#i am screaming wordlessly into the void

[rosieofcorona]

my most valuable coworkers are the two pillows that live in my home office. one for screaming into and one for lying on the floor to dissociate

[em1e]

hunted | 1 k

╰ everything's going wrong it seems. ⚠︎ threats, i am a kisaki hater through and through, the girls are FIGHINTG, short part my b ♡ series m.list

“don’t look so disappointed at it bein’ me.” another giggle passes hanma’s lips, reaching out for you before you can step away. 

he pulls you towards him with the grip on your wrist, twisting you around until your back is pressed to his chest with his hand readjusting to your waist to keep you in place, his other hand coming to your mouth to prevent any sounds from escaping. 

“s’a shame,” he comments, “i wanted to be the one to kill that bastard. seems my king may have the honor of doing it on his own.” 

he leans down despite your struggling against him, breath fanning against your ear, “or perhaps he will be at your king's mercy.” 

your screams don’t make it past the flesh of his hand, and your flailing does little to stop him from lifting you from the ground, walking with you until the treelines thin and you can see a clearing from the trails. you can make out a chariot just at the edge of where the trees break and a guard nods at hanma as he pulls open the door, allowing your captor to easily push you inside and slam it shut while you recover from being tossed in. 

you scramble against the floor, beating on the door, “hanma, let me out now.” you demand, rattling against it like a caged animal. 

“it’d be wise to keep your whining to a minimum.” he tuts, eyeing you through the small barred window of the door, “i’m afraid my king doesn’t fare well with defiance.” 

his eyes flit behind you, and you have enough sense to follow his gaze. 

“did you miss me, princess?” kisaki smirks. you think hanma giggles from outside, “here’s how this is going to work-”

you feel incredibly vulnerable from your spot on the carriage’s floor, back pressing into the door to keep as much distance between the two of you as possible. still, he leans down, letting his face hover only inches from your own as he pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, “and you can either be a good queen for me, or i will have your brother and knight murdered and you will be left with no one.” 

༝

baji could’ve expected many things, coming out from the woods with an armful of sticks and branches. 

he could picture you, laying on the ground with one of the few blankets they have under you, fast asleep with his coat he’d offered many nights before draped over your shoulders. he could picture chifuyu tending the fire, snacking on some of the provisions he’d snuck from your pack after you’d passed out, sending baji a look of challenge as if he’d dare to wake you to snitch, or even offer the bit of jerky left to the knight as a sign of peace. 

baji doesn’t, however, expect to see the small camp they’d made void of you. 

chifuyu is, as he expected, rummaging through one of your many packs, trying to find what one has the food, and he quickly tosses it aside with his hands behind his back when he realizes he isn't alone. 

“where’s (y/n)?” baji asks at the same time chifuyu asks, “where’s the princess?”

both men stare at each other for all of ten seconds, expressions mirrored in their own confusion, before chifuyu’s drops and he darts in the direction you’d left in. 

baji’s hesitation only lasts a second before he’s dropping the wood and following after the mercenary, steps coming to a halt as chifuyu freezes at the edge of the woods. 

“the hell is going on?” baji clenches his teeth, shoving at chifuyu’s shoulder. 

chifuyu offers no answer, his own jaw clamped shut as he wordlessly nods to a carriage that slowly departs along the trail. if he squints, baji can make out the embroidered print of the valhalla kingdom on the flag of the carriage. 

“where’s (y/n)?” baji asks again, fists balled. his nails bite into the skin of his palm when chifuyu doesn’t reply, until he’s grabbing the mercenary by the front of his tunic and pulling him towards him, “where the fuck are they?” he repeats.

it only takes chifuyu a second to pry baji’s fingers from his shirt, pushing him back by the shoulder while glowering, “i think you know as well as i do where they are.” 

then he turns on his heel and heads back towards their camp, baji hot on his tail, “we have to go after them. if we don’t, they’ll be forced to wed kisaki and-” 

chifuyu’s stride is unbroken as he interrupts baji, “i was hired to ensure they arrive safely, and since it seems that has been compromised, i am to return to my kingdom for further instruction.” 

“and what of the princess?,” baji probes, “they would still be at the camp, had you been doing what you were paid for-” 

chifuyu stops at that, quick to turn on his heel with a glare, “they left in search of you. had you not ignored them for the past day’s travels, perhaps they’d be in your arms now.” 

baji’s mouth opens to argue, brows furrowed and words sharp on his tongue, only to be interrupted by a slow clap coming from the woods to his right. 

“impressive, really, to see the two of you fall apart at the seams.” hanma giggles, hands clasping together when their full attention is on him, “and for someone who wasn’t either of yours to begin with; it’s almost sweet.” 

both men take defensive poses, eyes narrowing, “it must hurt knowing you’ve failed. ‘m sure of it.” hanma continues, circling around them like a predator scoping out its prey. 

“where have you taken them?” baji demands. hanma clicks his tongue, head tilting. 

“i’d worry about my own skin at the moment - surely the two of you are smart enough to not pick a fight barehanded?” he wonders aloud, hands gesturing out to his sides. as if on queue, four more guards flank either side of him; two holding the reins of their horses while the remaining two hold their bags and materials. 

the pair share a look. hanma lets out another giggle, chin tilting down, “i’d come quietly, if you want to make things easier for your dear princess.”

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Impossibility

It came in the afternoon, when I was alone and resting on the sofa. The air was completely silent, save for it.

The knocks on the door were rhythmic, itching my brain like a nigh-forgotten song. They were soft, like whispers, only noticeable from the utter lack of other sounds. They were weird, unnerving, like something had reached across the boundary between worlds to reach me. 

I stealthily got up from my chair, peeking through the peephole. Nobody there. Unsurprising, really. The logical part of me insisted it was a practical joke, and I listened. The alternative, the idea that this was a call from across the veil, was inconceivable.

