#ground soldier constellation

[lore-of-the-mushroom-kingdom]

Goombas Don't Die When Stomped On

In spite of what people think, Goombas don't actually die when Mario, Luigi, or anyone else stomps on them. There is a lot of material stating and showing this to not be the case.

In Mario Party DS has the following description for Goombas. "This brown foe has taken his lumps over the years from from Mario's boot. But he seems to harbor secret dreams of turning the tables one day." In Mario Party 9 the Ground Soldier Constellation is stated to be "inspired by the Stalwart mushroom monsters who never give up, no matter how many times they are squashed." Both examples show how Goombas can be squashed multiple times and still keep going. In Mario & Luigi: Superstar Saga there are some escaped Goombas which Mario and Luigi are asked to help capture. The Goombas are stomped on multiple times in the fight yet in the end are alright, they are just defeated. In addition in Minion Quest: The Search for Bowser it's revealed one of these Goombas is Captain Goomba, and he mentions how he is can't believe he got stomped again, meaning this has happened several times. Captain Goomba: "*sigh* I can't believe I got stomped on again." This affirms this happens multiple times. Later Wendy O Koopa actually brings up how Goombas always get stomped on repeatedly as well, and even Prince Peasely says it. Wendy: "You normally just pop out of the ground and get stomped right?" Peasely: "Indeed! Goombas are famously the first ones Mario always stomps!" It's actually pretty questionable about how while Bowser treats his minions pretty well, why exactly is he storing Goombas in barrels? More on Bowser's bizarre treatment of the Goombas, in Mario & Luigi: Bowser's Inside Story Bowser sets Goombas on fire in his move Goomba Storm. The reason I bring this up is not only can Goombas survive being squashed, but they can also be set on fire. Continuing on in Paper Mario: Color Splash a Goomba talks about how they are tired of being stomped on, implying they have been stomped on multiple times before. Goomba: "I am a bit tired of being stomped." Finally in an ad for the Mario Movie Captain Toad squashes a Goomba with his frying pan, but even after being squashed the Goombas keeps moving.

Someone might point to the Super Mario Bros. manual an say that it says Goombas die when stomped on. However, this is best seen as language to get across the game mechanics. But if literal then it would have been retconned since then.

So Goombas don't die when being stomped on. Also, I would like to note this claim that Goombas die when stomped on is often used by people to depict Mario as evil. However, nobody ever applies this to Luigi, Peach, Blue Toad, Yellow Toad, Toadette, Yoshi, Daisy, Nabbit, and even Bowser.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Whumpcember (day 15)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Broken glass

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: slight mentions of panic attacks; crying; slight injury and blood; Bucky being a sweetheart because I love him so much

Author’s note: This got unnecessarily long somehow. Again, this was meant to be a shorty. Also, I was in my feels when I wrote this. Anyway, thank you for reading!

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

The final box of Christmas decorations thuds to the ground as you let it down with a heavy huff. You straighten up your back with a grimace, rolling your shoulders.

You might think as an Avenger, carrying a few boxes, would be an easy task. After all, you are trained to thrive under the most punishing conditions, with sharp skills and boundless stamina. But after hauling all those cartons stuffed with tinsel, garlands, and ornaments up from the storage room to the towering Christmas tree in the compound’s common area, you are left panting like you’ve just run a marathon.

It’s almost laughable. Thankfully, you are alone for now. Sam would have a field day, smug grin plastered across his face at the state you’re in.

Wanda, Natasha, and Clint meant to help you with this but they were all still glued to the desk, writing reports, but Bucky is supposed to be back from his latest mission any minute now and you wanted to do this nice thing for him at least. He did sound a little worn out on the phone earlier when he called you to tell you they were on their way back.

So perhaps decorating the Christmas tree would lift his spirit a tiny bit. It’s the first step in what you hope will be a cozy and inviting scene - something Bucky might walk into and, for once, not feel like a soldier returning from a war zone but a man coming home.

The tree is a statement, of course. Tony insisted on it. It’s so tall, it might even brush the high ceiling of the room and there is no way you’ll get some ornaments all the way up without risking your life. And Bucky would definitely not brighten up if you tried it out.

So you’ll absolutely be needing Wanda’s help sooner or later. With a flick of her wrist, she could make this whole thing a hell of a lot easier but you don’t have the time to wait until she is done writing her report.

You let your eyes roam over the many ornaments lying neatly in the box before you and one of them immediately sparks your attention. Your fingers brush against the delicate surface of the red ornament placed almost carefully beside the others.

Its glass is smooth and cool, the color a deep crimson so much more in depth than all the others. You hold it up to the light, turning it slowly, marveling at how the glow from the tree’s string lights catches on its curves and the unique and detailed pattern all across.

It’s heavier than expected, the weight surprising for something so fragile. The gold clasp at the top gleams faintly, tarnished just a little with age. A thin ribbon dangles from it, curling at the end like it has been tied and untied countless times.

There is something about it, some intangible quality that draws you in - a sense of history, of significance.

And then it happens.

The ribbon slips from your grasp, too quick for your fingers to snatch it back. If you weren’t so enamored with the beautiful piece, you would have gotten access to your reflexes a little earlier.

It’s too late now though, and you can only watch in stunned silence as the ornament tumbles to the ground, the crimson surface catching flashes of light as it falls.

It hits the hardwood floor with a sound that is both sharp and final - a crack, then a splintering.

Disappointed in yourself, you crouch down to the shattered remains. Tiny shards of glass fan out like a constellation, glinting under the glow of the tree. The ornament is no longer whole, splintered into different-sized fragments.

Annoyed that you were so stupid and careless to let this special ornament fall to its devastation, you begin to pick up the many red pieces into your palm.

It really was unique. It would have looked great on the tree-

Your movements freeze. Your heart leaps to your throat. A rush of panic claws at your chest and rises up to your ears where it floods and pounds tremendously.

Rebecca B.

It’s a name ingrained into the largest surviving piece of the glass - a faint, looping scrawl. Clearly written by hand.

Rebecca Barnes. The realization makes you weak in the knees and you fall back onto your heels, your ass hitting the floor with a thump.

This isn’t just some random ornament. This isn’t another piece of holiday cheer to hang on a tree and forget about for the rest of the year after packing it back into boxes to store it in a corner of the storage room.

This ornament belonged to Rebecca Barnes. Bucky’s sister. Something Bucky kept all these years, hidden among the other decorations like a relic of a life he’d lost long before his own had been ripped apart.

The air around you feels heavy. The smell of pine from the tree now stings in your nose. Your heart might actually have fallen along with the ornament because it too is shattered in pieces.

The shards tremble in your palm and you stare at them along with the rest still lying helplessly on the ground, as if there is actually something you can do right now to go back in time and not pick it up ever again, just to make sure.

But there is nothing you can do.

Your heart breaks even further at the thought that Bucky might have put it here deliberately. Maybe it was an attempt to move forward, to share the memory of his sister. Maybe he thought the ornament didn’t belong in some dusty package hidden away, but out in the open, a part of the holiday warmth he’s been so hesitant to feel. Maybe it was his thought of remembering her with someone else this time, instead of alone.

This would be such a huge step for him. And you would feel so proud if you weren’t on the verge of a panic attack.

Because it’s broken, divided into so many pieces. You just dropped something so carelessly that probably meant the world to Bucky. And, god, did he deserve the world. But you took it. You contorted the precious memories of his little sister. Unwillingly, of course. But that doesn’t make you feel any better right now.

You have known Bucky for a few years now. Though knowing him feels like a word too shallow for what you share. You never labeled it, both of you walking the fine line, and never crossing it.

But you see that Bucky trusts you - the kind of trust he doesn’t hand out freely. And for good reason, after all. In fact, you’re not even sure he’s ever given it to anyone else in quite the same way, not even Steve. And that’s saying something.

You see it in the small things, in the way his guarded demeanor softens when it’s just the two of you, the soft smiles that seem to be reserved for you. It’s the kind of friendship where silence doesn’t have to be filled, and words don’t have to be spoken to be understood.

He lets you sit with him on the couch in the living room on nights when his past pulls him under and doesn’t allow for him to get some shut-eye. You are usually awake yourself, sometimes just running on adrenaline after coming home from a mission and accompanying him silently. He always seems to linger out here when you are away on a mission anyway, so you usually meet him here after getting home, watching his shoulders slowly droop and his back rest more comfortably against the back of the couch.

You are the first at his bedside when his nightmares claw at his mind. You’ve seen him at his most vulnerable - shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked chest, hair plastered to his face, his breaths coming in uneven gasps as you help him fight to pull himself out of his memories.

Those nights, you never push him to talk. You don’t ask him to explain or tell you what he saw. Without a word, you would hand him a glass of water and wait while he drinks, his hands trembling so slightly it makes your stomach feel heavy every time. Sometimes you tell him to breathe with you, in and out, until the panic subsided and his shoulders stopped shaking.

You were never sure how much touch he needs in those moments so you usually stay at a small distance from him, but it seems your presence alone does wonders.

When he would be ready, he always searched your face so long and intensely, before croaking out a heavy but meaningful “Thank you.”

And his small acts of kindness always fill you with a jittery feeling that makes your knees weak and unfortunately doesn’t help at all when fighting against Natasha in the ring.

Just a few weeks ago, Bucky spent an entire Saturday afternoon fixing the squeaky hinge on your bedroom door because he heard you muttering to Wanda about how annoying it was.

He never even told you he was going to do it. You just came back to your room later that evening to find the door silent as a ghost. It took a whole week for you to find out how this happened. And it wasn’t him, who told you. It was Clint, who saw him walk around with a toolbox and a satisfied smile on his face that Clint, as he told you found a little terrifying.

Additionally, he always seems to know when you need a break during training sessions, tossing you a water bottle before you even realize how tired you are. Or he would plant himself wordlessly between you and your opponent for the day, with his arms crossed and a chastising glance at you when you’ve been fighting for hours without acknowledging the way your movements already grew sluggish and wobbly.

You are always aware when his hands linger on your shoulder a second longer after a sparring match, his metal fingers cold but careful, as if he’s memorizing the feel of you there. Or the way your stomach twists when he catches your eye across the room, and for just a moment, it’s like the rest of the world falls away. And the way he talks to you, even when people are around, his voice lower, softer, words chosen with an almost uncharacteristic care, makes you feel like you’re the only person he truly is interested in talking to. You also love the nights he shows up at your door with takeout, wordlessly handing you your favorite meal, and striding into your room to settle at the foot of your bed with a contented sigh.

Through it all, however, was always this persistent question you had. The one that molded into an ache inside your chest. Because what if? What if you took one step closer and stopped holding back? What if you risk everything you have with him now for something more?

But right now you feel like those questions don’t hold the same energy anymore. The same weight. No, they just got weightless. Pointless. Because you just ruined everything without even risking it.

You just destroyed something that can’t be fixed with glue and an apology. It can’t be fixed with you sitting with him and comforting him in the dark while his mind goes to the same cruel place like many times before.

This feels like you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross.

The wrong line.

Shaking hands pick up the largest fragment, the soft loops of her name still visible through the fractures. The sharp ends bite into your palm like the memory of something sacred that’s been lost. You don’t feel the sting. You don’t feel the sensation of the few droplets of blood sliding over your palm where the ends nicked your skin.

The only thing you register is that this foolish mistake might actually unravel everything you’ve built with him.

He let you in, further than anyone, but that doesn’t mean he won’t push you back out if you give him a reason. And this definitely feels like a reason.

Your mind presents you with his reaction when he comes walking in here and sees what happened.

At first, there’d be nothing - just the stoic silence he uses to sink into, the kind that makes it impossible to tell what he’s thinking. But you’d see it in the smallest of things - the way his jaw tightens just enough to be noticeable, the flicker in his eyes that he’ll try to hide but won’t be able to, the stiffening of his shoulders. And then the desolation, like a tide pulling back just before it crashes. You wonder if he would say anything at all, or if the silence would hang heavy.

You swallow hard, begin to feel the sting behind your eyes, and try to force the lump in your throat down.

You’ve worked so hard to be someone he could rely on, someone he could trust in ways he hasn’t trusted anyone else in decades. You’ve sat with him, listened to him, stayed silent with him. Learned to know him so well, you even memorized the subtle shifts in his expressions, the things he won’t say but still lets you feel.

And now, here you are with broken glass in your hands and a painful feeling in your chest, terrified that this could be the moment that shatters the thing between you.

He might pull away, retreat behind those walls he’s spent years building. What if he doesn’t let you sit with him anymore. Or what if he does, but his shoulder would only grow more tense. What if he starts holding back, measuring his words, locking the parts of himself away that he once entrusted to you?

The idea of losing him - not just losing him, but losing this connection, this unspoken, almost-more-than-friendship thing that you’ve both been too afraid to name - makes your breath catch and something rise in your chest that might be bile.

A sob comes out instead.

It comes out like a wound ripped open before it could begin to heal. You press a quivering hand to your mouth, in hopes of muffling the sound, but it’s no use. More broken sobs come anyway.

You try to pull yourself together, to force the tears back, but your body feels so weak under the guilt and shame.

More parts of the broken ornament bite into your skin, red droplets welling up and sliding down your skin, pooling at the curve of your wrist, before falling soundlessly to the floor.

Pain should ground you. It should pull you out of this spiral, force you to snap back to some semblance of control. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t do anything at all.

Instinctively, your hand gives way, the pieces tumbling from your fingers and scattering across the hardwood once more.

You only sit there, frozen, your breath hitching and catching in your throat as tears streak down your face, warm and unwelcome. You can’t stop them.

You’re not supposed to be this weak. You’re not supposed to break down like this, over something so small. And yet that makes the sobs only harder to contain. Because this isn’t small - not to Bucky. And that’s the part that leaves you as shattered as the crimson glass. Perhaps as shattered as your relationship with the person you fell for as hard as the ornament fell to the ground.

