little on the sentimental side, that prefers for such a change – small though it may seem, it speaks magnitudes to someone who craves stability now – to be made by the person he is closest to. So Bucky is grateful, when that person, Sam, agrees, with a nod back.

Fifteen minutes sees them in Bucky’s bathroom, him sitting on a stool in front of the vanity, a towel over his shoulders, and Sam behind him with scissors. He lifts the spray bottle from the counter with his free hand and spritzes Bucky’s hair. It’s cold, refreshing, and gentle stray drops land on his face. Bucky’s hands are clenching around his knees, red fingerprints growing darker on the skin just below where his shorts end. It took him two summers to feel comfortable enough to wear those. Sam has a matching pair.

He raises the scissors to the side of Bucky’s head, just by his right ear, opens them, and then pauses. Moves to the back instead, raises the scissors, stops again. A heavy sigh ruffles Bucky’s hair, and he looks at Sam’s reflection. He looks back.

“I don’t know where to start, man. I have no clue what to do with this,” Sam says, exasperated already, gesturing towards Bucky’s head with one hand and almost running the other over his own head before remembering the scissors he still holds in it. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but throws him a look up and over his shoulder that seems to say You think I do?

Shaking his head, Sam starts again. Bucky closes his eyes, his body hairs standing on edge as the scissors start clipping. A coarse, large, warm hand rests on the back of his neck to steady his head, the point of contact burning.

“I think it’s short enough to use the machine,” he whispers, as if conveying a holy secret. He turns on the clippers and soon, the buzzing sound fills the room. Bucky doesn’t reopen his eyes, lets Sam trim the edges short on the sides and back, and keep it a little longer on the top, as per their pre-determined plan of action.

He starts running his fingers across Bucky’s scalp as he’s finishing up and making the final touches, and every nerve ending of his lights up. When Sam announces that he’s done, and Bucky’s lungs collapse and then swell like balloons at the sight of his new appearance, and his eyes meet Sam’s, the world stops.

They’re inches apart, once again. Eye to eye, nose to nose. Heart to beating, fluttering heart. Thank you’s are glued to his tongue and his tongue is paralyzed in his mouth, his mouth dry and wanting. He counts nine heartbeats, and begins to lean in on the tenth, but the eleventh brings the obnoxiously loud sound of his phone ringing from the bedroom, and the bubble bursts.

Bucky answers Peter’s call with less concern than he usually does, the affection and mentorship for the teenager overshadowed by the almost-moment. The one that makes him want to scream into the New York skyline.

---

Flaming red hair reaches as far as Sam’s eyes are concerned, accentuated by the backdrop of the setting sun, an unusual hour for sparring, but a crucial one today. Nat is visiting from the European headquarters in Budapest, where she is SHIELD’s head of the region. It’s a calmer job, safer than Avengers duty, but she works herself to the bone and lets out her frustration in the gun range or the sparring mat, with the latter making for better quality time with her teammate today. Not that Sam’s much for competition right now, and she doesn’t mince moves or waste time. He puts up as much of a fight as he can, but she has him on the ground in fifteen minutes. A new record.

She helps him up and he passes her her water bottle in return as the sit on the mat. Her outstretched legs prod at his knees.

“You were off your game, Wilson,” she says, as if he doesn’t already know. As if he doesn’t know he was too busy counting days since Bucky’s haircut to counter her moves. It’s been twelve, and every hour exponentially increases the tangible awkwardness between them.

“Distracted.” Sam shrugs truthfully. Nat’s laugh isn’t cruel or taunting, but teasing and friendly, a lightweight windchime.

“Yeah, I can tell. Want to tell me why?” She asks, with another sip from her bottle.

“Like you don’t already know,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. Tilting her head, she looks at him like a curious robin. Like she’s trying to pluck out the secrets like wildflowers in his head.

“I just know it has something to do with Barnes. You can hardly look at each other.” She says, giving him her hand to take off the boxing tape, and he picks at the edge it’s bound at. Tries to ignore the piercing stare she’s focusing on his head.