No, it was very conceivable. It was, however, utterly unbelievable. I'd spent my whole life, all seventeen years of it, waiting for a call to adventure. I'd yearned to see something utterly extraordinary, to step through a doorway and end up in another world, for someone to drop from the sky and tell me I was the chosen one. I'd hoped and prayed, and when nothing came, I'd accepted my fate. I was too old to go hunting for fairies, too mature to hope to step through the closet to Narnia, too rational to believe in magic.

And yet here I was, heart thumping, hoping against hope that I was wrong, that I would open the door and something ethereal would be standing on the opposite side of the door. I stepped away from the door, not wanting to break my heart again.

Then it came. More knocking, steady and paced. What the hell? I had to know, I really did.

So I opened the door. And lo and behold, there really was someone on the other side, despite what the peephole showed. A man, his face unwrinkled save for deep crow's nests around his eyes, stood on the other side, wearing a peculiar grin.

He watched me with bright, overly curious yellow eyes. His hair was snow white, falling to his shoulders in waves, and he wore a red leather vest decorated with strange symbols. There was something unnatural about him—something unsettling, mixed in with the ruggedness. A tingle ran up my spine as I looked at him. My call had come, it appeared, two years too late. “Hello, Amber,” he said.

I nodded. “Hello,” I replied cautiously. Stranger danger, the rational bit of me insisted, desperately spinning to rationalise the ridiculous circumstances that led to this. “Who might you be?” And how did he know my name, for that matter?

He tittered at that, a polite laugh that belonged more on a feudal lady than a man like him. “I have many names, but you might call me Hama. Hama of a Thousand Suns,” he told me. “I am a traveller, and I need your help. Well, I suppose it would be more accurate to say a universe needs your help.”

My heart skipped a beat. My call! My precious, glorious call! It was time to go on an adventure, to journey the worlds and- No, that was ridiculous, I told myself sternly. He was a conman at best and a psycho at worst. I slammed the door shut on him wordlessly, praying the great noise would drown out the screaming of my inner child.

My call, I thought mournfully. My call that I'd known would never come. My call that I turned my back on. Numbly, I walked back to my sofa. It wouldn't do to talk to strange men who showed up randomly at my house and tried to get me to save the world. Even if I desperately wanted to save the world.

“Why don't you, then? Think about it, Amber. What have you got to lose?” I looked up. Hama leaned against my cabinet, the one I used to keep all my little curiosities. He toyed with an oddly shaped marble. “Isn't this what you've been searching for all your life? The one thing that will fill the void in your heart?”

I closed my eyes. My desperately searching logic caught an excuse. Hallucinations. I was hallucinating. It was sleep deprivation, or schizophrenia, or… Carbon monoxide! I needed to check the carbon monoxide detectors. 

Hama sighed. “So you'll ignore me, then,” he murmured. He caught my arm, placing the marble in my open palm. “Look at me, Amber. Do I look unreal to you? There are people out there who need your help- Will you aid them?”

I couldn't help myself. I started crying like a psychotic little child. “Stop it,” I whispered. “This is a dream. I'll wake up and know it was never real, and I'll spend the rest of my life wishing it was.”

“Who cares what's real or not? In the end, the emotions are all the same. I ask you this simple question: Do you want to go on an adventure?” Hama's striking eyes met my blurry, tear-filled ones. 

“Yes,” I said. What else could I say? His lips curled into a grin.

“You're the one then,” he crowed. “At last, I've found a pawn! Take that, Lady of the Night!”

And then I woke up. Instantly, I felt a scream well up. I clenched it down, biting my lips until I tasted the explosion of copper.

Again. I kept having that dream. Over and over and over. My brain loved dangling that impossibility in front of me, so enticingly close and yet so impossibly far away. It would never happen, I knew.

Yet- My fingers were wrapped around that deformed marble.

[merrycrisis-if]

my live reaction to chapter 4 Qiu's route was so completely unhinged, the amount of times i would switch between staring into the void willing myself not to cry and wordlessly screaming and cursing at my screen was insane

i love how the first and last ''serious'' kiss between Qiu and MC had almost the same 'The kiss is hungry, and raw, and more honest than…' part

the goodbye scene broke me so bad even though i chose the kiss option i was internalizing the fuck you option

another of my favorite parts is when we could yell back at Qiu's mom in Mandarin, like making sure she completely knows and understands (small bug report in this scene Qiu's mom refers to m!Qiu as her daughter)

(also since a couple of us here seem to be fans of Taylor Swift x Merry Crisis i would to recommend 'the 1' and ''tis the damn season' for more vibes)

HAHAH hope you're no longer staring into the void by now, but I'm so glad you enjoyed the update.

i love how the first and last ''serious'' kiss between Qiu and MC had almost the same 'The kiss is hungry, and raw, and more honest than…' part

Oh no this sounds like a mistake more than anything hahaha. Did I repeat my lines? 😮🫣����‍♀️

even though i chose the kiss option i was internalizing the fuck you option

Lol I think the "love-hate" feeling is very valid with Qiu. Like, "I hate that I'm letting myself do this with you all over again" is definitely a vibe I wanted to allow readers to feel all through the reunion.

Ah, I love that you enjoyed that little option to yell at Qiu's mom in Mandarin! A thing that I personally am proud of is that you can only pick that option if you said you were semi-decent at Mandarin earlier.

Ooh, great song recs. Taylor Swift is definitely a whole merry crisis mood.

P.S. I think I fixed the m!MC "daughter" mention, but let me know if it's still problematic.

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

i have fiished good omens season 2. i am not an emotional wreck. this is because season 2 only had 5 and a half episodes and everyone is happy. the end. there was no period where i was just wordlessly screaming into the void/at the screen with my eyes just um running and i did not curl up into a ball and sob without control at all ever everything is fine i am fine everything turned out fuCKING FINE

[the-delta-42]

A Sight to Behold

A sight to behold

Marinette frowned, her nose tickled. She took a breath in, before she suddenly rocked forwards and sneezed. In a blink of an eye, Marinette rocked forwards and hit her head on the table. She reared back and clamped her hand over her mouth. And in the confusion, something popped out of Marinette’s head and rolled onto the floor.