It’s Rebecca. His sister. His past. His grief. It’s a tiny piece of his life that he trusted enough to bring out of hiding, to put here with the rest of the world, in the open where it could be seen. Where it could be touched. And you touched it, only to let it fall. Only to ruin it.

Shame knocks down on you so hard, you draw your knees up to your chest, curling into yourself as though you could make yourself smaller, invisible, anything but this.

You don’t even know what to do with your blood-streaked palm, only letting it hover in the air, the shallow cuts glistening under the still-glowing lights of the tree. It’s a mess. You are a mess. Curling your fingers into a fist, you wince in pain at the stinging of the cuts but you leave it like that.

Perhaps you are overreacting, sitting here on the floor in the common area of the compound with a bleeding hand and the shattered remains of Rebecca Barnes's memory, but you feel so helpless and remorseful, you can’t really think straight at the moment.

The sound of the elevator is faint, but it’s enough to reach your ears. You freeze. You just sit there, knees drawn to your chest, blood smeared across your palm, the shattered glass of the ornament glittering like broken stars on the floor.

You are tear-streaked, trembling, your chest still hitching with uneven breaths and Bucky just got home.

Those approaching footsteps are so familiar to you, you would always recognize his gate. Usually, it’s comforting, grounding to know he got home and would leave you with relief in your chest.

But there is no place for relief in your chest right now.

His footsteps sound normal, steady, perhaps a little hurried but he hasn’t reached this room yet.

You don’t look up. Instead, you bite your lip to stop the sob that threatens to escape. The shame is too sharp, cutting deeper than any piece of the ornament and making your heart bleed as well.

Maybe if you stay still, if you stay quiet, he’ll miss you somehow.

But then his steps come to an abrupt halt and you know you are screwed.

Burning tears spike once more and the sob breaks free.

“Woah, hey-” he calls out, so urgent, so worried.

Bucky is across the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees in front of you with a speed that catches you off guard.

“Sweetheart, hey.” It falls from his lips so softly, so worried, it nearly breaks you all over again.

Tears fall more freely at the kind of tenderness in his tone and suddenly his hand is cupping your face, thumb, and knuckles brushing the streaks of wetness from your cheeks.

But they keep coming.

“Look at me, please! Doll, look at me,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly gentle, but dripping with so much concern. His metal hand is on your face as well and he tilts it upward, guiding your gaze toward his.

His brows are drawn so deeply, lips parting slightly as he studies your face - the tear tracks, the desolation in your eyes, the shame and guilt, the trembling of your shoulders.

You can’t look at him. Can’t bear to see it. So you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping you’ll ever be able to forget that look on his face. Not when you know what’s coming. Not when you know what you have caused.

Just wait until he sees it, you think. That look will change.

“No,” he whispers, his voice so soft again, but there is a firmness in it. The pad of his flesh thumb smooths gently across your cheek again, while his metal fingers move to your hair. “Hey, no, don’t do that. It’s okay. Y/n, it’s okay!”

You shake your head quickly and try to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a choked sound, half-sob, half-breath. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t know what this is about.

You want to stay hidden behind the veil of your closed eyes, safe from not seeing what you know will be there in perhaps seconds when he figures it out - disappointment, maybe anger, the grief of what you’ve broken.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart, please.”

There is something in his voice you can’t ignore. It sounds unshakable and steady, yet fragile and thick.

Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes flutter open to meet his, but when you do, you freeze.

Because he already knows.

He looks at you. Just looks, but you see he already put the pieces together. He saw the shards scattering around your knees. His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it but he looks at you with an intensity that is new to you. There is that understanding in his eyes. But it’s so soft. So gentle.

There is no anger, no frustration, no disappointment.

There is nothing of the reaction you had feared for.

Yes, there is pain in his eyes as well. It’s unmistakable, flickering in the soft blue of his irises. But it’s not the pain you expected.

It’s not for the ornament. It’s not for what it meant.

It’s for you.

You can see it in the way his brows crease, the frown that tugs at his mouth. And the way he never once lets his gaze stray to the shards on the floor. All he looks at is you.

Bucky keeps his hands on your face, continuing to swipe over your cheeks like he’s afraid you’ll crumble if he lets go. Then, his thumbs still, resting against your cheekbones, his touch so achingly gentle that it only makes more tears fall.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, and the word cracks, quiet and uneven. He still doesn’t look angry. He still doesn’t look disappointed. He looks devastated - not for what you’ve done, but for what it’s done to you.

Your lips tremble, barely able to form words.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Come here.”

Baby definitely is a new one. It’s something he’s never called you before. But there is no time to linger on it, no chance to unpack the flutter it sparks in your stomach because he’s already pulling you toward him.

His flesh arm wraps around your body, tugging you against his chest, while his metal hand finds its place at the back of your head, cold but reassuring fingers threading through your hair.

He lets you cry against his chest. Cradles you so tightly to him, you might actually get worried about your ribs, but it feels so good. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his heart is pounding. The fabric of his tactical suit presses against your skin, rough and worn from the mission he just came back from, but it grounds you to some extent.

“It’s okay. Just breathe, alright? Breathe,” he keeps whispering, exaggerating his breaths against your body to invite you to follow his lead. You try.

“I’m so sorry,” you sob, the words spilling out in a choked, broken rush as you bury your face in his chest. The tears won’t stop, soaking into the dark fabric of his suit.

“Shh,” he keeps on with his soft voice. His arm around you tightens, holding you closer, while his metal hand stays solidly at the back of your head. His fingers brush through your hair in slow, soothing motions. “Don’t be. Don’t you dare be.”

He continues murmuring to you when you try to apologize again, his voice low and warm. He talks so calmly and sure, you feel something inside of you churn.

Bucky tilts his head slightly, resting his cheek against your hair, and you feel the warmth of his breath as he talks to you.

And yet, biting guilt gnaws its way through your ribs. You feel terrible - worse than terrible - because it should be you comforting him, not the other way around.

It’s him who lost something precious, something you had broken. And here he is, holding you, brushing tears from your face, whispering words meant to stitch you back together.

But somehow, he doesn’t even seem to care. He holds you like you are the only thing that matters right now.

Remorse burrows deep, heavy, and shaming, until it pulls you back to yourself - slowly, shakily, but enough to loosen the sobs caught in your throat.

You sniff and take a breath, a real one this time, ragged but yours.

Then, you shift in his arms, gently pressing against his chest to put space between you. His hold loosens, slowly, with a hesitation that tugs at something in you. As if he is reluctant to let you go. Still, he relents.

His flesh hand slides away first, but his metal one lingers, brushing through your hair one last time before settling on your shoulder. He keeps you close, his thumb brushing absentminded sweeps across your sweater.

His gaze never strays and it’s heavy. You can’t meet his eyes for long. They’re too full of that care you don’t deserve, the care he shows you in so many small gestures all the time.

So your gaze falls to the floor, but then you freeze again.

The broken shards that had glinted so mockingly against the floor just moments ago are gone. Instead, settled carefully on the coffee table as though it had never fallen at all, is the ornament.

Whole.

It takes you a moment to process it, to trust what you’re seeing. The cracks are gone, smoothed over seamlessly. The gleaming red glass catches the light of the Christmas tree, its golden little details shining like something out of a memory, timeless and unbroken. As beautiful and aesthetic as before.

For a moment, you even wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then you notice Wanda standing at the far side of the room. Her hands lower slowly, the telltale red glow of her magic fading from her fingertips.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t step closer - just tilts her head slightly, offering you the faintest, knowing smile. Her eyes are warm.

God, of course. You should have thought of that. It even makes you feel a little ridiculous. You live together with people who possess supernatural abilities, powers beyond comprehension. You should have thought of Wanda. How her hands could have mended it back together in seconds.

A choked breath stumbles out of you, somewhere between relief and disbelief. Bucky follows your gaze, his brows furrowing, only to soften when he sees the ornament resting perfectly intact on the table. He stares at it for a moment.

But then he looks back at you and his sweet smile could melt any ice this winter has to offer.

His flesh hand moves a few strands of hair out of your face and tugs them tenderly behind your ear. His hand stays on your cheek. “Told you it’s okay.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I still broke it,” you say, words slipping out quietly, somberly. Your gaze remains fixed on it. Wanda seems to have slipped out again.

“Stop,” Bucky cuts in, his voice more firm than before but still gentle as always. He shakes his head, moving closer to you again, gaze fixed on you.

You feel his hand brush against yours, but then his shoulders stiffen up. He stops. His eyes catch on something and his expression shifts in an instant.

“Jesus-” His frown deepens, something like a shadow crosses his eyes. Sharp eyes lock onto the red streaks lining your palm, the cuts where the shattered glass had broken your skin.

You hadn’t even realized you were still holding onto the pain - too caught up in everything else to notice the dull throb of your hand or the sting of the scratches.

“You’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?” The words are a quiet exhale, soft but weighted. There is no reprimand in his voice, no anger - only concern coloring every syllable.

His thumb ghosts over your wrist, careful not to brush against the cuts. His intense gaze flickers from your injured hand to your face, searching your expression.

“It’s not a big deal-”

“Don’t.”

Bucky shakes his head. His jaw tightens and he exhales sharply through his nose. It’s not frustration - not with you, anyway. It’s something deeper, something that seems to pain him in his chest as he studies the scratches like they’re a personal failing.

“Bucky,” you say while trying to pull your hand back from his grasp when he tilts it more toward the light to get a better look. As if he hasn’t the eyesight of a super soldier.

“Doll. Let me see.” His lips press into a thin line, the faintest hint of exasperation ghosting across his face.

The sigh you let out drags down your chest and you don’t resist when Bucky keeps cradling your bleeding hand and studies the scratches. His brow is furrowed in concentration that feels too much for something so small.

You want to tell him it’s fine, that this is nothing, but the words die before they reach your tongue.

“Let’s get you fixed up,” he says tightly, the tone of his voice all business and leaving no room for argument.

But you shake your head. It’s your fault the ornament broke in the first place. You’re aware it’s whole again, but it was in shambles just moments earlier and you cut yourself thanks to your own stupidity.

“Bucky, you just got back from a mission-” you protest, your voice quieter than you’d like.

“Not too worried about myself right now, doll,” he interrupts, his voice insistent but warm. The hint of steel beneath his words not directed at you but at the way your guilt is still in control, trying to downplay yourself.

“Come on.” He says it softer now, but before you can argue any further, he’s already moving.

Without so much as a pause, Bucky stands and scoops you up into his arms as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You barely have a second to process the shift, before you’re pressed securely against his chest.

“Bucky!” you exclaim, startled, your uninjured hand reaching for his shoulder to steady yourself.

“Relax, doll. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused, though his expression remains calm, focused.

You sigh again, but there is a laugh on your breath. “Buck, I can walk. You don’t have to-”

“Not hearing it,” he says simply, almost flatly. He just continues striding along the halls with you in his arms. His steps are heavier, but you know it’s not because of your weight. He holds you like you weigh nothing at all. “You’re hurt.”

That doesn’t sound like a plausible explanation to you, since you’ve come home with way worse injuries from missions over the last months alone. But the gruffness of his voice, the one that always accompanies him when you’re injured, no matter how small - the seriousness, the concern - it shuts you up for the time being.

You let your head rest against his shoulder. He smells a little like gunpowder and dust, but you only latch onto the parts that are him and breathe them in.

“I didn’t mean to break it, Bucky,” to whisper, gaze dropping to the tightly pressed ball that is your bloody fist. “I’m so sorry.”

You feel the intake of Bucky’s breath against your body and his eyes warmly falling down on you. You don’t meet his gaze.

“You didn’t break anything, sweetheart.” His voice is like velvet, brushing so softly against your skin. So reassuringly. So profoundly gentle. “You’re okay, doll. We’re okay. I promise.” His hands curl tighter around you.

You blink, your head tilting to glance up at him, and your breath catches when you meet his gaze.

It is intense. His brows are pulled together - not with anger, but with concern. Like the only things he cares about right now are the tears that linger in your eyes and the way you’re still trying to curl in on yourself, still letting your body slightly shake with the guilt that he refuses to let you carry.

Something stirs in your belly. Something flutters, as if thousands of tiny wings brush against the walls of you, demanding to be seen. To be felt.

Because you let your mind spiral so much earlier, bracing yourself for a reaction of disappointment, frustration - that flicker of something unnameable that might pull the two of you apart.

But it still isn’t there.

Not even close.

It’s the opposite, really.

[buckrecs]

could you rec some protective Bucky fics/oneshots?

Protective Bucky

masterlist | req masterlist

Purgatory by @wkemeup

While on a mission, Bucky becomes dissociated into the Winter Soldier. But instead of becoming a threat, his instinct is to protect.

Behind the Storm by @wkemeup

On a mission, you're hit with a spell that takes away your ability to see. Bucky does what he can to make you feel safe.

stairs by @lovelybarnes

overprotective!bucky at its finest.

Savior by @buckysgoldenheart

Basically, Bucky saves you and then stalks you.

vodka on rocks by @kinanabinks

when you find out that someone you slept with secretly took photos and videos of you during sex, you feel betrayed - but bucky won't stand by and let that happen to his best friend.

more than safe by @witchywithwhiskey

when you're injured on a mission in sokovia, bucky barnes comes to help—and you share a soft moment together.

Dark Divine by @sebbytrash

Bucky and you are in a relationship and when you get hurt during a mission, he seeks comfort the only way he knows how. Revenge.

seeing red by @buckysfaveplum

bucky can’t just sit and watch as a man makes you uncomfortable in a bar.

Divine Retribution by @pellucid-constellations

Nobody touches Bucky’s girl. He was going to make that very clear.

Counting by @pellucid-constellations

Time heals all wounds. Bucky’d been holding onto that proverb ever since blip. But time had never been particularly kind to him, so he opted to keep track of the sweet girl’s in his apartment building instead, the one that made him banana bread and took him to diners at two in the morning. Sometimes, you didn’t keep the same schedule. That made Bucky panic.