Once the tape is off, he tries to drink from his bottle again. His throat is parched, and he doesn’t think it has much to do with the exercise any longer. Natasha’s stare turns to a glare, but eventually, she seems to relent, trying at another joke.

“What, did you kiss him?” She murmurs, reaching for her bottle. Sam sputters, water going in his windpipe, and Nat’s eyes widen as she watches him cough and cough and cough. “Are you serious? Oh my God, Sam, did you really?”

“No, no, no, shit, no. That’s crazy, Nat,” he says, standing and starting to powerwalk to the showers but Nat follows quickly, light on her feet and heavy with her questions.

“Then what was that for?” Nat asks, pointing towards the mat where he just had that undue coughing fit. Shit. Keep digging your own grave, Wilson, keep digging.

“Nothing, nothing, it’s fine,” he says, and she quirks an eyebrow. Crosses her arms. He’s known Nat for too long and too well to not be entirely aware that talking to her is for his best. And Sam is a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid. He follows her back to the mat like a lost puppy, and consoles himself with the fact that he’s reduced a master assassin to near-gossip.

“Well?”

So he tells her. Sam picks at the mat with bitten fingernails as he relays the tale of the five years of pragmatic planning and professionalism under imprisonment in the Soul Stone, during which they talked little but shop and pretended not to see the fear in each other.

Sam avoids Nat’s emerald gaze while he tells her about the first year as Captain America, with the weight of the mantle so heavy that Bucky became the crutch he leaned on, a super-soldier it took everything to put back into the world.

Sam closes his eyes when he recalls Steve’s funeral, and the instant he decided that Bucky Barnes wasn’t just a miracle, he was one of the most beautiful people Sam had ever met.

Sam watches the punching bags sway while talking about the warmth that spreads like bushfire whenever Bucky is near, but also about how he is at his coolest and calmest next to him, because he gets him.

Sam sees the sky transition from peach to indigo telling Nat about the moment in the bathroom, where that emotional connection almost manifested itself physically, and how those feelings that he thought were benign became dangerous, boiling under the surface, and how he doesn’t know whether to bury them, or set them free.

---

Icarus. The legend of Icarus and his melting wings, his broken body drowning is the first thing to enter Bucky's mind as the quinjet lands on the helicarrier and Sam is wheeled out on a stretcher and rushed to Dr. Cho's cradle. A trail of blood follows, dripping slowly despite the medics' attentions, and that's what seals Bucky's trance. He doesn't have answers for Hill or Fury - it's a morbid game of Hansel and Gretel, right up to the entrance of the medical wing.

The sterile whites and greys, alongside the vague hum or nurses barring his entry into the trauma bay and Fury's raging demands for answers are secondary sensations. Lost behind the veil. He has to watch through the glass as Sam is put in the cradle, but there’s so much blood. The Director and Assistant Director talk calmly now, suggesting that Bucky get his own wounds checked, but he is blind to their concerns, so they give him the space they see he needs.

It takes an hour to heal Sam. A torturous, unending hour, that has Bucky pacing across the floor, smearing blood and mud across pristine tiles, his mind humming so loud he can’t hear himself think. When it’s over, he has just enough presence to follow Sam’s unconscious body as it’s wheeled to a recovery room, where he sits at his bedside.

However, he doesn’t stay seated for long. Can’t look at his friend’s wounded form, helpless and undoubtedly in screaming pain, although he may not feel it. His body does, and he will feel it when he’s awake. Bucky stands and moves to look out the window. Absently, he scrapes at the clots of blood drying under his nails and in between the panels of his other arm. Part of him recalls the term dissociation, used by his SHIELD appointed psychiatrist, and the consequent recovery techniques. An alert corner of his subconscious is grateful that these episodes aren't as frequent any more. Or as debilitating, most of the time. Just… distracting, with the fog that pierces his ears and diffuses inside his skull until he's numb. Weightless. Recovery techniques. Right. Touch, taste, smell, sound, sight. Glass and metal, blood and sand, jet fuel, whirring engines; open, open, sky.