“Shit!” Yelled Marinette, her hand covering her left eye socket, as she took off after the glass eye. Mylene and Kim fainted as the saw Marinette’s eye roll away from her, Ms. Bustier sighed and lifted her feet off the floor and the rest of the class just continued like nothing had happened.

Marinette grinned triumphantly as she caught up with her eye, only to frown in disgust at the amount of dust and dirt on it, “Ew, Alya, can I borrow your water bottle?”

Alya grabbed the bottle and held it close, “You are not using my drinking water to clean your eye.”

“You didn’t put up such a fuss when I used your toothbrush.” Object Marinette, forgetting that Alya didn’t know that she’d used her toothbrush, “Besides, you haven’t noticed before.”

Alya stared at Marinette in horror, “Girl, who raised you?”

“My parents, now can I please have the bottle?” Responded Marinette, lowering her hand from her empty eye socket.

Mylene and Kim had just regained consciousness, Mylene looked like she wanted to throw up, while Kim fainted again.

“How long has Marinette been missing her eye?” Asked Lila, making everyone look at her.

“She lost it in an accident a few years ago.” Said Max, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“How?”

“A test tube exploded, and Marinette wasn’t wearing goggles.”

Adrien frowned, “But, wearing goggles is the first rule with a science experiments.”

“Marinette’s one to look at rules as suggestions rather than rules.” Sighed Nino, pushing his water bottle towards Marinette.

Marinette grinned and dropped the eye into the water, the prosthetic bobbing as she shook the bottle.

ASTB

Lila shuddered as she held the glass ball in her hand. She quickly passed it onto Ivan, who threw it at Alix. Alix then passed it to Nino, who dropped it down the back of Adrien’s shirt. Adrien jumped up and shook himself vigorously until the eye dropped to the floor.

Marinette was sitting in front of Nathaniel, the artist drawing her empty eye sockets, while Alya held a light pointed towards Marinette’s face.

“Nathaniel, why did you want to draw Marinette’s void again?” Asked Alya, getting an insulted look from Marinette.

“There’s a monster that’s got empty eye sockets and I want it to look as accurate as possible.” Said Nathaniel, before shining a light into the hole.

“…you mean you’re basing one of your monsters off my being a mono-visioned individual?” Asked Marinette.

Nathaniel froze, before nervously looking around for help.

None came.

“Sorry,” mumbled Nathaniel, “I’ll get rid of it.”

“No,” Protested Marinette, “I want you to call it Cyclops.”

Everyone stared at her.

“Girl, you’re a freak.”

ASTB

Ladybug grimaced, before sneezing with enough force to send one of her eyes rolling along the ground.

“Merde!” Yelled Ladybug, chasing after her eye.

The Akuma and Chat Noir stared at Ladybug as she chased after her eye, before it fell into the Seine. Ladybug stared, open mouthed, at the point her eye fell into the river.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!” Screamed Ladybug, “HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO AFFORD A NEW EYE?!”

“Since when have you been missing an eye?” Asked the Akuma, getting a death glare from Ladybug.

“That’s not the point, the point is I NEED A NEW EYE!” Screamed Ladybug, Chat wordlessly search the storage compartment of his baton, before silently removing a green eye-sized rubber ball.

Ladybug looked at the offered ball, “Seriously?”

“It’s all I have.”

Ladybug sighed, but took the ball and shoved it into her eye socket. She then grabbed the Akuma and threw them into the Seine, “And don’t even think about coming back until you have my eye!”

ASTB

Marinette sighed through her teeth, she was getting measured for a project Max was doing. The sensation of someone poking around inside her empty eye socket was not pleasant.

“Okay, Kim, I think we’re ready.” Said Max, making Marinette frown, before something hard hit her on the back of the head. The world went black for Marinette, leaving Max, Kim and Alix standing over her.

“I still think this is a bad idea.” Said Alix, as Max started sterilising his hands and tools, “How do you even know what to do, anyway?”

“My father’s a surgeon and I watched several video tutorials.” Said Max, “But, to be fair, they were taking an eye out not in.”

Alix stared at Max, before leaving the room. Max heard a strange heaving sound, before Alix came back in.

“Okay, boy genius, disgust me.”

ASTB

Marinette groaned, rubbing her head and wincing at the lump she’d gained. She opened her right eye and glared around, spotting Max. She opened her left eye and spotted Alix in her peripheral. Marinette froze, before closing her right eye and looking around with her left.

“What the fuck?”

“So, it works?”

“Why am I always the guinea pig?”

“Because I have your signed consent.”

“How did you even come up with this?”

“Got bored.”

“What else do you have planned?”

“An arm, a leg, a lower jaw, a thing that’ll help paraplegics walk and a penis.”

Marinette stared at Max, before glancing around and spotting Kim, “Did his get shot off or something?”

“No.” Max was silent for a second, before saying, “Jalil’s was.”

Marinette had to stifle her giggles, as Alix quietly led her out of the room.

ASTB

Marinette looked at her reflection, the prototype eye glowed a light blue, which kinda freaked her out. Marinette turned the bathroom light off and stared at the glowing dot in the mirror, before she turned the light back on.

“Freaky.” Muttered Marinette, before reaching for a bottle of mouthwash. The eye didn’t taste good.

[unhingedandhindered]

A Little Now, A Little Later.