Expectations by @softlyspector

Bucky is overprotective of the reader, who is pregnant with his baby.

Gentle by @invisibleanonymousmonsters

Y/N has never seen Bucky be anything but gentle and loving. It’s hard for her to believe her boyfriend was ever the world’s deadliest and most lethal assassin.

Safe by @coffeecatsandcandles

You become a stripper during the blip. When Bucky comes back, he has a lot of thoughts about it.

How’s Your Head by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky

A run in with a less than kind stranger on the Subway send a knight in shining armor your way.

What Could Go Wrong? by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky

A SWORD function at the compound has Bucky feeling uneasy. He can’t seem to stop himself from checking up on you, but you swear to him that you’re not in danger- you’re wrong.

Nothing Fucks With My Baby by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky

Bucky shows up late to a Shield party and finds out that a new agent made you uncomfortable. He takes care of it.

False Reality by @bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky

Running into an unpleasant person from your past sends you into a shame spiral. Bucky gets you home and takes care of you- reminding you of your worth.

knight in shining armor by @b6cky

when a valentines date from hell makes y/n rethink all her life choices, a knight in shining armour is there to save her. or a knight with a shining metal arm.

Imagine | 2 by @im-an-octopus

40s!Protective Bucky + protective Bucky post Winter Soldier

The Protective Soldier by @dabblinginmarvel

Bucky met the Avengers and is atracted to the reader and protective over her.

protective by @onceuponastory

Bucky gets protective over Y/N during a mission.

Her by @avecra

When Bucky's anger gets the best of him during a debriefing meeting, your touch is the one thing that can ground him.

[circe69]

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥! - 𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄

❤︎ simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader ❤︎ wc: 2.4k ❤︎tw: mentions of gore, suggestive ❤︎ tags - snowy valentines, heavy making out, pining, drunk confessions, aggressive!simon, but sweet as well :)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

"You know today's Valentine's Day, right L.T?" Your words slurred together like pudding, and Ghost could smell the faint scent of whiskey, along with the remnants of some strawberry dessert, on your breath as he leaned down to hear you better.

He'd brought you up to the rooftop from the raging party downstairs, figuring it be easier to avoid any questions from Soap or Price about just why the two of you were standing so close. He looked up, stretching and rolling his neck from side to side, and was taken back by just how clear the sky was. It'd been months since he'd been able to make out any sort of constellation, and just about everyone had gotten used to the gunpowder-filled clouds and polluted air, but Ghost hadn't.

"What about it?" He said firmly, looking down at you and watching how you ever so slightly fisted the hem of his t-shirt in your hands, and every so often, your knuckles would graze the skin of his stomach, making his whole-body tense.

You smiled, your doe eyes and dilated pupils staring up at him with the most drunken affection that he'd seen in a while, "Do you have anyone?" You bit down on your chapstick-doused lips, enjoying the slight cherry flavor. Ghost watched you work; he could almost feel your tongue moving around on his just by watching your lick your lips.

He sighed, not annoyed, but a little anxious. He just didn't know how to act around you, he didn't know why you made him feel so different from everyone else. It'd been years since he had a friend, let alone a woman, an attractive one no doubt, clawing at him for more, practically begging for him to just pick her up and take her to a random closet to show her just how much he was willing to give. At this point, Ghost couldn't care less about the fact that you'd forget most of this in the morning. He loved the way you made him feel, even if there was a chance you didn't mean it.

"You're drunk, soldier." He gently pried your wandering hands off his body as you grimaced at the fact that he just called you soldier. You whined in response, hands instinctively shooting up to hug him around his neck, and Ghost allowed it, because he wanted it so badly. He wanted you so badly.

"Come on, just tell me already! You're no fun when you keep secrets." You were practically hanging off of him, your toes barely touching the ground, and even though he could've wrapped himself around you and lifted you up even higher, his hands stayed in fists planted at his sides. You leaned even closer to whisper,

"Do you have a valentine or not?"

A small smile stretched across Ghost's face, and for once, he was actually thankful for that thin piece of fabric covering it. Precious, he thought. You were the one thing that could unlock Simon's buried affection, and whether you knew it or not, you were the ticket to making his entire being feel better. He was bloodthirsty on the field, a man-killing machine known for his deceitful tactics and disgusting tricks for cracking a neck just right, but it disappeared in your presence. Not because he had to hide it, but because he would just much rather focus on you, the most perfect thing, right in front of him.

Ghost's hands hesitantly moved to the small of your back, but then slowly dropped them again before raising one to pinch the bridge of his nose as you let go of his neck, crossing your arms in annoyance at the fact that he just won't grab you.

"I know you're pouting because I'm not paying much attention to you, but I have to be gentle with you for now. You've had drinks, yeah? Maybe a few too many. Even if I wanted to, I can't touch you."

You looked up at him, the grimace resting on your face was a little more relaxed, "But" you started, "Do you want to?"

Ghost looked back at you, and his lungs felt like they'd burst into flames if you spoke one more sentence in that voice, the voice that's dripping with desire and demand, for him and only him. He whispered, "Of course I do. Of course, I want to touch you, I want to touch every part of you." His voice grew louder at the end of his words, making your eyes widen at the volume.

"Just because I'm being gentle right now, doesn't mean I always will. The things I want to have happen, the things I want to do to you, aren't sweet things. They aren't nice, they wouldn't be beautiful or sentimental. I wouldn't be careful. Do you understand?"

You craned your neck up at him, in a certain way that made your cheek bones shine perfectly from the dim light of the moon.

"I understand, Lieutenant," your voice was nothing more than a quiet sigh.

"Get some sleep. Tomorrow's role call is an hour earlier," Ghost said as he started to walk back to the door to the stairs, "Be there."

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

You groaned in pain as an alarm rang through your room, off the walls and into your ears. Every part of you hurt, from your toes to your shoulders. I couldn't have done that much, right? You thought, slowly slipping out of your covers and top quilt before walking to the bathroom.

6 AM, and for what? Breakfast and a flag? Couldn't they wait an hour? I sure could. Your hair wasn't as dirty as you'd thought it be, thankfully, and it was easy to manage into a tight bun before tugging on boots and a warm winter coat and heading to the main hall. As you walked, crunching on a small layer of snow with every step, you tried to think back to last night. What even happened? You were kicking yourself, because you knew this would be the case. It happens every time. You're just more of a lightweight than you'd like to admit, and you remember it every morning after you drink.

You could remember the rooftop, being escorted up there by none other than Ghost, which wasn't out of the ordinary, but there were some parts of your conversation that just didn't make sense. It was all a blur but, there was something about being gentle? And Ghost mentioning that, sure he's being gentle now, but if you let him, he'd be the farthest thing from gentle with you.

But there was no way that happened. Fever dreams, drunk dreams, they're all the same. They're all vivid, and scarily accurate, but fake, nonetheless.

Once you arrived at the hall, a wooden door creaked open upon your entrance, along with the sound of your boots hitting the floor in attempt to shake the ice off. The room was packed to the brim with people, rescue dogs that didn't behave, and squeaking chairs moving round for roll call. Hot coffee was being poured and whistling kettles being turned off for tea were some of your favorite smells in the world. The dim fluorescent lighting woke you up fully, and if it were any brighter, it may have set you over the edge. No matter how hungover you were, snowy mornings were like a restart.

You made your way down the precise middle aisle, eyeing an open chair by Ghost and speedwalking to grab it before anyone else.

Once you sat down, you started shedding your large coat and draped it behind you. Ghost finally noticed and took a double take once he saw just who was sitting next to him.

Somehow, by some crazy unearthly miracle, even after a terrible hangover, you were still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He was almost frustrated at this point; you looked like you'd never drank a day in your life. Your hair was perfectly pinned, clothes beautifully ironed, which allowed for every curve to be hugged like a glove and shown off to every man in the room.

Ghost was borderline salivating. You smelled like you always did, lavender; and your morning voice as you said hello to him was just raspy enough to make him crazy, almost like crackling firewood. Even in the snowy, freezing weather, just by you being there, he felt perfectly warm.

"Morning," he said back, adjusting his pants that had somehow shrunk a few inches since you took your place by him.

The cup of coffee in his hand looked minuscule compared to the one in yours, which let your mind wander to other places, thinking about things that you shouldn't be. Like how small your body would feel enclosed in arms, and how those very same hands that were inches away from yours could destroy you within seconds.

Before you knew it, one of Ghost's arms raised and placed itself on the back of your chair, making you dizzy just at the contact. His skin wasn't even on yours, but you could feel the weight of his heavy forearm on the chair, and the way it gently ruffled the sleeves on your shirt. His breath was closer, practically pouring down the side of your neck, which made you automatically lean in closer to him. You could feel your heartbeat and was sure he could see it popping out of your chest every second.

"Hey," he whispered in your ear, making your eyes flutter at the deep tone speaking from a mouth inches away from you.

"If I left, would you follow me out?"

You looked at him, eyes wandering all over his face until resting in deep eye contact. You could tell all he needed was one word, one nod, and he'd stand up.

"Yes," you whispered. Breathed, more like.

Ghost stood, his height growing like a giant tree, from his seat and stomped out of the large dining room, and into a small hallway towards the back. You discreetly watched every move, every step he took, every nod he gave to the unsuspecting soldiers, and the exact turn he took to start his descent in the hallway.

You sat for a minute before moving. I could just stay, avoid any unnecessary confrontation, and tell him he misheard me, you thought. Your legs fidgeted for a few more seconds, trying to decide, but in reality, your answer from the start was genuine.

You shot up, faster than you intended, and started walking in the same path that Ghost did. Nodding to the soldiers, shooting smiles and quietly opening a door that led you into the same dark hallway that he entered.

There were a few small windows lining the hall, and the snow falling made it seem brighter than it was. You walked a few paces slowly down the walkway, looking in empty rooms and peeping your head in open doors, wondering where he could've gone.

All the sudden, when you were looking towards the opposite direction, a strong pair of gloved hands grabbed you by the hips and pulled your body into a room before slamming the door with his foot and pinning you to the back of it.

Ghost's face was inches away from yours, "Mm, finally," he groaned, his hands desperately running over and under pieces of your clothing. He tugged at hemlines, the belt loops of your pants, anything he could grab to signal he wanted more, and he hadn't even started yet.

"Finally?" You teased, trying not to whimper at the feeling of his hands squeezing the meat of your thigh, "You act like you've been waiting for this or something." Your words got breathier with every second, and so did his. All he did was hum in agreement, words weren't ever truly necessary for him, especially when he'd rather communicate in touch.

He quickly lifted up his mask just enough so his lips were available to you, and you took the opportunity to utilize them as fast as you could. Once you saw them, plump and slightly wet lips, your eyes drowned in the sight of them. Your arms shot up to his neck, and you pulled him down to your level so you could kiss him properly.

It wasn't sweet like a first kiss, or something that you'd want to take a picture of and frame it, it was like a secret. His mouth opening against yours, the air between you mixing like it was never meant to separate, the two of you were hungry, hungry for each other and only each other. The pads of his fingers rubbed your collarbone, making you shiver underneath his calloused touch, and he loved it. His tongue gently massaged yours, sliding his lips back and forth and your teeth gently bit down on his lip slowly before the two of you broke the kiss and slowly opened your eyes again.

Ghost moaned against his closed mouth, shutting his eyes before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His long arms wrapped around you as if you were a present from Christmas, something that he'd always wanted but never believed he'd get. He almost needed a breather from the aftermath of it all. He couldn't stop, and he knew he'd never stop for as long as you were in arms reach.

"Do you remember last night?" He said from his spot in your neck, to which you started to nod. "Too much to not be slightly embarrassed forever."

You could feel his chest vibrate against yours from the huff of air he let out, and after he lifted his head to meet yours again, straightening his posture to tower over you, "Ask it again." He demanded as his hand planted itself behind your head on the door.

The smile on your lips was enough to make his knees buckle, all it did was remind him that every part about you was made beautifully, was made to its most perfect potential.

You sighed before rolling your eyes slightly and dropping your head in your hands for a minute out of embarrassment, "Do you have a valentine, Lieutenant?"

Ghost allowed himself to just bask in the silence, to soak in what you just said like a warm bath. How wonderful, that he was able to hear you say that same question twice?

"Yes, I do," he started, before taking your hand in his and carefully kissing the center of your palms, "And I think I'm set for life."

[certifiedcodbabygirl]

To Whisper Your Name pt.1

Konig x Reader Roman Goddess AU

Warnings: Violence ( minor character deaths), Roman deity inaccuracies, history inaccuracies, talks of SA 

Reader is loosely based on the Roman Goddess Felicitas (Goddess of good fortune and luck)

It is not rare for minor gods/ goddesses to go unthought of. Some rise to fame as others are forgotten. Not many remember the deities of flowers, trees, or other smaller things. They remember Jupiter, Neptune, Venus. The greats, the Gods. Smaller gods go about their lives enjoying the few who do remember them. The small alters the mortals create for them, adorned with what is associated with said deity. They get offerings, praise, songs sung in their name.

Others are forgotten. Some deities share common rulings and the more famous deity gets the praise. They get the offerings, the songs, the alters. They get the memories. The smaller deity is left to watch humanity progress, knowing they are nothing to them but a passing face. Some grow depressed, heartbroken to be forgotten. Some grow mad, killing those who pray to the more famous deity. Most are unhappy or indifferent. They are too out of touch with humanity, differences between God and mortals being too many to connect with one another. 

Despite all, you connect. The goddess of good fortune and luck, or as I should say, the small goddess of good fortune and luck. Throughout time, as you were forgotten and Fortuna rose to fame, you assimilated with the mortals. The fascination overtaking the grief pushed you to live among them. You aren’t well known among your village, just a simple face that passes by occasionally. Your home resides along the lake, a small and hidden house, property of an old man you met years before. You became like family to him, knowing who you are, he did his research. He offered you home, community, he offered you the human experience. 