Bucky likes the sky. Likes to watch clouds form, transform into something new, drift onwards to a better place. A better view than he must present. The infinite stretch of blue. Sometimes, he paints his own clouds on the sky in his mind's eye, but right now that canvas is dripping red - fists clench tight above his thighs - dripping red, white, and blue, Sam is dripping red, white, and blue, and he's falling, Icarus to the ocean.

Falling, falling, falling.

Oh. 

Bucky jerks upright. Shakes his head, wipes a blood stained strand of hair back. Forces air into his lungs - it's thinner up here, colder, too, so he has to focus, feel the bite, good - and then: clarity.

He remembers where he is, the smoothness of tiles under his feet, the sweat sodden uniform sticking to his skin, the physicalities of his position return, as does the feel of his beating heart. But there's something new in the way it hammers against his ribs. Something gentler, that prompts a flutter of intrigue, until he realizes what it is, until he can name the newborn emotion screaming to be heard inside his heart. 

Hot forehead against cold glass. Hot tears on hotter cheeks. Bucky lets them fall as he tries to face the sky again.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he tells the clouds. Not because he doesn’t want to be in love, or because he is love with a man instead of a woman, or because said man is Sam Wilson, but because it’s just so inconvenient. Because there is no happiness to be found in lives like these, and because it is an impossibility that a man with a heart as pristine a golden could want one with bruises and stains that stretch across every inch of skin. “I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

And he swears he can hear his Ma answer from the sky: Why of course, you didn’t, my baby boy. No one ever does. Doesn’t mean it isn’t right, or meant to be so. The universe has a way with these things. Knows how to put people together, just like a starling knows to hide her nest from crows. It’s nature, James.

Nobody’s called him James since Winnifred Barnes. Nobody ever will. But “Bucky” doesn’t sound so bad coming from Sam’s voice. Returning to his bedside and slumping into the chair, Bucky hopes he’ll only live long enough to tell him so.

Bucky, post-war, post-Winter Soldier, doesn’t know all that much about fate or the universe, nor does he know a thing about love, but he knows homecoming.  And Sam, his eyelashes delicate against skin like gold poured over tourmaline, is home.

All resistance leaves Bucky with a muted sigh. It’s like he can feel the adrenaline, the fight-or-flight, both physical and emotional, evaporate when he takes in the expression of calm that has washed over Sam’s features. He takes half a dozen deep, deep breaths. Allows the oxygen to cleanse him from the inside out, and now, he has enough presence of mind to feel the exhaustion entering his bones. Aside from the scrape on his cheek, none of the blood on his being is his own. He should clean up, he knows that, but he thinks he’ll throw up if he tries to stand up again, so he breathes instead. Breathes in the fact that Sam is alive like he needs that statement to live. So that he doesn’t forget it, and wake up screaming - wouldn’t be the first time - he imprints it into his memory.

Only then do his shoulders stop guarding his neck, relaxing and hitting the back of the chair he’s sat on. The air conditioner whirrs on, and Sam’s breaths are puffs of cotton in the air, that if Bucky focuses enough on, he can envision as clouds. Clouds that turn to sheep, sheep that he counts, and it doesn’t take many of them before he is fast asleep.

---

The day Happy and May get married, Sam almost asks Bucky for a dance, under a starlit sky that twinkles like fairy lights. The months since his injury have been better than those before, contrasting a new smile, and a lighter face, against the tangible sense of will-we-won’t-we. They’re still tense, still have moments where they can’t read each other, still almost talk about it, but their companionship has returned.

This is obvious in the grin Bucky throws him with a roll of his eyes over Nat’s shoulder, as Sam twirls May around like he’s trying to make her nauseous. The poor bride tolerates his hijinks for all of one song before politely excusing herself, as does Nat, pretending that Bucky hasn’t gotten better at dancing again after practicing for months on end. She throws Sam a wink as she leaves the dance floor, and Sam swallows before turning tail and going to get a drink, leaving Bucky to find another dance partner. He quells a bubble of his own nausea as a wonderful girl – Annie something, from May’s work – tries to ask for a dance. To his surprise, Bucky refuses, and then Sam feels guilty for the cheer that goes up in him.