I got tired of yelling into the void. I got tired of yelling, screaming, pleading wordlessly into the void. I figured, eventually if you want to have any change, if you want to grow or move on or do anything other than stagnate and rot, you’d have to put all those feelings- all those festering, nagging emotions into words. Figure your shit out. How are you supposed to change anything when you never know what the fuck is going on. So here I am. This is my new void, and these…these are my words. I’ve lived the better part of my life battling addiction. When I say battling, I mean rolling onto my back like a submissive dog and letting any pill, bottle, or smoke I could find rub my belly until I mewled in contentment. But contentment doesn’t last does it? You wake up the next morning and you’re back to bleeding in a bathroom, or stitching up the wounds from prior. Because it doesn’t actually make anything better, does it? It feels like it does, For a while, and hell, pills are fine until you try and quit, but they’re hard to get and expensive so eventually you trade in tidy white lines for skull emblazoned shot glasses. Good things don’t last though, You’ll never be that first year of giggling when you piss. Dancing with your friend turns to sobbing on the floor, and no matter how much “better” you get, you always circle back to the same place. Twenty drinks in with no sense of time or space, rambling to people who wished you’d sod off. Can you play it off? Sure. The hangxiety only lasts two or three days, and when most of your friends are online only…pretty easy to hide the evidence of your absolute failings. Until you’re not that drunk. You’re not that drunk and someone you’d considered a friend for the better part of 15 years tells you that you belong in a hospital because you’ve been “unhinged lately”. And I guess that’s where I am now. Rubbed raw and out of options. So here I am, getting sober. Or trying to. Although the proverbial boat housing that friendship has probably sailed (along with so many more others, you really wonder how I have anyone left at all.) I am trying to make that stand, make that change, before I lose anything closer to home. Before I lose my home. Before I lose what’s left of myself.

[calpalirwin]

The Falcon and the Newlyweds

Summary: After Steve travels back in time to reunite you and Bucky, he retires as Captain America, but you’re just getting started. (aka exactly like TFATWS but better?)

A/N: All credits to original owners/writers of TFATWS series. Added details/characters and minor storyline changes are of my own imagination. 

Word Count: 6.2k

And away, and away we go!

__

Episode 5

When Sam suggested the three of you go find John, you shook your head vehemently. “No. No, I don’t want to,” you whispered.

“Doll, we’re afraid we’re gonna hurt him, too,” Bucky admitted.

You still continued to shake your head. “I-I’m not worried about us… I-”

“Oh…” Bucky said in sad realization. “Oh, doll. You don’t have to be afraid of him. He lost control, and I think even he knows that. He’s still the idiot we hate. And yeah, by the looks of it he managed to snag a vial of the serum, which makes him like me now.” Bucky shuddered at the thought. “But someone needs to find him.”

“I don’t want to…”

“That’s okay. Sam and I can go. We can take you back to the apartment, and then Sam and I can go.”

“No. Bucky you can’t go.”

“I’m not letting Sam go by himself.”

You looked over at Sam, who was standing there with his hands in his pockets. “Look, Y/N. I know you saw an ugly side to John. I get that fear. Okay? I do. Buck used to scare me the way John just scared you. But Buck’s right. Someone has to find him, and it’s better if we do it. And look, throughout all of this, have Buck and I ever let you get close to getting hurt?”

“No…”

“Exactly. And if it makes you feel better, Buck and I will do the talking. Just come with us so we know you’re not alone. Please?”

“Okay,” you finally nodded. “But please don’t fight him if you don’t have to.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that, much less agree with it,” Bucky tried to joke. “Sam, you still got Sharon tracking him?”