It was a quiet life, predictable, quaint. You go to the fishing grounds, bless the unsuspecting fishermen. You do the same to the cloth weavers, the doctors, the children playing. None may know, but fortune is on their side. It was a simple existence, a comfortable one. 

A change happened at nightfall. Taking a late night walk was common, having no need for sleep. You’d walk a few miles, stay in a tree, maybe take a swim, then head back to your home. Tonight was no different. You opted to stay in a tree in a nearby forest, taking in the night sky, constellations seeming to taunt you with an unknown reason. Memories of when you were among the other deities fill your mind, a bittersweet taste left in your mind. Shouting and the crunching of twigs below rip you from your thoughts, whimpers from women below causing the hair on your arms to stand up.

Below, you see a small group of women with their arms shackled to a long chain. There are 2 men, daggers glinting in the moonlight. There’s no torch, no lantern, to light their way. It’s clear they are trying to be unseen, to steal these women. They adorn Roman clothing, as do the women, and seem to be heading away from the village. 

“Please I’m begging you, I have children! They have no father and no one to look for them” A woman begs shakily.

“Then we will be back for them. I know someone who would pay bronze for youth like them” A man cackles and shoves the woman for her noise.

“Oh Gods, Please save us, if you can hear me” A woman whispers, kissing her hands and raising them to the sky.

Her voice is so broken, as if she's unable to conjure hope. Heart aching for these women but unable to physically intervene, you bless them.

“Luck be upon you” Falls from your lips in the form of a whisper.

As they are almost gone, a branch snapping catches the men's attention. Heads whipping in the direction of the noise was their first mistake. A soldier in Roman attire sneaks behind the leading man, dagger cutting through his throat as if it were simply fat. 

The other three men turn and draw their weapons, preparing for attack. Their stance resembles that of a cornered, angry cat. One other soldier emerges from the dark. His towering frame, only being able to be described as a giant, unsheathed his sword from his holster. The glare from the moonlight shining off his sword gives an eerie and unsettling feeling in an already disturbing situation. 

“Give in and come willingly, or face the same fate as your foolish leader” His voice is higher pitched than expected, yet still effectively intimidating. His accent is foreign, sounding from the north. 

Ignorance clearly being their strong suit, the smugglers charge at the giant, only to be met immediately with a blade. The first one falls and seconds later, the other one is ripped through, practically in half, blood spilling like a never ending prayer. The men are ripped through like a tarp, eyes widening and dulling over.

 The last man remaining drops his weapon, falling to his knees like a worshiper to their God. The giant stalks towards him, gripping his hair and tilting him back. You can feel the fear radiating off of the smaller man's body, most likely praying to the gods as the women they stole did. 

“Your incompetence fails you. What were you planning for them?” He demands, gesturing to the women. They cower under the man's gaze.

The man remains silent, his mouth gaping like a fish, in search of words.

“Have mercy, please!” He begs, tears seeming to form.

The giant chuckles in an unamused manner, “Were you to have mercy on them? The gods have turned their backs on you. Now I will ask you again” He grips tighter, voice low and in a low growl, “What. Were. You. Planning? Who is your superior?”

The man refuses to answer and is swiftly met with a blade, as he serves no purpose. The giant and his partner turn their attention to the women, moving to remove their shackles. The women seem more frightened of them than they did the men that stole them. Perhaps it's because these men are soldiers, making it easy for them to be overpowered. 

“Where are you from?” The giant asks a woman as he removes the shackles. The woman says she was visiting her family in a nearby village when the men came. The other women say something similar.

“It seems they had a type. Easily able to make them disappear if they only have a couple connections in a different village.” The other man states, the giant nodding. 

They move the women to the same town you live in, keeping them in a new location until they find the leader of whatever ring they were getting sold into. You climb down the tree and quietly follow behind. The women are escorted to a separate cluster home and the men head to what seems to be a military station building.

Before the giant walks into the building, he looks behind him out of habit and spots you already looking at him. You quickly turn and walk away, not trying to attract unwanted attention. You make it to the lake before you hear a twig snap, someone being with you. Knowing who it is, you don't even bother to turn around, staying still. 

“Why did you run?” He asked in an accusatory tone, walking up to you. His frame towers over you, his shadow overtaking yours. You turn towards him, finally meeting his eyes. His face is covered in a cloth, his eyes being the only exposed area. His gaze is stern, like that of a king. 

“I've never seen a soldier like you before” you lie seamlessly, appearing innocent, “When you saw me, I worried I would possibly provoke you. Some soldiers around here hate when we stare”

He looks down at you, head slightly tilting. In mock or curiosity, you can't tell. There’s a long pause of silence, neither of you moving.

“Sir?” You ask quietly, “May I go back home now? I fear it will worry my family if I am out too late”

“You will meet me in the town square tomorrow at dusk,” He states, turning to walk away, “I will find you if you fail to come. Do not make that mistake, flos”

[dandelion-wings]

For the angst/gore prompts, could we please have “06: Not Realizing They’re Injured” from the first list with Kujou Sara? Especially something to do with those poor wings I sincerely doubt she was ever taught how to properly take care of.

Thank you for the ask! <3 I have to apologize for this one too, anon, because it's another one that ended up not very whumpy--more a mix of hurt/comfort and angst (and a dose of 'how much can I villain Takayuki?'), because your particular prompt sideswiped a fic idea(s)(really more a constellation of fic premises and themes) that I've been turning over for a while and just kind of. stuck to that until it was irretrievably gummed together. I hope it is still sufficiently wing-focused to earn your forgiveness!

---

ETA: now on AO3.

---

Kujou Takayuki has never once told Sara that she isn't permitted to fly.

She remembers his frown when she was a child, the one time she had leapt into the air to gain an advantage in training. Even though it had given her tactical superiority, he had penalized her for it when evaluating those training exercises. At the time, she had thought it about honor, about the unfairness of exceeding her peers not by outdoing them through the same efforts, but by using an advantage they did not.

When she was older, rising through the ranks in the field, she had once in extremis made an attempt to scout from the air. That time she had seen the frowns on other officers' faces before she had even landed, and understood that honor didn't figure into this at all. It was about being different, being *other*, about the fear some of her soldiers couldn't hide when reminded that she was a youkai, about the contempt some of her superiors showed when they thought she could not see or hear. About her adoption by humanity and what was required of her to uphold the Kujou name.

By the time she becomes a general herself, she doesn't need to be told to stay on the ground.

Flight might have been an advantage for her on the battlefield, but it had never been a necessity. No other tengu has served in the Almighty Shogun's military for almost five hundred years. *Certainly* none served in Watatsumi's. Perhaps she might have gained an edge by taking to the air, but she did not lose significantly by refraining.

After the war, after the Sakuko Decree is lifted, after Takayuki is removed as head of the Kujou Clan and the Tenryou Commission alike, that changes. Gliders have existed for hundreds of years, but have never before been a popular import, nor often even a permitted one; they are different and foreign, and the Almighty Shogun was so long resistant to things that were different and foreign that the Tri-Commission feared to march in lockstep. So has it been with many imports that the Kanjou Commission is only now slowly coming to authorize.

Gliders are particularly popular, due to the mountainous nature of many of Inazuma's most populated islands, where they no doubt would have been popular long before if not for the Tri-Commission's care, but the traveler had made their use seem particularly alluring and permissible. Unfortunately, it isn't only law-abiding citizens who can obtain them now that the sea around Inazuma is clear. The Doushin are struggling to keep up with bandits and smugglers who can just glide away from arrest.

Kamaji, after the third report of such in a row, orders a shipment of gliders from the Knights of Mondstadt to be distributed to the Doushin. When he tells Sara, he smiles, and nods to her wings, and adds, "Though you're fortunate enough not to need them."

Which is all but an order. Even if Takayuki *had* told Sara she wasn't permitted to fly, this would be the new head of the Kujou Clan countermanding that instruction. That the thought of spreading long-disused wings leaves her uneasy doesn't affect her duty.

---

The next such encounter occurs before the shipment of gliders has even arrived. This is a particularly troublesome group of bandits, who have escaped the Doushin twice before; when another report of their activities comes in, Sara leads her forces after them herself. They find the bandits' camp on the edge of a cliff, and when they're startled while celebrating their ill-gotten gains, it seems inevitable that the less drunken and more sharp-witted of them attempt to glide to an escape.

"You, securely bind our existing captives. You, take your troops down that way, and you, that way," Sara orders, pointing out the fastest safe routes down the cliff. "They seem to be aiming for that cliffside, so they may have a secret tunnel or hatch. I'll attempt to cut them off before I get there."

She turns away as the Doushin rush to follow her commands, and spreads her wings at the edge of the cliff. This isn't the first time she's done this, of course--flight is powered by muscles, and any muscle must be exercised. As soon as Kamaji had given his instructions, she'd begun practicing each day, finding a private place in the caverns beneath Inazuma City and attempting first short glides, then short flights, then longer ones. None have been in so open a place as this mountainside with the canyon at its foot, wind whistling through, but she trusts in her training. She could have flown this easily as a child.

Her wings catch the air as she leaps off the edge, and then she's swooping down, flapping to gain speed and get past the gliding bandits, diving towards the cliff to which they're trying to flee. From now she can indeed see a too-deep shadow at the base, where bushes grow. Despite the seriousness of the situation, there's a lightness in being aloft in the open air, a *joy* in flight, that only now that she feels it again does Sara recall, dimly, from her boisterous early childhood. She smiles to herself, all the unease she'd felt when anticipating this change falling away.

The bandits are behind her now, and the cliff close ahead. She flares her wings again to catch herself in the air and adjust, so that she can turn the dive into a plunging attack before she hits the cliff-

A gust of wind hits her broadside as she spreads her wings wide. The force of it wrenches her right wing with a pull that flares into lancing pain, and then the wing collapses in on itself at the wrong angle.

Sara finds herself spiraling as she flaps only the left, desperately trying to slow herself down, to change her bearing. Shifting her grip on her bow, she closes that wing before she reaches the cliff, the other not drooping and dragging limp, and manages to plummet the last few meters and land on both feet. Her right ankle twinges at the awkward landing.

She still manages to turn and straighten and aim before the bandits actually reach her. The uncooperative wing is still alight with pain, but she grits her teeth and lets Electro crackle around her. The bandits hesitate and spread wide to flank her, putting themselves right into the arms of her Doushin.

Lowering her bow, Sara takes a step forward and collapses to one knee as the fractured bone in her ankle snaps under her weight.

---

To add to the humiliation of being carried home by her subordinates, one of her officers goes out of their way to report her injury directly and immediately to Kamaji.

He arrives in the infirmary before the medic has even finished wrapping her ankle. Sara can't even rise to acknowledge his presence properly, only straighten her back, stiffening against the urge to wince when that grinds her injured wing against the back of the chair.

"The operation was a success," she tells him, keeping her voice level even as the medic pulls the bandage tight. "We've captured the entire gang. Their leader is undergoing interrogation now."

"I'm glad to hear it," Kamaji says. "Are you all right? The Doushin told me your wing... it doesn't look good."

Sara looks straight ahead, poised to give her report as best she can. "I trained inadequately for the conditions in the field, and overestimated my ability to handle them. I will have to temporarily remove myself from field operations. That will make the Tenryou Commission's situation more difficult if any complicated matters come up, and I apologize. However, I am still fit to coordinate the Doushin's administrative affairs and handle concerns within the city."

"You can delegate the physical work to your subordinates until you recover. This is a good opportunity to season some of our new officers. If anything serious arises, I *am* the Provisional Clan Head, and willing to take personal responsibility."

Which is in theory his duty--but Sara is accustomed to being Takayuki's right hand, the reason he didn't *have* to handle what he assigned her to personally, even if she had once or twice failed him in that role. She doesn't let herself think, sitting here directly in front of him, that Kamaji also lacks the experience to handle very serious Doushin affairs on his own, but certain conversations with Masahito do impinge vaguely upon her dismay. What matters is not his capability, but her responsibility to manage this department of the Commission, and that he currently considers her unable to do so.

"It will be useful for determining which officers are ready for more advanced duties," Sara agrees. It isn't her place to argue, especially with the results of her own failures. The medic has moved to her wing, prodding at it cautiously, and Sara grits her teeth against a stab of pain.

Kamaji smiles at her. Then he looks at the medic at work, and his smile fades. "How bad is it?"

"I'm not sure, Lord Kujou," the man says. "I've never treated a tengu's wing before. I think I can splint it, but I don't know how well it will heal."

"I don't see how it would be any different from my ankle," Sara says. "I have broken bones before. So long as it's properly aligned and held straight, I've always healed well."

---

The ankle heals faster. Sara is on her feet again within three weeks, though the medics are firm about limiting how much she walks about, and free of their restrictions in six. Her wing, though, lags behind.

It hurts at every slight bump against the back of a chair or a too-close wall, hurts jagged and sharp the first time she grasps a would-be escapee from an unwary Doushin by the arm and he turns and strikes her, and burns bitter and aching if she sits or stands for too long without finding something on which to prop the unwieldy limb up. The medics attempt a frame of bamboo that leaves it stuck awkwardly out; Sara has to discard that after a day of turning sideways to pass through doorways and feeling a fool in front of her men. At no point do they feel it's knit enough to abandon the splint and exercise it again.

A few days after that she's summoned to the Almighty Shogun's presence regarding some aspects of the palace's security. She can feel the Shogun's eyes on her splinted wing, impossible to fold completely against her back, for much of the discussion. Fortunately, the Shogun doesn't force her to recount her mistakes and explain her condition.