It’s short-lasting, overwhelmed once again by the anxiety that comes with interacting with Bucky. Sometimes, he thinks he sees roses bloom under Bucky’s footstep, the scent of him so alluring. At others, like now, the weight of his gaze is so heavy, he thinks he should drown under it if he doesn’t release the secret in his chest. If he doesn’t tell Bucky that he remembers waking up in that hellicarrier holding an asleep Bucky’s hand, with an asleep Bucky’s lips pressed to the back of his own. And that he liked it.

“It’s a nice party,” he says, tipping back the champagne flute in his hand. He can’t get drunk, and it takes large sips for him to even feel the spark in his throat, the movement exposing a stretch of slender, soft skin. It’s a matter of milliseconds, barely one breath, but Sam’s mouth is dry, useless but for a nod of agreement with a survey of the hall. Nat is wiggling her eyebrows at him from across the dance floor, and Bucky has to repeat his name twice to regain his attention, something that he immediately loses to the color of Bucky’s eyes upon turning towards him.  He breaks eye contact and looks away again with another nod.

“Yeah, yeah, it was a great day. I’m really happy for those two,” Sam says honestly, gesturing towards the bride and groom, who are chatting away with Pepper.

“So you’re happy for Happy?” Bucky murmurs and Sam snorts, downing his glass, and shaking his head.

“Ha ha ha, what are you, twelve?”

“You may have to check my birth certificate to find out,” he deadpans, and Sam pinches the bridge of his nose as Bucky cackles. He glares at him, but soon, the corner of Bucky’s eyes crinkling while the sound of his laughter echoes comes into alarming focus against May and Happy swaying in the background, and Sam doesn’t need to wonder what it’s like to feel so much joy and such magnanimous love from someone that you decide to bind yourself to them forever. In fact, Sam decided a long time ago that Bucky was the one person he couldn’t live without any longer. The only difference now is that the emotions that went into that definition have changed. The twinkling sky winks down at him, as if to reaffirm that that realization is correct, and to tell him that he’s on the right path.

---

The city of New York stretches out through the window before them, buildings piercing the dusk that is settling above, and Bucky and Sam sit against the freshly dried paint in the living room of Bucky’s childhood home. It has taken four years after the Blip, four years of newfound stability, of recovery and building up and breaking down and defining his life for his own, to come back to what his life used to be. He thought it only fitting that the man who played the most invaluable part in helping him to his feet be with him at the most magnificent landmark of his progress, of his new life.

The building had, wondrously, been the same one, in that it hadn’t been demolished and rebuilt, only thoroughly renovated. Bucky had bought it several months ago, and Sam had instantly been enraptured by the idea of rebuilding this apartment. Only the furniture remains now, the empty rooms freshly painted and smelling of paint and paper, sawdust and sandalwood and sweat. Bucky looks over at Sam as he closes his eyes, and watches the sunset light his skin like honey on dark silk. Glimmering, glowing.

It hits him like a freight car. The notion that even though his life has been longer than most, it is too short to abandon what you love. Bucky is scared. He’s been scared his whole life. He was scared to go to war that first time, he was scared for his life when he was captured, he was scared for Steve when he went after Hydra, he was scared when he became Hydra, he was scared. And angry. And he doesn’t want to be any longer, even if the alternative is regret and shame. Those would still be new emotions.

That’s what has him turning to Sam, the rustle of his jeans alerting him so he opens his eyes. A question swimming in their content depths. Bucky answers it.