“Yeah, c’mon.”

~~~

Sam led the way to a building that was closed off for construction, easily locating John inside. “Walker,” Sam started.

“You guys should see a medic,” John interrupted. “You don’t look so good.” Long gone was the high and mighty tone he usually addressed you all with. His tone was also void of any attitude or malice. It was chilling to see him looking and sounding so void.

“Stop, Walker,” Sam started again, as John started to walk past you all.

“What?” he scoffed, the attitude and raised voice coming out. ���You saw what happened. You know what I had to do. I killed him because I had to! He killed Lemar!”

“He didn’t kill Lemar, John,” Bucky said simply, keeping his own tone calm to not anger the other man, and cause another outburst of rage. “Don’t go down that road. Believe me, it doesn’t end well.” Sage advice from one previously unhinged super soldier to a currently unhinged one.

“I’m not like you,” John insisted.

Bucky gave a sad shake of his head, and you gripped his hand in yours reassuringly. If John didn’t want to listen to someone who’d been where’d he’d been, and under much worse conditions, that was on John, not Bucky.

“Listen,” Sam stepped in. “It was the heat of the battle, okay? If you explain what happened, they may consider your record. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt. John, you gotta give me the shield, man.”

Slow realization swept across John’s face. “Oh… so that’s what this is. You almost got me. I should’ve known when she didn’t have any smartmouthed remarks for me.” His gaze swept over you, chillingly so.

“Mistakes happen,” you said, your voice quiet. “Let them help you so this doesn’t get worse.”

“You don’t wanna do this,” John said, his attention back on Bucky and Sam.

“Yeah, we do,” Bucky responded.

There was a momentary pause as Bucky and Sam looked at each other, and nodded. In a swift movement, Bucky guided you backwards with his arm, then advanced on John with Sam.

Two against one, you watched as Bucky and Sam tried to outfight John, punches and kicks flying in every direction, vibranium fist colliding with vibranium shield. You pressed yourself against a wall, making yourself as small as possible, heart hammering in your chest as you watched the scene unfold.

Any fear you had turned to blood boiling rage when John chucked the shield, nailing Bucky in the chest as sending him crashing backwards as John advanced, Sam lying on the floor from a hit he’d taken.

“Why are you making me do this?!” you heard John scream as he pressed the shield into Bucky, pinning him between the metal and construction vehicle. He grabbed the shield that Bucky had a firm grip on, throwing Bucky sideways across the warehouse.

Seeing red, you quietly reached down to pull out a knife. Aside from the shootout in Madripoor, you never needed to use any of the weapons strategically placed throughout your suit. And despite everything, you didn’t actually want to shoot John, mostly at the risk of missing and hitting either Bucky or Sam. But while John wasn’t exactly in stabbing range, and you weren’t all that amped to get into stabbing range, you could throw it.

With a slow breath, you adjusted the sharp steel in your hand. You took aim, chucking the knife with as much accuracy and force as you could, watching as the blade hurled end over end before sinking into John’s upper thigh, at the very convenient time that Sam flew straight into him. “This isn’t you, John,” Sam breathed heavily as both men stood face to face.

“We could’ve been a team…”

Not liking the way John didn’t appear ready to give up, Sam launched a rope that locked into the shield, engaging in a weirdly combative game of tug of war.

John lost his grip, and the rope came loose, the shield clattering against the ground. If you were fast enough, you could reach out and snag it. But with Bucky still on the ground himself, Sam holding back John for you didn’t inspire much confidence. Especially when both men dove for the shield themselves. But when Sam tackled John away from grabbing it, both men rolling further away from you, and the shield, you took your chance.

“I. Am. Captain America!” John screamed as he pinned Sam down, ripping Sam’s wings off his suit.

“No, you’re not!” you said, charging into John with the shield with all your might. John’s body rolled off Sam’s, and yours rolled with the shield, clinging on to it for all you were worth as you and John both staggered to your feet. “Shit,” you breathed with a happy grin. “That was cool!” Then, your eyes went wide, before you screwed them shut, raising the shield the block John advancing on you. “SHIT!” you screamed, bracing for impact.

The impact however, never came as Bucky jumped into action at the sound of your voice, raining blows down on John. “Don’t! You! Fuckin’! Touch! Her!” Each yelled word was a new hit, as Bucky fought John away from you.

“It’s mine,” John panted like a child who was being forced to share his favorite toy against his will.

“It’s over, John,” Sam told him.

“It’s mine!” John snarled, taking a swing at Bucky.

Bucky blocked it, grabbing the back of John’s neck with his vibranium hand, and punching him in the face with his other hand. “Y/N, shield!” Sam ordered.

Not needing to be told twice, you tossed Sam the shield as Bucky picked up John, and slammed him into the shield, the force of the impact sending all three men crashing to the floor in a chorus of groaned grunts of pain, the shield lying uselessly on the ground once more.

Bucky was the first to recover, grabbing the shield, and rising to his feet. Wordlessly, he walked over to Sam, dropping it next to him. The look on Bucky’s face said more than his mouth ever could, the anger that he had helped Sam get a shield he’d given up so easily needing no reason to be physically voiced. “C’mon, doll,” he said simply, turning and walking out of the building, leaving John and Sam where they lay.

“We’re not gonna leave Sam here, are we?” you asked in a whisper, jogging to keep up with your husband.

“Right now? Yes.”

“Bucky… It’s been a long day. And I know you still have your issues about Sam and the shield, and what it all means to you. But it’s Sam. He’s our friend, and partner whether you want him to be, or not.”

“I know,” Bucky answered you through gritted teeth. “That’s why I’m only leaving him for right now. Now, let’s talk about you, and what you did.”

You sighed. “What? Are you gonna yell at me about how I should have kept my distance? How you and Sam told me not to engage with John, and how I didn’t even want to go in there in the first place, so I’m completely batshit for doing what I did? That I could have gotten hurt, or worse? I know all that, Bucky. So please, spare me the lecture.”

“That was half of it, yes…” he admitted. “But what you did was also incredibly smart, and got Sam the shield.”

You shrugged. “I just got mad, that’s all.”

“Yeah, but it got Sam the shield. And it potentially saved us too. John was… That’s not a fight I’m eager to have again, that’s for damn sure. Between that fight and the one earlier… Knowing that you’re okay, and Sam probably physically feels worse than I do right now is really the only thing helping me feel somewhat okay right now.”

“Well, let’s get back to the apartment, and I’ll patch you up like old times.”

Bucky smiled fondly at long buried memories. “Mmm. Nurse Y/N. I always liked her.”

~~~

“The GRC is conducting raids to try and find Karli,” Sam reported over breakfast the next morning. “But so far, they only found her followers. They’ve searched a camp nearby, and just like the last camp they searched, nothing. She’s gone. We’ll never find her.”

“Hey, you got your sleeve back,” Torres’ voice chirped as he walked into the living room, and you wondered briefly where he’d come from, but you figured he probably arrived when Sam did, and given him the full run down of the GRC’s movements, much like Sam was giving you and Bucky now. Torres pointed at Bucky’s left jacket sleeve, once again reattached to the jacket he was wearing. “No? Yeah… okay then…” Torres said to no one in particular as Bucky stood there in silence, with his trademark stoic stare.

Still silent, and clearly still angry with Sam, Bucky turned on his heel to exit the room. “Are you off to take care of Zemo?” Sam wondered.

“Alright, good to know you survived,” Torres chipped again in a goodbye of sorts as Bucky stalked off down the hallway.

“He’ll come around,” you said as a half-assed apology for Bucky. “He’s… ya know. So, what else do we need to know about the Karli situation? Or the John one?”

Sam shrugged, looking over at Torres. “What’s our next steps?”

“Captain America killing a foreign national in public? It’s kinda like a big deal. Like international incident big. Folks higher up on the payroll are all over it now. So, unfortunately…”

“They’re taking jurisdiction,” Sam guessed.

“Yeah,” Torres nodded, his attention falling to a duffle bag at Sam’s feet that contained the snapped wings of his suit. “What happened to these?”

“So is there anything we can do?” you asked as Torres started examining the duffle bag.

“Not really. As I was telling Sam, they’ve cordoned off the whole camp, and Karli’s a ghost. After what went down, she’s laying extra low. Like under underground.”

“That’s why it makes sense for us to get involved,” Sam said. “The longer we let her regroup, the harder it’s gonna be to find her.”

“She’s got people helping her from all over the world, on all platforms,” Torres pointed out. “She’s really, really good at this thing.” He ran his hands carefully over the splintered wings. “How’d these break?”

“John,” you answered while Sam sighed, taking in all the information Torres was providing.

“Anyways,” Torres went on, “all we can do now is sit tight, and just chill. Sometimes there’s nothing to do, until there’s something to do.”

“That’s bizarrely wise,” Sam said with a small laugh.

“It means we can train,” you interjected. “Be prepared for whatever comes next.”