Instead, the next day Kamaji summons her to his office and opens with, "I received a message from Her Excellency yesterday regarding your wing." The mortification is so immediate that Sara almost doesn't hear him continue, "Once I explained everything, she arranged for help from Guuji Yae."

That explains the shrine maiden standing in the corner--not one of the bright-eyed young women or sweetly maternal figures who serve the public, but a grey-haired old woman with a lined face and keen eyes. She steps forward before Sara is able to suggest any place private for this examination and begins examining Sara's wing.

"They call this a splint," the woman mutters, and begins to undo it, her gnarled hands steady and sure.

As this was the Shogun's will, Sara simply extends her wing as far as she can when instructed and stands impassive as the woman pokes and prods at it, much more confident than the medics but no more gentle. Kamaji watches with unaccountable anxiety. His expression makes Sara have to breathe deep to quell some of her own. She has no idea what results the Shogun may wish from this examination, nor what instructions she may have given Kamaji regarding Sara's disposition if it does not go well.

Grasping the outer edges of Sara's wing, the woman flexes the joint to its fullest extension, pushing it so far past the point of comfort that Sara can't hold back a gasp as strained and swollen muscles complain. Then she folds it in to the same extent, almost as tightly as Sara has ever pinned them to her back. It can't quite make the full pivot in either direction.

"It never healed properly the last time," the woman says, waspishly. "Breaking it again has only made it worse. Did he have someone with a Vision heal it? I told him it should heal on its own."

"Heal what?" Sara asks, and at the same time Kamaji draws a breath in and says, "He did have a military medic with a healing Vision treat her. He said he didn't have time to wait for her to lie in bed."

The question's context falls into place. Sara knows she had needed tending, and healing, after her fall as a child, even with the Almighty Shogun's blessing to keep her alive. The haze of pain she'd been in afterwards had seemed to wrack every part of her, inspecific, but yes, she well could have broken a wing, plummeting from the air like that. Furthermore, she does recall the healer who tended her after she was brought to the Kujou stronghold, a man whose Vision's power had seemed another blessing on top of the one the Shogun had already given her.

"Not if they weren't used to hollow bones. They over-thickened it and impinged on the joint. And the way it's mending--have you been skimping on your grit?"

"My... grit?" Sara dislikes being so on the back foot in this conversation.

"Powder, sand, whatever you call it. Your mineral supplement. Don't tell me he listened to Mirei and you've been drinking *milk* all this time. I don't want to think about what that could do to your digestion."

"I don't have a mineral supplement."

The woman's grimace of disgust falls away a little too quickly to have been anything but performative, especially given the look that follows. Sara has seen medics giving dire news before. "That does explain why this isn't healing. And shattered into so many fragments, at that. Tengu are just like ravens in this respect. If they don't get enough grit in their diet, their bones go brittle. *Especially* the wings."

"Ah." Sara feels the air go out of her, and makes herself draw it back in. "What is the supplement composed of? I'll begin adding it to my diet immediately."

"Ground eggshells, or fish bones, or snail shells. But that's not going to fix this. It's started setting wrong, and it was already so fragmented that breaking it and resetting it would be a fool's errand. You needed to have been eating your grit the whole time to hope that this could be mended now, especially with that earlier break."

"Are you saying that it won't heal?" Kamaji asks, sounding agonized. Sara wonders again what instructions the Shogun may have given him.

"Not properly. Not such that she'll be much of a flier ever after."

Sara holds herself very still against the wave of despair. She is a competent warrior and an able servant of the shogun without her wings; she's served in that way her entire adult life. There should be no import to being told that she must continue to do so. Even if the issues with the joint preclude a tengu's proper flight, perhaps she can glide, or a glider can be adapted to her, so she can continue to assist the Doushin as Kamaji wishes. Even if the Almighty Shogun desires her wings mended... surely Sara's service has been sufficiently loyal that the Shogun will not reject her for this alone. Even if that disastrous flight had begun full of joy, the satisfaction in carrying out her duties should eclipse this strange sense of loss at something she had for years voluntarily put aside.

The woman seems to sense something in her stillness, though Sara knows she's kept her feelings off her face. "Honestly, I'm surprised this hasn't happened well before this, the number of battles you've been in."

"I've never flown in battle," Sara corrects her, voice flat. "This was the first time I've attempted to fly in the field."

"Why," the woman asks, looking at her in disbelief, "would a *tengu warrior* stay grounded?"

Sara holds her tongue, because she knows the answer. She knows it, and yet to say it would be to disparage Takayuki--to suggest that he had forbidden her to fly, when he never had, when he had never said a word on the subject one way or the other. He had only frowned.

He had only impatiently had her healed in a way this woman, familiar with ravens' wings and apparently with tengu's, had advised against. He had only disregarded the same woman's instructions on her diet, knowing that it would be to her detriment should she attempt to take to the air. He had only put her in a position that destined her, when she did try to take wing, to inevitably fall back to the ground.

"We'll find a solution to this," Kamaji says, determined in that way Sara has always admired, as if she, too, would be cause to challenge the Almighty Shogun if he had to. The words barely register as what Sara had always thought her understanding of the situation shifts once again.

Takayuki has never had to tell Sara she isn't permitted to fly. He's built that limitation into her very bones.

[nrdmssgs]

Spiraling

Masterlist Part 2 (in case you need a happy ending)

Very mild angst Pairing: Ghost x you TW: no Summary: Ghost understanding, something very important just slipped through his fingers. AN: this is kinda sorta songfic. Here is the inspiration.

The worst part is that Ghost can't even get mad at you. He was never there to show you true love, you were never there to break his heart. There were no promises, no occasional touches or stolen glances. There were these two evenings: each beautiful in its own way.

On the first one, the squad was resting after a successful operation, waiting for a transport to pick them up. A large group of soldiers gathered around you and Ghost came closer to find out what was going on. The southern sky was strewn with large, bright stars. Not a single cloud hovered over the desert, so it was a perfect opportunity for stargazing. Time to time you raised you hand up, searched for a next constellation and did this strange, unpractical move: you pointed on the constellation, drawing an invisible line between stars and then pretended to grab it. Ghosts mind blurted out some jibe about you obviously being too short to grab a star. So he sat on the ground behind others, to say it out loud, when you pause. Only to find himself alone on the ground, staring up at the sky. "Lieutenant? Ghost?" Your voice brought him back to reality. "Our heli is here. Are you alright?" He nodded and was ready to stand up, when you offered him a hand. He reached out automatically and you grabbed his hand. It was almost pointless since you were much smaller, but still you helped him. Grabbing his hand like one of those stars, you'd never reach.

The other evening happened much later. Ghost could say, he got used to seeing you around. There were still no chats outside work topics, no interactions at all as soon as any of you was off to home. It was the way it was supposed to be: clean and professional. Ghost was in his office tending to paper work, when you knocked and entered. "Lieutenant, I wanted to let you know, I'll be spending the next few months away from this base. Volunteered to train international corps." Ghost nodded, not even raising eyes from his papers. "There is one more thing. I like working with you and plan to keep it on. But lately I've felt distracted, when you are around." His hand froze, not even finishing signing the last form. That sounded not good. So he finally looked up on you, only to find your absolutely peaceful smiling face. "Don't worry, I won't let it grow. We are all adults here, and I am planing to work here, not search for any kind of informal bonds. That's why I decided to take this job. Just wanted to be honest, ok?" Ghost nodded again, much slower this time. "Ok. Now go show them, how it's done." You left his office, and he tried to remember, where was he. But after a few attempts he understood, it was utterly pointless: his mind was racing somewhere. And that rush felt easy, even joyful. It was a good thing, you two were colleagues and there always was this formal barrier between you. But it was also a good thing, you were so mature and honest. It made him feel safe. His borders were secure. Somewhere deep inside, he was smiling.

Two evenings, they weren't even filled with anything special. So why the hell he felt as if a white-hot sting was deepening into his stomach, when in a few months he got a short message from you.

"The problem is dealt with. I'll be staying here for a little longer. Staying frosty."

You come back in almost half a year. Calm, polite, effective and professional - Ghost couldn't wish for a better squadmate. He finds himself observing you from afar. In theory, he must like, what he not even sees, but rather feels: you are at peace, you are over this. But a traitorous voice somewhere deep inside chuckles, "That easy, really? A few months to erase me, a few more - to consolidate success - and that's it?"

"It's good to be back, Lieutenant." You give his hand a firm, short shake.

"You aren't back," hisses something from the back of his mind, but Ghost only scoffs at it.

Too little too late, Riley.

That day, he finishes paperwork earlier and locks in his room. He sinks on his bed and watches evening lights slowly crawling across the ceiling. Simons' mind begins to spiral as he lays there, heartbroken over a love that never even happened.

[wordy-little-witch]

Pls im begging im on my knees what happens in crossguilds honeymoon shenanigans? - dis is pertaining to the CG wedding anser sjdjdjdjdns i love it btw the asker is so big brained and u made it even better sjdmsjxkz

OKAY so I'll divide it up between General Content and Adult Content.

General first!!!

• at first, they didn't even plan a honeymoon. It simply wasn't in the cards to then, they didn't even consider it. Then Big Mom asked, making conversation at the following party, what kind of honeymoon they had planned. They told her just an evening together in their tent, then back to work.

The men, women and enbies of the Guild swooped right in there with bright grins. "We pooled our wages together," they announce, "and booked you a trip!" It's for a weekend, just three days, and they'd be gone perhaps five at most depending on the weather and travel.

All three are trying not to cringe into the ether because they'd be leaving the island for a decent chunk of time. Who would run everything?

Their commanding officers then give them an itemized delegated list, with all the primary functions taken care of. The Guild really prepared for everything, huh?

• the honeymoon is to a resort not too terribly far for Karai Bari. The first thought is for them to just.... divide and do their own things.

Only they keep running into each other that first day. Buggy and Mihawk wind up in the library with other. Mihawk and Crocodile run into each other in the sauna. Buggy and Crocodile meet up in the casino. It's constant, and eventually it even becomes rather fun.

• then evening hits.

Adult Content below~

• Buggy's got the self awareness of a walrus on cocaine honestly, so he doesn't really think before stripping down to change into his evening wear. Crocodile and Mihawk at first ignore it until they catch sight of a pale back full of freckles and scars. Both dark haired me are suddenly fighting the urge to kiss him there, to make constellations with their touch and tongue. They look away.

• Only One Bed - Mihawk wordlessly prepares the couch for himself and Buggy makes a hammock and Crocodile is getting the bed - the first night at least.

• sleepy early mornings are so intimate and nobody discusses that enough. Buggy is the first up, hair slightly messy from the braid he slept in, curls framing his bare face. He makes coffee and starts on breakfast. Mihawk joins him not long after. Crocodile wakes to the smell of food, coffee, and murmured voices and laughter. When he inevitably wanders into the kitchen, halfasleep, he accepts a playe and mug, presses a kiss to Buggy's temple, a squeeze to Mihawk's wrist. Both clown and swordsman take a moment to process that.

• Buggy isn't exactly a contributer to Gender, so he'll wear whatever so long as he likes it. Including, it turns out, a form fitting dress in a rich green with gold accents and jewelry which shows his long leg via a high slit. He plays the part of ditzy eye candy well for Crocodile, and all seems fine - until some others begin to look at Buggy as well.

• Crocodile is possessive. And they ARE married.... so he pulls Buggy close by his hook at the other's waist and yanks the other down to one of his legs, within neck kissing range. Buggy is flustered. Crocodile is glowering. The wandering eyes ease off.

• at some point, Marines show up. The resort is neutral ground, so none of the Guild leaders make moves to react. Through a series of events, it turns out the Marines are there to apprehend the pirates and have paid off the resort owners.

There's a fight which goes.... fairly normally with Mihawk close range, sinking vessels and soldiers alike. Crocodile is lurking midrange to use his poisons and sand most effectively. Buggy has opted for more long range with his explosives and plots. The whole thing is pretty damn smooth, all considered. Until someone makes it past and grabs Buggy.

A comment is made on his outfit, a cocktail dress and blazer with matching stockings. On his decorum. On him, specifically. It's nothing he hasn't heard before, and he's already halfway through a snarky comeback along the lines of "What, angry I'm hotter than your whore at home-?" when there is a wave of pressure. Buggy blinks. The marine officer stumbles.

There is suddenly a hand on his waist, a hook around his neck, two presences flanking him. "What," the both nearly snarl, "did you say about our wife?"

• Buggy absolutely gets butterflies.

• the rest of the fight is pretty quick, Hawkeyes and Crocodile out of patience to play with their foes. Buggy isn't a slouch either, by the way, he's lobbing explosives strategically all around. Nearing the end, he herds his husband's to their ship, pushes off, and gives a theatrical count down.

• the island and nearby ships are bathed in fire. Buggy is cackling, a mess, his hair wild around a filthy, bloodied face. The dress reveals his shoulders. The torn edges reveal more of those freckles.

Something in both taller men snaps, and they converge upon Buggy with claims and lips and teeth. On the deck of their ornate ship, to the cracking ambience of fire, they have their wicked way with him, learning his body and finding unexpected but delightful facts as they go.

Crocodile could transition fully due to Iva, but Buggy is not so lucky. His top surgery was experimental, and bottom surgery was never a huge deal to him. Mihawk, luckily, enjoys all bodies and pleasures of the flesh, and he is a quick study under Crocodile's tutelage and experience with the organs he once had.

Buggy falls to pieces more than once, teary eyed and begging and so sweet for them, so cute and attractive with his grasping hands and hiccuping breaths. He is beautiful as he sinks down onto one, cradled by another and wails with the stimulation and hands and hook that break him I to pieces just to reassemble him again.

It ends with them together, indulgent and depraved, christened beneath firelight and debris and the screams of their enemies.

And none of the three had ever felt quite so seem as they did in that moment.

• back on Karai Bari, they sashay back in, mostly, as Buggy has a mild limp.