“I love you, Sam,” he says, heart in his throat. Sam gulps, like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to, that there are words lodged in his throat that he longs to set free, and Bucky tells him he knows what they are already. Doesn’t need the words spoken, now or ever, when they’re so visible in how Sam can do nothing but lift his hands and cups his face in them. The I love you, too, is folded like a hidden love note between their lips, passed to Bucky when they meet, and Sam moves his mouth like flower petals over glass. Bucky kisses back. He kisses back harder, tilts his head so they’re like puzzle pieces, his heartbeat taking flight. When they stop, the sky is as pink as roses, the gold accent wall behind them is smoldering, glowering with light. Their foreheads rest against each other’s, Bucky’s hand rests over Sam’s to hold him there, and they fit together like the stars fit in the sky.

Taglist: @suz-123​ @mermaidxatxheart​ @buckyreaderrecs​ @shield-agent78​ @corneliabarnes​ @readerandcinephileingeneral​ @stevieboyharrington​ @notsomellowmushroom​ @veganfangirl5​ @mood-pancakes​ @lbuck121​ @redhairedfeistynerd​ @geeksareunique​ @murdermornings​

[lady-plantagenet]

if you’re still doing those: edward iv / elizabeth woodville for the ship bingo 🕊x

I’m so sorry, this whole past week has been one massive mental breakdown and I have been finding it incredibly hard to do anything besides uni assignments and writing. Also, I have a lot to say about these two so I didn’t want to half-ass it.

Some Comments:

I don’t know if I told you this but this used to be my OTP, like years ago when I first got into this era and did not think/know much about Clarence and the others. But now it’s no longer the case and that’s not necessarily because it got replaced by gisabel per se but because I’ve always found it extremely hard to reconcile myself with the infidelity aspect. Even when I was more childish I felt a bit dissapointed in the fact that he didn’t appoint her (or Anthony) regent, like obviously now I understand why it was to an extent untenable politically, but back then my younger mind just saw it as ‘he trusted his brother more’, which kind of threw a wrench. So much for the ‘it’s complicated’ square. The problem with long marriages is that the delicious aspect tends to wane, and that can’t be helped in a 20 year long marriage! But obviously the 1464-1470 years taken into isolation... well... it was the epitome of delicious, sexual and romantic. You might find me pointing this out wierd given that I didn’t make the same remarks on Catherine of Valois and Owen Tudor who were also a pretty long marriage, it’s just that... in my mind they kind of stagnate age-wise even as they advance past their twenties because the whole narrative (historical and fictional) around them focuses on the first years of their union and the tribulations, whereas Edward and Elizabeth have a presence way past that as they were after all monarchs and never at one point left to live a quiet life and were no longer chronicled - so in that way they age before our eyes. And with that age you see the infidelity issue get worse, together with Edward’s greater promotion of Gloucester, his drinking, eating etc issues and it starts painting a sad image into my mind of like idk a love that at one point stopped being what it once was and could never again be - like the embers burning out? This turns the what could have been a obbsessive unhealthiness borne from passion into another caused by disillusionment? I don’t put too much stock into this, personally I feel the change in Edward was caused by other external factors and not Elizabeth herself eg Warwick and Clarence’s betrayals and deaths, the massive burden of fixing the previous administration’s mess etc. Nevertheless, Elizabeth on her own did not seem to be enough to drag him out of it and prevent some of his unhealthy habits. I do realise it’s a bit too much to ask for though.

Nevertheless, I do see them as soulmates, she seemed like one of the only people who could keep up with him in will and wit (though Jane Shore seemed quite a competitor in this regard) I’m not the type of person who thinks Edward was dominated by his lust, and I think based on that venetian letter (you know the Ziglio one XD) and the fact that it said that Edward loved her for a long time before marrying her, it was clearly a decision from the heart not the *ahem* codpiece. Also a part of the soulmate/star-crossed trope is the whole ‘they defied all odds, they withstood opposition’, and Liz and Big Ed are famously that. I would totally read fic for this but surprisingly there aren’t many! I honestly don’t know how come?? Like yes they do appear in a lot of histfics and the like, but apart from TWQ they are never the central focus, and even there we don’t get enough of them (which really irritates me). Some write me some!! I am intrigued by the pairing but extremely picky when it comes to how they are written because I have particular headcanons which I am fairly wedded to but do not expect they will be abided by. More in the pragraph below.