“The lady has a point,” Torres agreed with you, his eyes flickering longingly to the shield that lay on the table, remnants of the blood John had splattered on his now gone.

“Yeah, alright,” Sam nodded with a smile, looking at you. “Find your husband, and let’s get to work.”

Thankfully, all you had to do was turn your head, finding Bucky stalking back down the hallway with both yours and his suitcases in hand. “B- Oh, hey. We going somewhere?”

“Home. Well. Sam is. You and I are making a pit stop first.”

“So you finally found Zemo?” was Sam’s guess.

“I have an idea of where he might be, yeah.”

“You know, sometimes you still scare me Buck. The staring. The eerily calm voice. It’s creepy, man.”

“You wanna get to work, or not, Sam?”

~~~

The pit stop ended up being Sokovia, Bucky giving you a full rundown as to why he figured Zemo would be there on the flight over. He also told you of the plan he had. And sure enough, as the two of you walked up to the memorial site, Zemo was standing in front of it, his back facing you.

“I thought you’d be here sooner,” Zemo said as you and Bucky got within earshot. “Don’t worry. I’ve decided I’m not going to kill you.”

“Imagine my relief,” Bucky deadpanned, finger clicking the safety of the gun he had ready at his side.

Zemo turned towards you both, unthreatened by Bucky’s action as his attention focused on you. “The girl has been radicalized beyond salvation. I warned you and Sam, but you wouldn’t listen. Just as stubborn as Steve was, the two of you.” His gaze shifted to Bucky. “But you. They literally programmed you to kill. James, do what needs to be done. Karli has people everywhere. And there’s only one way to make sure she cannot continue her mission.”

“I appreciate the advice,” Bucky answered, his face conveying no evidence of whether or not that statement was actually true. “But we’re gonna do it our own way.”

Zemo chuckled at what he believed to be the naivety of Bucky’s words. “Yeah. I was afraid you’d say that.”

The gun in Bucky’s hand clicked again as he loaded what you knew to be nothing, but Zemo rightfully assumed to be a bullet into the chamber, raising his hand, the barrel of the gun mere inches from Zemo’s forehead. Zemo went pale, but kept his composure calm, even nodding at Bucky like he was giving the man permission to pull the trigger.

You watched as Zemo sucked in his breath while Bucky pressed ever so lightly on the trigger. But all that came out of the gun was an empty clicking sound. Eyes still locked on Zemo, Bucky opened his other hand, the bullets clattering to the ground.

Silently, the Dora Milaje walked up, surrounding Zemo. “Ladies,” he greeted, before addressing Bucky one last time. “I took the liberty of crossing my name off in your book. I hold no grudges for what you thought you had to do. Goodbye James. It was nice getting to know you, Mrs. Barnes.”

Two of the Dora Milaje escorted Zemo away, while the third talked briefly with Bucky about their own plans for Zemo. “It would be prudent to make yourself scarce in Wakanda for the time being, White Wolf,” she added as a small warning.

“Fair enough,” he nodded. Then, “Hey. I may have another favor to ask of you.”

~~~

 After your visit with Zemo, you and Bucky headed home.

“Buck said you got a few good ones in on that new Cap guy. Good for you,” Steve smiled proudly.

“I did okay, I guess. Got out better than Bucky and Sam, that’s for sure,” you shrugged in modesty. “Have you heard from Sam?”

“Yeah, he got back a few days ago. But just as soon as he stopped by, he was gone again. Something about seeing the old man in Baltimore?”

“Bradley,” you and Bucky said in unison. “He’s uh… like you and me,” Bucky added as an extra explanation when Steve cocked his head in confusion. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, if that was a few days ago, where’s Sam now?” you asked.

Steve shrugged. “My guess? He went home to see his sister in Louisiana. You guys still not talking after what happened?”

You looked at Bucky, and shook your head. “No. Bucky won’t say it, but he’s still never forgiven Sam for giving up the shield in the first place. And now he’s even more mad he had to help Sam get it back, because-”

“None of this would have happened if he hadn’t given it up in the first place,” you and Steve gave your best Bucky impression together.

“1.) I don’t sound like that. And 2.) I’m right. None of this would have happened if Sam had kept the shield. Not the shit with Walker anyway.”

“But Sam’s still family. And we’re still Avengers. And we still have a job to finish with Karli,” you pointed out.

“What? So you want to go to Louisiana and find Sam?” Bucky asked you.

“That would be a start.”

“Doll, we just got home. Don’t you wanna be home for a bit?”

“Not when there’s still work to be done. And you and Sam gotta put this whole mess behind you once and for all, because all Riga proved was that it takes all three of us working together to take down John.”

“And that barely worked,” he reminded you.

“Which is also why we all need to train together. Not you training me here while Sam does God knows what in Louisiana. We need to be an actual team here, Bucky.”

Bucky sighed. “Alright. I’ll book us a flight first thing tomorrow, okay?”

“Why not book it right now?”

Bucky looked at Steve, clearing his throat before leaning in close to your ear. “Because of reasons I can’t say in front of your brother, doll.”