The lipstick stains and bite marks and bruises and scratches paint a clear enough picture for what happened.

"How was your trip?"

"We blew it up"

"Wha-"

"Fire. Explosives. Our beautiful chairman has quite the knack for such weapons"

"D'aww! Hawky, you'll make me blush!"

"We can make you do more than that, you little shit...~"

"Hehe~"

The poor mercenary is left rebooting.

[quitealotofsodapop]

So can we get more context on this situation for the Tang River Water au?

referencing this au.

Literally one of the first things Peng does when they get released from the Scroll is to try and kill who he thinks is Tripitaka [Tang]. Peng presses on Tang so forcefully that the stone around him cracks. Tang doesn't be looking so great afterwards either.

Only reason Tang isn't passing through Diyu after this scene is Azure mentioning that he's just the monk's reincarnation (which 100% must have tickles Peng pink since they of all people know how embarassing it must have been for Buddha's teacher's pet to fail to break the cycle of rebirth). I have seen aus where Tang does die in this scene and his Golden Cicada powers have to come in clutch to keep his soul there. (link to a really cool animatic)

But in the "Mother Child River Tang" au?

Peng immediately takes one look at this *obviously* pregnant monk and just starts screeching with laughter! You know that sound peacock's make thats like a strangled laugh? That is all Peng is doing for their first five minutes out of the Scroll.

Yellow Tusk has already given Azure a warm welcoming hug and gotten caught up on the most recent millenium by the time Peng manages to catch their breath.

Peng: "The- [peacock cry]! The monk is- [more peacock cries!] ahhhhh! I can't even be mad at him right now! It's so funny!" Tang, still a little hurt, now offended: "Rude. A pregnant man isn't that funny." Peng: "But a pregnant monk is! Looks like that vow of chasity didn't stick eh?" Azure: "Peng, they are not the monk." Peng, laughter stops: "...then who the Diyu are they??" Tang, emboldened: "I'm Tang! Reincarnation and/or decendant of the Great Monk! And this is my husband Pigsy, our son MK, and our friends." Peng, tears in eyes: "HE MARRIED THE-!" [peacock cry!] Azure & Yellow tusk: *both sigh tiredly*

On a more serious note, since Sandy was forced to push Tang out of the way of Yellow tusk's attack + Peng pinned him to the ground, the Monkey King's part of the Scroll is damaged, MK is having a mental breakdown, and if we combine this with "Slow Boiled Stone Egg" au - the Brotherhood has taken Yuebei Xing hostage? Tang is in a lot of physical and emotional distress rn.

Like... enough to trigger early labor-level of distress.

Bodhisattva Guanyin is summoned immediately to Subodhi's temple before any actual training can occur. She's (and many other buddhist deities) so preoccupied in making sure that the Golden Cicada and his baby survives that they are distracted from the threat sieging Heaven at that moment...

Pigsy has to be held back from trying to tear the Brotherhood apart himself. Zhu Bajie wasn't *just* "some demon". He used to be one of the most powerful Marshals in Heaven - commanding 80 thousand heavenly sailors/soldiers. In one mythology, Marshal Tianpeng was even a son of Doumu - the mother of constellations (making him the Queen Mother of the West's brother oddly enough).

Whos to say that Pigsy doesn't accidentally tap into the powers of that life? The whole naval power of Heaven is suddenly at Subodhi's school, waiting for the orders to turn the Brotherhood into a fine red smear on the wall. It's only Tang's own pleading that Pigsy doesn't act rashly.

The chaos does lead to an odd conciencidence occuring though...

Nezha, post-s4: "I do wonder... has the Jade Emperor broken the cycle of rebirth? If not, then that means the location of his soul could prove dangerous if left unchecked. I must contact the Underworld." *starts mediatating* MK: "What do you mean?" Nezha: "The Emperor was eons old. That amount of acculmilated divine power needs a host that can handle it. Like-" Tang & Pigsy's baby: *snorts/burps loudly* Nezha, realising: "-the child of the Golden Cicada and of the Doumu herself..." Yama, King of Hell, astral projecting: "You guys are not gonna believe where the Emperor ended up! He's in a half-demon piglet somewhere- oh there she is!" Tang & Pigsy: ( 0_0) (0_0 ) "uh oh"

[aita-blorbos]

Am I the asshole for wanting to be a sugarcane farmer?

I was a born in London, a loyal subject of the king. I was a soldier for my country, was voted into parliament, had a burgeoning career. I was asked to run a township. I, of course, accepted. And then the king assigned me here.

Really, here? Seven thousand miles from England, in the middle of the jungle with the bugs? The food is barely edible, in this colony so far away it takes a month to get a message home!

But it's three thousand acres of land so fertile you could grow almost anything off it. I figured I'd skim each harvest, and soon enough be so rich I'd leave Guiana in the dust and buy a house in Chelsea.

But noooo. No, no, I'm still here. And now these engineers are building flywheels and some ridiculous brick sphere on the waterfront, the best place I can grow my contraband, sugarcane. Ah, glorius sugarcane. A letter comes from London telling me to give them what they need. Now I'm stuck with nothing. No, your Majesty, that's not what we agreed upon!

Then in comes this celebrity and everyone adores him. Even the monarchy. He speaks a lot of nonsense—some rot about the stars, while his soft hair shines in the low light and his eyes glitter like the constellations he loves so much. Personally, I don't find it worthy of my time to listen to him. Besides, it's infuriatingly distracting the way his lips purse when he maps out the stars. And—do you know the worst part? Then he has the nerve to invite an American! Woman! to run the project. Can you believe that?

Well, I of course tried to put a stop to that. At first I tried my hand at subtlety, poisoning the clay that made their bricks with lime. I'd hoped they might leave my township if their flywheels splintered, but no luck there. Yet another American woman noticed that one. There seem to be an awful lot of them, these days. And that celebrity, well. He kept looking at them. Like he's their friend. Hmph. He never looked at me like that.

But then I realised: this was an opportunity! If there was an accident, it wouldn't reach the throne for thirty days! I'd remove the evidence, using my quick wit and myriad employees, and I'd send a report home. Something tearful, painting me as a bystander who, tragically, was the only survivor of the dreadful accident that occurred. Murder wouldn't even cross their minds!

I've done my time! I've been the upstanding subject of his Majesty, and now? Now this "sphere" of theirs will crash to the ground, into the dust where it belongs. Here? I'll be the last man standing!

And the sugarcane will finally be mine. Rows and rows of it, and soon I'll be living like a king! Well, I'm not just doing this for sugarcane. I'm also doing it... because I don't like them.

So, AITA?

[lore-of-the-mushroom-kingdom]

Goombas Are Mushrooms Part 1

While their Japanese name does mean chestnut Goombas are meant to be based on Shitake Mushrooms. They are also from the Mushroom Kingdom and are traitors to the Mushroom Kingdom.

They are referred to as Stalwart Mushroom Monsters in description for the Ground Soldier Constellation from Mario Party 9.

In the Premiere Edition Super Mario Galaxy 2 Game Guide it calls them Mushrooms as well.

In a New Super Mario Bros. Wii card they are referred to as "fungal foes."

Follow up

[ms0milk]

𝟏𝟓 | 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"Two warriors with nowhere to let their adrenaline– two Alderans melting like beeswax and forgetting not to touch. Two of you, just the two of you, breathing."

slight cw drunken antics + slurred speech. shoestring patience. you are the only sober two left and carrying your friends to bed requires teamwork. remembering how to speak and pretending not to stare even though exhaustion makes Alderan eyes prettier. the first laughs– warm and uncontrollable. a quiet realization at the foot of the bed where your bodies keep curling closer 3.9k

PREV | M.LIST | TAGLIST | NEXT

The Great Hall vibrates the entire castle tonight. The celebration is obscene. The king is home.

You do not eat in the Hall, you never do, but you stand guard– sit guard from the grand staircase outside just in case. Music rolls through the closed Hall doors up to the entryway's silver constellations. The observatory is finished. The king is home. He does not attend his own banquet tonight and so you do not worry for your company inside. How did he never occur to you? He who built the garden prison for his wife and made it so that there is nowhere to properly hide in Takoba. It’s probably because you’re Alderan that you don’t think much about kings.

If only just until you are found, you will sit on these frosty steps, obscured by their size, and watch the stars twinkle through the widow behind them. It is as tall as they are. This view must be older than this family is because someone built it with love. Because there is nothing behind this part of the castle except for glass and stars and sea.

You smile and long for your oak tree and then smile softer. The muscles in your back ache with overuse, your shoulders too. Sparring with the prince is like dancing.

“Y/n.”

Your head snaps up at the voice from where it had started to slouch with sleep and like a dream your prince is standing at the foot of the staircase. He’s in fine Alderan gold. Did he come through the Hall? How could you doze through the sound of that door opening? Bakugou cocks his head which shakes his ash hair right over his eyes and sends a long red earring to rest soft across his jaw. All you have is moonlight to see him glow.

He hesitates before speaking again, “Is this where you like to hide?”

“You’re one to talk about hiding,” you tease because you are sleepy and lacking basic judgment, and his flinch is hardly hidden, even in the absence of candlelight.

“I need your help.”

If you weren’t awake before you are now, judgment back squarely in place as you skip steps in your hurry to be beside him. Bakugou pulls the air with his temples to lead you to the Hall, boots clicking, hands stiff. Laughter and music vibrates from inside.

“Wait here,” he grumbles and pushes open the door enough to slip through, perfectly enough for the fat wave of alcohol to make you wince. The sound pushes you physically backward a step and your eyes can’t adjust fast enough to stop from squinting, but you can’t help watching even half blind and only mostly awake. It’s only been a few hours but people are standing together on tables in their beautiful frilly clothes, screaming the words to a song no one seems to know. A sea of crowds cheer them on from below, equally as drunk, and the scene stretches on from wall to wall. Line dancing between benches, liquor across the floors and a whole room of joy– Sero is linked arm in arm with two waitstaff at the back of the room, kicking their legs and laughing together at their lack of coordination.

You chuckle before you can think to be weary of so many people crammed together. Uraraka, ten feet off the ground, mimes riding a great stallion around the room with a glass of ale in her fist much to the joy of the soldiers sat below her doubled over with laughter. Shinsou’s not far off, surely to keep her from embarrassing the garrison, but his scowling hands are full of Kaminari who can’t quite stand right without the guard’s hand around his waist. You lean in a bit farther. Just a step. At the front of the room, the Todoroki siblings sit bunched at a clean table, quiet but still talking and drinking like the rest. They are delicate and beautiful and you would lament having a father like theirs if you hadn’t just caught sight of your prince at the table beside them.

He needs help– did something happen? He disappeared this afternoon after the mess in the soldiers’ quarters, is he injured? Is someone else?

Bakugou is grumpy on the best of days, tonight he is fuming. Mina is limp over his shoulder, squealing, and something’s dragging on the floor behind him. You can’t see anything beneath his hips in this crowd.

“What’re ya laughing at?” He hollers over the lively sea and catches you in a stare on his march back to the doors. Were you laughing?

Bakugou holds the stare like he’s got something to say all the way back to your side. A band somewhere under the chaos tunes their strings for another round.

“Alderans can’t hold their liquor,” he growls over the threshold, “like a fucking disease.” It’s Kirishima dragging on the floor behind him. The prince has his champion in a chokehold by the back of the collar. He leans over to drop Mina on the floor, “They’re gone. Can’t go a second without tryin to eat each other’s faces off.” Mina shrieks when she’s plopped to the floor.

He rolls his eyes when he gestures to the pile of drunkards at your feet, “I can’t carry them both upstairs.” Then runs one hand through his hair and flexes the other on his hip to assess the situation. Kirishima drools.

“Miss Mina,” you whisper and crouch in front of her, “can you hold onto me?”

She blinks one eye at a time and grins, “an’thing fr’ pretty lady.”

Kirishima is less lucky, slung across the prince’s shoulders like a training dummy. At least he’s docile. Mina giggles and reels backward every chance she gets from her spot on your back. She squeezes your waist with her thighs and the pressure keeps making you wheeze.

“Ticklish?” Bakugou grunts under the deadweight of his champion. Something catches in his throat and you struggle to keep your head on the hallway ahead instead of checking what kind of face he might be making. He is framed by stars in every window. He glows at the edges in the moonlight. You are ticklish, he knows that.

It’s the four of you trudging through the castle, getting your hair pulled at odd intervals and trying to breathe in the opposite direction of your inebriated company. Kirishima keeps stretching out of his fireman’s hold and with a crackling bark from your prince, ends up halfway down his back. He narrowly catches you when Mina tries to lean back on a staircase, your hands tight under her thighs and the front of your tunic tight in Bakugou’s fist. You would like to laugh. You’re not sure you don’t, but Bakugou doesn’t pause to revel in stupidity with you.

He stays frustrated and silent and you remember dusk bedtimes at camp. Time passed frowning on carriages. Trying as hard as he is now not to look at you. It is easy to hate him.

You might have lost your fury, but your job isn’t lost to you. You haven’t forgotten your responsibility to your kingdom. Protect her son and serve the queen and keep your place in the castle. Don’t kill the King of Takoba. Mina doesn’t weigh much and she keeps the cold away, one foot in front of the other. Bakugou’s golden hair rustles with each step beside you and his biceps, frustrated, flex around Kirishima’s legs. It’s easy, so easy, so much safer to hate him and you just can’t remember how. 

Your drowsiness vanished with adrenaline and when adrenaline vanished there wasn’t anything left in its place, it would be awfully easy for something to slip inside.

“She didn’t understand,” you murmur hardly loud enough to hear. Mina twirls your hair.

Even for all his stoicism tonight, the prince still rumbles an, “eh?” into the corridor. Maybe he rolls his eyes? Regardless, he doesn’t stop marching with his barely-conscious cargo.

You murmur again, “Shuzenji.” And he stumbles a bit. His champion is too heavy. “When I thanked her for the room.”