The Ship:

I absolutely can not stand portrayals of Elizabeth Woodville as a golddigger, much less some Marilyn Monroe type of bimbo. We know the type of beauty she had... a chronicler called her an excellent but solemn (or sthing like that) beauty where York in his letters to her for the marriage of Sir Hugh complemented her deep sorrowful look or such. She was a pious, economical woman who took her queenship extremely seriously and led a cultivated court, patronised literature and may have also written a poem herself (you know the one about Venus we spoke about). She was years older than Edward and on top of that a widow with two children of her own. I want to see that dynamic! I want to especially see how she drew Edward away from Warwick’s influences in order to put him on the path he was angling for: the statute of livery 1463 and the new sumptuary laws (that most famously restricted the length of piked shoes to 3 inches hhh) are very indicative of a king who (even before meeting her) wanted to install a strong centralised monarchy with a monopoly on violence and its laws. Not because of some rapaciousness on her part but because her and her family believed in him, experienced the exequies of war and wanted to put a stop to it. I want her to love Edward for putting an end to people like Warwick who caused all her family’s (and the gentry class as a whole) misfortunes and struggles, and in a way feel like she provided him with not only a circle of people who would help him realise this but also with a sort of family to soften the personal blow that he felt when part of his birth family betrayed him. I love the father-in-law becomes surrogate father trope (as I think you can tell) and I like to see Earl Rivers as that for him, hell you can take it even further and make Jacquetta as some sort of mother-figure for him as opposed to Cecily who apparently scorned the marriage and at that time seemed to side more heavily with George. I like to think under her influence she empowered him to act more ruthlessly in pursuit of his goal, but at the same time I think that while certain things were good in the long-term eg Clarence’s execution, (maybe Desmond’s??) they may have had a toll on the relationship later on. I headcanon Elizabeth as tragically hardened by the loss of her brother and father at Edgecoat and I think that may also have thrown a bit of a wrench into their love, given how she was faced with the violent consequences of being queen and afterwards with how Warwick and co. went free and she lost her chance of vengeance. I don’t think they were ever out of love though, especially judging by how she continued to be pregnant up to 3 years short of his death and the absolute trust he put in her. But I headcanon his attachment to Jane Shore as him seeking the light-hearted wit and lively banter that Elizabeth slowly started losing as the years went on and she became less vivacious and a tad more calculating and icy. I headcanon them as having a rift when it came to dealing with problems: she would keep on with her ministrations whereas he would just want to engage in escapisms. But the thing with the infidelity is that one should keep in mind that during that period relations would have to stop once the woman started showing, so Edward having affairs should not be read into too much tbh, perhaps it was more a type of addiction on his part like drinking and eating was - like all part of an excessive Epicureanism which he adopted to relieve himself of his stresses and sorrows (and boy were there many!), so not something that necessarily indicated he grew tired of her or whatever. Maybe she understood that and that’s why she didn’t make a fuss? But then again, the fact that there wasn’t complete faithfulness remains a personal impediment for me with this ship :// that’s just me personally.

Also the discussion we had about Mélusine and the alchemical elements and Edward IV’s own interest in such (which was used as ammunition for George when he accused Edward of engaging in dark arts to corrupt his subjects XD... yes I know très ironique)... made me headcanon him and Elizabeth bonding over this, and perhaps seeing their union as somewhat quite mystical. It would be something so interesting to explore and I think it’s a real shame that people nowadays recoil everytime they hear the word ‘Woodville’ and ‘Mélusine’ put together which is a shame because when handled delicately it could turn into something beautiful and it was certainly not a PG invention!

Also... those two have some bitchin’ fannart!

So yes, this was quite the stream of consciousness... but I do have a lot of thoughts for this couple! They were my OTP for the longest time after all.