Your eyes went wide and your cheeks turned bright red at Bucky’s insinuation while Steve clapped his hands loudly together. “Okay. I think we’re done here.”

~~~

You’re sure we’re in the right place?” you asked Bucky as you approached a dock crowded with people and supplies.

Bucky only nodded as he climbed in the back of a truck lifting a huge pallet with ease at the same time you heard Sam’s voice wonder “How do we get it off the truck?”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky said as he set the pallet aside, turning to see Sam’s shocked expression.

“Surprise,” you grinned, waggling your fingers in a wave at Sam.

Sam stepped around the truck to get closer to you and Bucky, the shock on his face now a questioning look.

Bucky set a suitcase down on the bed of the truck. “Just dropping this off. Sign for it, and we’ll go.”

“Bucky,” you hissed under your breath. This was not part of your plan at all.

“I called in a favor from the Wakandans,” Bucky explained to Sam.

Before Sam could say anything in response, or you could berate Bucky under your breath again, a pipe started hissing loudly, and a woman was rushing over. “Sam!”

Sam wasted no time in rushing over to assess what the damage to the pipe was and how to go about fixing it, grabbing a nearby wrench as the woman looked at you and Bucky.

“Hi,” you smiled at her.

“Hi,” she smiled back.

Bucky sighed, watching what Sam was doing before going over. “Hold on, hold on. You gotta go up.” He took the wrench from Sam, pushing him out of the way, quickly tightening to the loose bolt on the pipe until it stopped hissing.

“Why didn’t you use the metal arm?” Sam asked as Bucky set the wrench aside.

Bucky thought about it for a second, looking at the vibranium appendage. “Well, I don’t always think of it immediately. I’m right-handed. So, this is the boat, huh?”

“This is it,” Sam nodded.

“It’s nice,” Bucky complimented. “You want any help?”

Sam looked at Bucky, sighing deeply. “Yeah…”

You and the woman looked over at Bucky and Sam, rolling your eyes. “Men…” you muttered. Then, “Hi, I’m Y/N.”

“Sarah,” she smiled back. “Friends of Sam’s, I take it?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Mmm,” she nodded, her eyes roaming over Bucky. “And who are you?”

“I’m Bucky,” he grinned charmingly at her.

Sam punched him in the right arm as hard as he could. 

“Ow! What the hell, Sam?!” Bucky growled, rubbing at his arm.

“What is it with you and people’s sisters, man? How did Steve not beat your ass?”

Sarah’s eyes went wide as she looked at you, yours and Bucky’s name clicking in familiarity. “Oh!” she said, a hand covering her mouth as she looked at you, “I’m so sorry!”

You howled with laughter as Sam hit Bucky in the arm some more. “Seriously?! How did Steve not obliterate your ass?”

“He was like a foot shorter and weighed maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet,” Bucky shrugged. “Now will you stop hitting me? Doll!” He turned to you with puppy dog eyes to help him. “Weren’t you the one saying I needed to learn to be friendlier to people?”

“Friendlier, not flirtier,” you clarified, tears rolling down your cheeks from how hard you were still laughing. “Now help Sam with the damn boat, Sergeant Charmer.”

It was an interesting morning watching Bucky and Sam work on the boat, while you helped Sarah in the house making meals. “It’s probably a good thing Bucky’s from another time,” she commented as she caught you staring dreamily out the window for the millionth time.

“How do you mean?”

“A man that looks like that, and knows it? In today’s society? Not usually a good mix.”

“Oh, those types have always existed,” you said with a small chuckle. “Bucky and Steve used to fight them quite a bit.”

“And you? Having to fight off the hoards of women that no doubt threw themselves at a man like that?”

You laughed again. “Very rare occurrences. Bucky is, uh… attentive that way, I guess.”

“Well, you’re lucky to have a husband like Bucky. Men like that are hard to come by, believe me.”

“Oh, I know. Funny thing is, if you ask Bucky, he’d say he’s the lucky one.”

“Well, lunch is about done if you wanna bring these plates out to them for me.”

You thanked her, loading the plates up in your arms before walking outside and over to where Bucky and Sam were. “Lunch time!” you called out.

Both of their heads swiveled in your direction, Bucky clutching at his heart dramatically. “Oh, a woman after my own heart.”

“Sarah made lunch, I just helped,” you told him, handing him a plate.

Sam snickered, taking his own plate from you, “Thanks for helping her,” he told you, then in a louder voice that was almost a shout, “Thank you, Sarah!”

“You think Karli’s gonna throw in the towel?” Bucky asked, as you all took a spot and dug into your lunch.

Sam shook his head as he swallowed his bite of food. “I think she’s gonna double down.”

“Any idea on how to stop her?”

“I got Torres working on something.”

“Well, Zemo says there’s only one way.”

You all said nothing for a minute, eating your lunch and thinking quietly to yourselves before Bucky broke the silence. “Well. Y/N and I gotta catch our flight tomorrow. Gonna get a hotel room for the night. Crash, ya know?”

“So you’re just gonna set me up like that, huh?”

“Well, there’s two of us. We don’t wanna impose, or anything. I really just came to give you that,” Bucky nodded at the suitcase the Wakandans have given him for Sam.

Sam snorted. “Like Y/N didn’t all but march your ass on the plane to get here. So just stay here. The people in this town are the most welcoming people in the world. They don’t care if you wear small T-shirts, or if you have six toes, or if your mom’s your aunt-” Sam rambled.

“Okay,” Bucky cut him off with a chuckle. “I get it. I mean, you know, the people are nice.”

You and Sam laughed too, before Sam pointed at Bucky, “But don’t flirt with my sister.”

“Why would I do that?”

Sam looked at you, “He doesn’t get it, does he?”

You shook your head, “He never really did.”

“What don’t I get?”

“It’s how you interact with women in general, Bucky. They find you charming,” you explained. “Niceness is mistaken as interest.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous.”

“Just keep the charm around my sister in check, or I’ll help Y/N cut you up, and feed you to the fish.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

~~~

That night, instead of a hotel, you and Bucky slept in the spare bedroom of Sarah’s house, while Sam offered to take the couch.

Both of you awoke to the sounds of Sarah’s sons making a ruckus down the hall, and Sam’s tired call out of “Hey!”

You rolled on your side, to find Bucky already looking at you with a smile on his face. “What’s got you so happy this morning?” you asked, kissing his nose.

His shoulders shrugged. “Something about this is nice. Waking up next to you in a house. Sound of kids.”

You gasped softly in a teasing manner. “James Barnes, are you saying you want a quiet domestic life?”

He chuckled, kissing your forehead. “You knew that was what I wanted. What our lives were supposed to be like when I got home. You wanted the same thing too, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. I still do. I just didn’t know you still did, given how much everything’s changed.”