Something inside him shifts beside you– you can hear it, just there under his ribs– like the crumbling of a campfire. He’s looking at you now so you remind yourself not to turn and stare. You smile. It’s getting easier.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t bother.”

“For saving me.”

It’s the two of you walking side by side, failing impossibly. Trying hard not to watch one another.

“Repaying a debt.”

Blood bursts gently under the skin. And you can no longer speak without the smile, no matter how hard you try to tuck your chin into the bundle of Mina’s fingers at your collarbones.

Jeanist and your oak tree, Mitsuki at midnight, how many people can you say fill you with ease?

Bakugou is holding his breath but being here is still easy. Walking is easy. Mina is slipping a bit to the side. Standing close to him is warm, not arson. Sparring with him has made the air too thin and if you’re not careful you’ll touch him again. He’s buckling under the weight of something and you think maybe one of you needs to be tense for the other to know peace–

A clap explodes through the chill of the nighttime castle and your heart pops, a quiet overflow, at the immediate need to account for one thousand things, surroundings, threat, variables, full arms, Bakugou, a pantry staircase, the dark, and when you jolt to fix Mina back upright, she resists. Her hand is planted firmly on the meat of your prince’s ass, where she made good on a t-up to slap him as hard as you’ve ever heard anything hit. He’s frozen. You spit. There’s nothing for it.

As you sink to your knees, her palm leaves a grip in the crease of his trousers and you can barely keep her attached to you with one hand, the other muffling your laughter.

“Attaboy,” Mina groans across your shoulder.

It happens so much faster than you’d expect. But of course he must love them this much for a reason– Bakugou’s lips burst apart in a puff and one rich chuckle breaks the surface. He doesn’t hide it this time. It is flint and tinder. You turn up to him with startled eyes and his smile might be the sun; it’s hardly there and he can’t hide it, doesn’t– he can’t and he doesn’t even try. Yours hasn’t fallen and you don’t think you could force it down for anything.

“dn’t tell kiri.”

Mina’s last words come before either of you try to look away from the other, and modesty evaporates. Bakugou’s grin erupts across his face and you disintegrate fully in hysterics on the rug. He tips his head back and roars.

His laugh is a bonfire, you can hardly hope to hear it and ever calm down, you will laugh together like this until you die surely. He stumbles in his giddiness and backs against the walls to support Kirishima’s weight– Kirishima who wheezes between the chill of the marble and the body of his friend. Tears shine in four Alderan eyes. Mina growls at your jostling. Your hands are stuck firmly to the ground to keep you both from falling over but, surrendering, she lets her fingers slip limp from your neck and tips right over sideways, sprawled.

“– wait Mina, fuck, gods–”

All it takes it one fuck to have Bakugou sliding down the wall like a ragdoll, a hand trying to stitch his gut back together. He’s wheezing now too, exhausted. His ears are red. The veins in the back of his fist threaten to spill from how hard he clenches in laughter.

One second of eye contact and you’re both inconsolable again on the ground. He and Kirishima hunched against the wall, you trembling over your lost cargo, “Mina come back,” you urge through gasps and giggles. Every time you look over to Bakugou, another bout of something bubbles up from your heart. It comes out with the laughter you can’t keep down, but they aren’t the same. They can’t be. One is rich and warm, and the other burns like sugar. Like breathing fire.

A foot soldier is not thrilled to find the four of you enjoying yourselves all over her post and doesn’t appear overly excited at the prospect of corralling Alderans to bed. 

“Up,” someone grunts, so much softer than anyone you know. Prince Bakugou has steadied himself on his feet and Kirishima again on his back, and leans over where you’re trying to coax Mina’s arms over your shoulders. He tries to suppress it, but his canines poke sharp out of the corner of a grin. He looms close. Close enough to cast his shadow over you in the moonlight and waft caramel through your hair, “C’mon.”

You would have complied without an argument, if anything failed to contain a chuckle or two, but he doesn’t give you time. Bakugou loops one arm around Mina’s back and your chest and lifts both of you up in an effortless hoist. You rush to grab onto her in the seconds he lets you dangle a few good inches off the ground before setting you down again. He rolls his eyes at the Takoban guard, “Dead on my fucking feet,” and reaches for you to follow. He’s blinking at you like he didn’t just toss three full-grown Alderans around and you’re focusing hard to blink back. Your ears itch with an awful heat.

“Captain,” he looks between the guard– antsy and relieved– and you, and smirks with confusion, “let’s go.”

You hop twice to situate Mina and nod as politely to the guard as you can manage before falling in line beside your prince. Your shoulders bump in the rush. Not-looking was easier before you knew what his smile sounded like.

Mina’s room is in the guest wing, where they house drunk ball guests and foreign diplomats. It’s entirely plain. You ignore a pang of satisfaction at your new bedroom in the highest tower and knock the door open with your hip, boys close behind.

Bakugou hardly waits a second before he dumps Kirishima over his shoulder hard onto a white sofa. They both wheeze, Kirishima more of a subdued misery compared to his prince’s relief and the next sound is a creak not a breath because Bakugou’s feet are heavy on the floorboards when he walks away.

Your friends aren’t lords, but you’re still a soldier. You’ll be gentle. In the dark, you sit at the edge of Mina’s bed and lower her backward into the blankets where she lays, snoring, before you roll her onto her side. It’s pitch black with the curtains drawn, but you know from the silence the prince is long gone.

With a few pillows lined up behind Mina, you rise and make your way to the poor champion in a lump on a sofa much too small for him. You’ll need light for this. The curtains take two hands to tie back; they’re thick for winter weather but when you do, moonlight drowns the room and everyone inside begins to glow. Why are beautiful things here so cold? Your stomach aches from the laughter and you try to be thankful instead of anything else that the prince has gone to bed. This is your job after all. You can’t smell the sea with the windows closed and so it’s almost like being home, dead alone like always.

“What’re you doing?”

Your forehead cracks against the glass in surprise and you turn with both hands pressed hard to your head like you weren’t just falling asleep against the windowpane.

Bakugou raises an eyebrow behind a tall candle and shuts the door behind him. “You know you’re not actually talkin when you stare like that, right?” His grin is more sarcastic than before but no less warm. You gather yourself as the prince sets his candle in a slot beside the door and surveys his company. “Go to bed,” he clucks after a moment of thought.

He crosses the room and inspects three more fat candles melted together on a table in front of the sofa. Kirishima groans. Bakugou pinches a wick. Pink and white burst from under his fingernails and purple crackles under the light his sparks make. Red is next. Pinching, pinching, popping in the dark, until each candle has been lit by the smell of caramel.

He crosses again and lowers himself onto a pile of blankets at the foot of the bed as you watch and remember to speak, “Go.”

“I can’t leave them.” 

“They’re fine.”

“I won’t.”

After weeks of defiance, why does he choose now to smile like that? “You’re a nightmare.” 

“I can’t. If they aspirate–”

“They’ll deserve it.”

“Highness–”

“You think I can’t keep two drunk babies from dying in their sleep?” Bakugou rolls his eyes and finally scoops his chin up to look at you.

Weeks, months– years, of vitriol– and in three nights you’ve forgotten how his lips curl when he stares at something that he hates. How could you think of anything but home when he watches you with all his attention and the warmth of earthenware eyes? How does your heart hold its seams closed?

He will watch over his friends without sleep, he will suffer their boredom in a matchbox carriage so that they can see this ocean he hates so much. He will fight Takobans and diplomats and royalty to keep his party safe, he’ll sit in the kitchens and pluck your splinters instead of attending a feast in his honor and he will throw himself into the sea.

“Y/n.”

“I won’t leave you.”

His flinch would be bright enough to see on a starless night– in the blacks of shadows. You kneel beside the soft spot he’s made for himself at the foot of Mina’s bed and try to remember how easy it was to laugh with him now that the closeness makes your skin prickle at the hair. He clears his throat instead of teasing.

Two warriors with nowhere to let their adrenaline– two Alderans melting like beeswax and forgetting not to touch. Two of you, just the two of you, breathing.

His voice comes and you turn to look because you are incorrigible. His lips are the first thing that catch the light of the stars in the window beyond you. They’re crooked with attitude. He wets them when he’s thinking and they purse to the left as he speaks.

“I,” The sound is gravel underfoot, “I want..”

You hum, confused– exhausted– and he blinks once slowly, something between frustration and thought and the lull of bed, before turning to meet you. This isn’t the closest you’ve ever been. That helps you see him better. A scar you’ve never noticed catches the moonlight and shines in his hairline and you can count the sleep starting to gather in his pretty eyes.

“Yesterday– earlier I,” a shake of his head kills the thought. It’s hard to hear so you’re much too close and when your pinky presses his from how near you are leaning he turns away and frames himself again in starlight like a ruffled hen. “Earlier,” growling now, “Why unarmed?”

“Unarmed what?”

His jaw catches candlelight when he looks to you again so quickly, exasperated but seemingly entertained, “Combat, you oaf.”

“In the soldiers’ quarters?”

Where did the hatred go? There are mosquitoes you haven’t forgiven– is that what this is? Forgiveness. Sitting on your knees like a proper soldier but letting sleep take all other reason away? Pressing closer than you need to hear him because it is autumn in hell and fire radiates from his chest– a longing Alderan fire you lost somewhere in the sea.

Bakugou rolls amused eyes but nods at the question. Forgiveness isn’t right but you can’t move away, you will never be free of him. You will never want to be.

“It’s,” you start, distracted by weariness and the rhythm of Mina’s breathing– footsteps in the castle and a blue tinge on the windows edge like frost– he bumps your shoulder with his. Warmth finally bleeds into you. He watches just as close as you do because you’re both whispering hardly-awake, but his attention is firmly yours. Red flicks from your neck to an ear, and back again. From your eyes to your lips and back again.

“It’s harder to hold back with a weapon.”

He jerks back instead of spitting on you because his laughter comes faster than he can keep it down, but Kirishima groans and candles flicker and you close your eyes to eat the sound of his joy. You’re slipping. You curl towards him and rest your head on the curve of the bed as he regains the parts of himself that will help him sit up. When he faces you again he’s lost his shield and spear. The iron that clenched his jaw and furrowed his brows and slit his eyes and lace his scowl with hatred, gone. All that’s left is lionheart laughter and a fascination with your smile.

Two Alderans melting. Your legs are sliding out from under that proper kneel and his hands are slipping from the fists he tried to knot them in. Bakugou mirrors you when he rests his head on the edge of the mattress because his bonfire is burning down. Mina snores once loudly and startles herself.

“What does aspiration sound like?” Prince Bakugou Katsuki is his mother’s son smiling with a pale moon cheek smushed into the bedding that supports him. Always looking at you. Close enough to hold.

“Like someone choking on vomit.”

He laughs with everything he has left and rolls his face flat into the duvet. Everything he has left isn’t much, maybe just a candle. It’s enough that you’re smiling again in the pool of wax.

He peeks one eye out from the blanket, “Think we’re in the clear?”

He will roar, he will kill for his people and speak to strangers like ants. He will scare children and end wars and infuriate his dressmaker. He will glare. He will let his mages tease him because it makes them happy and he will watch over them when they’re too drunk to stand. He might laugh. Gods please laugh again. He will close every window and throw you a peach and he will make magic because he knows that you love it.

Suddenly it’s easy, not forgiveness, something new. You, spear and shield of the king. Something like devotion.

It’s a horrible thing to sleep on the floor and Bakugou wakes up first, facing the sunrise with your weight on his arm. You, the fierce and deadly dragon. Your cheek is pressed to his shoulder and the pressure makes you pout. Your lips tremble with breath.

He’ll watch your chest rise. He’ll let your fingers curl around his like ivy when he dares to move and he’ll close his eyes for a moment instead of thinking too hard about hunger or the pink scar that pokes out from the neck of your tunic. You will wake up slightly later than dawn, drooling, alone, blankets wrapped warmly around you.

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tagged angels ✧.* @nnubee @nonomesupposedto @kotarousproperty @strawberry-mentos69 @sveetnn @lunrai @km7474 @cathwritestragediesnotsins @idimmadontgiveashit @kooromin @k1tk4tkatsuki @litiri @kiwibao @sarcasticlittlebook @condy-wants-a-cookie @mysticalfridge @falling4fandoms @katanaski @romiinlove @cherripunch26 @acid-rain27 @bakugouswh0r3 @zukowantshishonourback @ultracrii @chandiewashere @screechingdreameater @when-you-are-just-done @levisbae2 @flyhighinthesky @1astr0id1 @thebluespacecow @mizzfizz @butterscotch-ripple-icecream @phoenix-draws77 @ltadoriyuujl @dreamingoftomorroww @optimisticprime3 @misscaller06 @the-omnipotent-phlowr @king-dynamight @sky-angel101 @rosiejacklyn

could not tag for some reason :(

[daevastanner]

P R E L U D E

This is the love story of an orphaned priestess and a heartbroken spymaster. It is not for the poets or the scribes, but rather, for the dreamers. For those who look at the stars from the bars of a cell or the stained glass of a temple, and wish.

P A R T I

“You should be with someone who’s crazy about you, Jess.”

“That’d be really nice if it was coming from someone who hadn’t just punched me in the face.”

– Nick and Jess in Elizabeth Meriwether’s “New Girl” ep. 6 s. 2, directed by Jesse Peretz

“You’re not staying?” Nesta asked.

Azriel averted his gaze, straightening his bracers. For whatever reason, answering her question felt like he was confessing a secret. “No, I promised Berdara I’d give her a private lesson in dagger handling.”

To his relief, both Nesta and Cassian were both too preoccupied with the decrepit mortal village he’d winnowed them to to notice his unease. Why admitting such an arbitrary detail felt so disconcerting was beyond Azriel. He was Gwyn’s trainer after all. Trainers met with trainees one on one to help them further their skills all the time.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” Azriel said mildly.

He didn’t linger, allowing his shadows to swathe him in darkness and winnow him away.

Between one blink and the next, the shadows dissipated and Azriel found himself in open air outside the House of Wind. He spread his wings and banked forward, allowing the wind to carry him towards the opening that led to the training ring. Swooping downward, preparing to land, he saw Gwyneth Berdara already within.

As soon as his boots made contact with the ground, Azriel snapped his wings in, jogging to a stop when he realized the priestess was leisurely twirling a blade far too long and far too heavy for her.

His brows pulled together as he started across the ring towards her.

She was smiling at him, blissfully unaware that she was one wrong movement from seriously injuring herself.

Closing the distance between them, Azriel held out his palm, “Give me that.”

At the flat tone in his voice, Gwyn surrendered the dagger with a bemused expression. “My apologies, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel sent the weapon floating back to the weapon’s rack on a tendril of shadow, then reached into the bin of wooden sparring daggers, removing two. He handed one to Gwyn with a serious look. “Not only was that entirely the wrong size, but you could’ve put out your eye.”

Just saying the words gave him heart palpitations. Gwyneth Berdara had been through enough without carelessly blinding herself, or gods forbid, giving herself a nasty scar.

Gwyn’s expression was playfully grave. “Well, thank you for saving my best feature. I’d hate to lose it.”

While Azriel agreed that Gwyn’s eyes were certainly beautiful, he didn’t believe them to be her best feature. Her best feature, in his opinion at least, were her freckles. They dotted her skin like constellations in the night sky, reminding him vaguely of the stars he used to glimpse between the bars of his cell. They’d always given him hope during the dark days of his childhood. Much like Gwyneth Berdara. Because if Azriel had ruthlessly slaughtered four of Hybern’s soldiers and it had saved the life of someone so good, maybe there was hope for his soul after all.

Read the rest on ao3

@almosttenaciousmoon @vikingmagic33 @mystical-blaise @hlizr50 @headcanonheadcase @beaumaismortel

[multi-lefaiye]

sunbringer's song preview: elsewhere

hi i wanted to share a preview for sunbringer's song. teehee.

this is a bit from the end of the prologue--very light on actual spoilers for the game, but hints heavily at things to come. this also highlights three characters that aren't eden, but who will be important to varying degrees to the ongoing storyline.

tagging (tentative sunbringer's song taglist form?? idk just tagging people i think would wanna read this rn): @skitzo-kero @anexor @chaieyestea @vacantgodling @chaieyestea

@paradoxspir1t @moonflowerrss @invaderskoodge @albatris @void-botanist

--

Elsewhere, the nightwarden stands in her watchtower, her eyes scanning the map before her for the hundredth time.

Below her, the sound of her soldiers celebrating echoes through the still evening air, slurring vulgar drinking songs and banging on their drums.

It’s grating, their incessant hedonism, but by now, she’s able to tune them out. They may be disgusting and foolish, far beneath a warrior of her standing, but she can tolerate them as long as they remain useful, as long as they remain loyal. The nightwarden doesn’t need enlightened minds, only willing bodies.

In the coming days, the goblin horde she commands will march again, conquering thousands more in Her name. Until then, let them revel in their filth.

The nightwarden is brought out of her musings by a loud, booming thunderclap, and she startles briefly as she looks up at the sky. Rather than a storm, however, she sees a ball of fire plummeting towards the ground. She watches as it passes overhead, narrowing her eyes as she listens to the roaring fire and screams above. Something about the shape is familiar… Almost as if-

Just as soon as her mind begins to wander, she comes back to herself, wrenching her gaze from the sky and down to her map. A heartbeat passes, and she realizes that she’s gripping the parchment tightly enough to tear. She loosens her grip, ever so slightly, and lets out a quiet breath.

She has work to do.

-

Elsewhere still, a pale tiefling stands on a rocky ridge, peering through a telescope and jotting notes in her journal. She has a tiny, relaxed smile on her face, idly sketching the constellations above her. Her mother was right, loath as she is to admit it--they are far, far more beautiful in person than in a textbook.

At the thought of her mother, her hand stills, pencil still pressed to the page. She takes a breath, her shoulders slumping, and shakes her head.

No need to dwell on the past.

A sudden thunderclap catches her attention, and she turns her head towards the east, dark eyes widening and her mouth falling slightly open. Just over the horizon, she sees a ball of fire manifest and tumble through the sky, bigger than any comet she’s ever seen. Her little smile grows into a full-fledged grin, and she nearly breaks the lead on her pencil as she continues her sketching.

As she traces the meteor’s trajectory and mentally calculates its landing site, the breeze picks up, ruffling her blue nightshirt and long, silver hair. A distant smell wafts past her nose, nearly imperceptible were it not for the way it burns her skin. Sulfur.

Abruptly, the tiefling’s smile falls, and her drawing hand freezes. It takes her a long moment to start moving again, turning to pack away her journal and telescope for the night. Her hands shake, near imperceptibly, as she does.

That’s enough for one night, she thinks.

--

And yet elsewhere still, a githyanki knight lands his dragon atop a snowy mountainside. The creature has only just touched the ground when its rider is dismounting, cursing through shuddering breaths as he puts a hand to his side. Even with his armor and years of training his body, he wasn’t able to escape the battle unscathed, left with a sluggishly bleeding gash just under his ribs.

It’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. Hells, he’s had far worse injuries before--his instructor had been unforgiving, unyielding, uncaring for those who were anything less than perfect warriors. But today’s failure is just added salt in the wound. He’d been so close, and yet once again the comet had slipped through his grasp.

If the knight were a less determined man, less devoted to his cause, he would have gone mad long ago. As it stands, however, he knows he must persist.

He lets out a long, slow breath and clenches his fist, willing himself to push through the pain. Behind him, the dragon lets out a quiet huff, and he turns his attention to the creature. The dragon’s golden eyes shine in the night, watching him with a solemn understanding. Despite himself, the knight smiles as he lifts a hand and places it on the dragon’s muzzle, the beast leaning into his touch with a gravelly purr.

They both know they have more work to do come morning. There is no time to waste. The knight squares his shoulders, and he sees the dragon mirror his posture.

“Once more, my friend,” he murmurs. “We must return to the search.” The dragon clicks its tongue in agreement. They can only rest when their work is done, even if that day never comes.

[inovantyyy]

“everything.” ✧ chilumi oneshot

Lumine crushed mint with her coarse, scarred fingers before throwing them into the pot. Paimon snoring and Childe poking fun at her cooking was the gods' choice for tonight's background noise.

“You’re the one who needs my help for your quest,” She scoffed, throwing a pebble at him. “I could easily leave you, a hydro user, to die in Dragonspine."

Childe shot her a taunting smirk. “You wouldn’t. You love my company.” He winked at her, which only warranted another pebble to his head.

“Quite frankly, I hate your guts.” Lumine insisted though, not even she could believe her own words anymore. Not after she saw how Childe was with Teucer and how dearly he cared for him. Not after his words of wisdom and kindness expressed in between spars and quests. Not after the late-night talks, the letters and his surprising earnestness.

No, she no longer despised the man who once schemed to drown Liyue, as insane as that sounded.

It seemed that she was staring at him a little past too long as he waggled his eyebrows at her. “See something you like?”

Lunine rolled her eyes and pushed his face away. “Yeah. Chives stuck between your teeth.”

“You really are a cruel one, girlie.” He chuckled and looked away to fix up his mouth.

“And you still elude me, Tartaglia.” A smile threatened to grace the corner of her lips.

Lumine didn’t miss how he instinctively scooted closer to her on the snowy grass. “What can I say? I’m complicated.”

“…that you are,” she slowly admitted and agreed. “But you’re not quite the bad guy you sell yourself as. Not anymore, I think.”

Childe's eyes widened and the lines on his face softened. He was a person who confirmed Lumine’s theory that happiness found a home in not just a smile.

“Careful, traveller. Its starting to sound like you don’t hate me at all.”

It was in Childe’s second nature to disengage, charm and needle his way out of an important conversation. It was most likely why he was a valued member of the Fatui; he was as good of a soldier as he was a politician.

"Well,” Lumine began taking off the chicken-mushroom skewers from the fire. “Entertain this hypothetical of mine. One where we put aside how you’re a Fatui Harbinger, occasionally throw whales at me and the fact that you’re an absolute idiot—” she playfully poked him in the arm with her skewer as he pretended to fall over with a laugh. “Let’s say I…tolerate your existence in my Teyvat adventures.”

The laughter died down and he smiled up at her from the ground. “That’s a lot of words for saying that you want to kiss me, but go on.”

Lumine caught sight of him gingerly fiddling with his fingers as their talk ventured into a a personal, vulnerable territory, his movements betraying his attitude. She lay next to him and turned to her side.

"...what could the Tsaritsa offer someone like you?" she asked, her amber gaze trying to find the spark in his.

The crackling of the fire casually filled in the silence as Childe lay perfectly still. Lumine was no stranger to pain. It seemed to follow and plague Teyvat, from powerful archons to the most ordinary of civilians. Sometimes she would wake up to her own reflection carrying the ugly burden.

And Childe? He was the apotheosis of suffering.

"How much does your brother mean to you?" he asked suddenly, turning to look at her.

Lumine blinked, affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Tell me.”

Lumine looked at the stars above. They sparkled and shone like the crystal cores at Stormterror’s Lair. She could make out the constellations she and Aether used to travel between if she held out her finger and traced their path.

She could vaguely remember which cluster of stars they raced past, which ones Aether clumsily nearly ran into. All the skies they voyaged together as the only family they had left.

The longer she held her stare, the more she realised that she was trying to blink back the tears that pricked at her eyelashes.

"Everything.”

"Exactly.”

[6thofapril1917]

hey tal , hope you're doing well !

for the prompt list may i request #72 for sarie+johnny ?

72. “I will knock you on your ass if you even think about it.”

prompt list

Takes place some time in 1943, before the SAS goes to Europe. Established Sarie/Johnny! Alternate title: Their Love Language is Annoying The Fuck Out Of Each Other

Sarie’s back felt like it was on fire.

Despite her light skin, she hadn’t been sunburned since she was a toddler. It was as if her skin cells managed to catch up to the fact that she was living in the Karoo, not Europe, and decided to stop getting damaged by the sun out of sheer determination. She hadn’t walked away from a childhood under the sun completely unscathed—the constellations of freckles sprayed across her face and body were a testament to that. Still, back home, she’d thought herself safe from the worst of the sun’s wrath.

Now, she was learning the hard way that the sun in South Africa and the sun in the Sahara were two very different beasts.

She was lying flat on her stomach in the long shade of the fortress walls, stripped down to her undershirt and trunks as the men around her—men she thought were her friends, damn it—taunted her in her misery. 

“The invincible Sarie Meyer, laid low by a sunburn,” Riley called out, as if he were announcing a new performer at a particularly boring freak show. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Scientists had thought it impossible,” Jordan deadpanned, peering at her over his book. “I’ll have to let my colleagues at the Sorbonne know of this shocking new development.”

“A revelation for the ages,” Mike added, passing Sarie a fresh canteen of water. She took it with a grunt of thanks, wincing as the reddened skin on her back pulled.

“You’re all terrible,” Sarie grumbled. “Completely bloody terrible.”

“Who are we calling terrible?” a new voice asked. Sarie glanced up to see Johnny and Reg strolling back into the fortress, rifles slung over their soldiers. Johnny raised his eyebrows when he caught sight of Sarie sprawled out on the ground. “Sarie, what the hell are you doing?”

“You’re woman’s been wounded, Cooper,” Mike drawled. “It seems she’s found the one target she can’t hit—the sun.”

“Count your fucking days, Sadler,” Sarie hissed under her breath. The men’s taunts were bad enough. Johnny was going to be fucking insufferable.

“A sunburn, eh?” Johnny asked, and Sarie could practically hear him struggling not to laugh. “That’s odd. I seem to remember a certain someone making the bold claim that ‘sunburns are for the English.’

“What was it you said to me the last time I was burnt?” he continued. “‘You soutie bastards think you’re the kings of the world, and you can’t even handle a bit of sun!’” Johnny recited.

“Is that meant to be a South African accent?” Sarie asked, laughing in spite of herself. “You sound like an Aussie who’s had one too many drinks.”

“I think it sounds impeccable, thank you very much,” Johnny shot back, feigning offense. He dropped his rifle to the ground and plopped down next to where Sarie was sprawled on the dusty cloth mat. He eyed the sunburn painting her shoulders and upper back with a grimace.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “How on earth did this happen?”

“How do you think, genius?” Sarie grumbled. “Went out on my bike. Stayed out too long, I suppose.”

Johnny only hummed in response. She could feel his eyes assessing the damage to her back the same way he assessed a target. She could feel his hand tracing the damaged skin lightly with his fingertips. It was almost hypnotic, and Sarie’s eyelids began to droop which each pass of his hand over her skin.

He was quiet. Too quiet. Then, he chuckled, and suddenly, his fingers were gone. 

Oh, this bloody arsehole.

In a flash, and despite the protests of her aching flesh, Sarie rolled onto her back and grabbed ahold of his wrist, wrenched back in preparation to strike.

“I will knock you on your arse if you even think about it,” she spat.

Johnny batted his eyelashes. “Think about what?” he asked with a smirk.

Sarie scoffed, gesturing to where his wrist was still held firm in her grasp. “Do you need me to spell it out for you, or what?”

“No, I wouldn’t dare of making you do any work,” Johnny said, though he made no move to wrest his hand from her grasp. “Not in your fragile condition.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Sarie muttered, releasing his wrist and swatting him on the cheek before turning back to lay on her front.

“Will do,” Johnny responded, nipping at her palm before she could pull her hand away.

Neither of them moved. Soon enough, Sarie could feel his fingers tracing patterns on her back once more.