“For a while I didn’t. My focus was… elsewhere. But it’s been something that’s been on my mind again since you’ve been back. But I wanted to give us both time to adjust. Catch up for lost time, just me and you. And then… ya know. But yeah. This,” he twirled a finger about the room, and the sounds of the house coming alive, “is still something I want.”

“Well, it’s still something I want, too.”

His kiss was heavy with need as his lips crashed into yours. “God, I love you.”

~~~

The shield bit deeply into the tree Sam hurled it at. “Son of a b-” he muttered, dashing over to wedge it free.

“You need something it can bounce back off of,” Bucky told him.

“You need something it can bounce back off of,” Sam repeated in a mocking tone.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “C’mon, I got an idea.”

The idea ended up being taking rubber mats to bound around the trees, Sam giving it a test once they were done. The shield bounced off the mat, flying straight back to Sam who caught it with ease. “Yeah, alright,” he conceded. “That’s way better.”

“How’s the shield part feel?” you asked.

“That part feels weird.” He launched it again, the shield ricocheting off one mat into another before Bucky caught it. “The legacy of that shield,” Sam continued, “is complicated to say the least.”

“When Steve told us what he was planning, I don’t think any of us really understood what it felt like for a Black man to be handed the shield. How could we?” Bucky spoke up.

You and Sam shared a look, Sam jerking a thumb at you, “Well, I understood. And so did she. But glad you’re finally catching up.”

Bucky sighed, “Fine. I didn’t understand. Point is, I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.” He lifted the arm the shield was on towards Sam for Sam to take.

“Thank you,” Sam said sincerely, taking the shield.

“Whatever happened with Walker, it wasn’t your fault,” Bucky went on to say. “I get it. It’s just… that shield… For a while it was the closest thing I had to a family. Or it was a huge part in me getting my family back anyway. Because if Steve never took it up in the first place… Well, when you retired it, it felt like giving up. Made me question everything. Like first Steve retired. Then you retired the shield. Everything that saved me was done. Like I was nothing but a completed mission.”

You and Sam stayed quiet, letting Bucky spill out the confession he now found the words to express. But after a long enough pause on Bucky’s end, you reached out to squeeze his hand reassuringly. “I know both Steve, and the shield mean a lot to you. But it doesn’t define you, Bucky,” you told him softly. “You are not who you are because of Steve. He might have helped, but he is not the reason. You are. You’re the one who put in the work.”

“She’s right,” Sam agreed with you. “You gotta stop looking at other people to tell you who you are. Let me ask you, you still having those nightmares?”

“All the time,” Bucky nodded. “It means I remember. It means a part of me is still there. Which means a part of the Winter Soldier’s still in me.”

“You up for a little tough love? You wanna climb out of that hell you’re in, keep doing the work.”

“I’ve been making my amends.”

Sam scoffed. “No. You weren’t amending, you were avenging. And teaching Y/N in the process. You were stopping all the wrongdoers you enabled as the Winter Soldier because you thought it would bring you closure. But if it actually was, then your nightmares wouldn’t be happening. At least not with the frequency they still do.”

Bucky looked at you, both of you thinking about Yori back home. “You’re not allowed to talk to Sam anymore if you’re gonna blab everything I tell you to him.”

You smiled, knowing he was only teasing. “We’re a team, Bucky. Looking out for each other is what we do.”

Bucky shook his head. “Definitely not a team.”

“Nope,” Sam agreed with Bucky.

“We’re not that good,” Bucky laughed.

“Definitely not,” Sam agreed again.

“We’re professionals.”

“Definitely.”

“And uh… partners?”

“Coworkers.”

“But, we’re also a couple guys with a mutual friend.”

“But the friend’s now gone,” Sam pointed out.

“So we’re a couple of guys.”

“I can live with that.”

“Perfect.”

You snorted at their boyish back and forth antics. “The word you’re looking for is ‘family’ actually,” you interjected.

“Just uh… call us when you have a lead on Karli, and we’ll be there,” Bucky told Sam.

“Yep. And uh, thanks for the help. Meant a lot.”

“Course,” Bucky clapped Sam on the shoulder, and you and Sam gave each other a quick hug. “C’mon, doll. We got a flight to catch.”

~~~

Back home with no idea for how long, you and Bucky set to work on a more rigorous training for you.

Mornings quickly became filled with drilling you in various hand-to-hand combat techniques in which Bucky barely broke a sweat, and you ended up drenched in enough of your own for the both of you.

While you relished in your morning routine with Bucky, it was the afternoons you found particularly interesting after you came out of the bedroom to find Bucky sitting in front of his laptop. “Whatcha looking at?” you asked, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you peered at the house listings on the computer screen.

“Domestic dreaming,” he said, not taking his eyes off the screen as he patted the sofa cushion next to him for you to join him.

“Oh, so when you said you still wanted this, you meant you wanted it now,” you teased as you moved around him to take the offered seat.

He shrugged. “Figured it couldn’t hurt. Thanks to Stark, everyone that’s still around is pretty well off. And I forget when exactly, but at some point Steve and I were able to get our GI funds.”

“That’s nice,” you noted, now understanding why finances had never seemed to be an issue despite neither of you actually working.

“Yeah. And I figured raising a family in a shoebox apartment isn’t part of that domestic dream. So…”

“So here we are,” you supplied.

“So here we are,” he repeated with a nod. “Oh, this one looks nice,” he said, clicking on one of the options.

“It is,” you agreed, watching as Bucky clicked through the pictures of the 3 bedroom home. “Big enough to raise a family. Small enough to not be obnoxious.”

“Mhm,” Bucky murmured, the mouse hovering over the link to schedule a viewing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you grinned.

After that, it wasn’t uncommon for yours and Bucky’s afternoons to be filled with meeting with realtors and attending open houses, weighing all your options in the evenings. And with the type of dedication Bucky had towards house hunting, it wasn’t long at all until you found a place you both fell in love with.

“C’mon, doll,” he roused you one morning like he always did. “Gotta go train.”

Normally you bounded out of bed, excited for a new day of training exercises, but today you swatted a hand at him, batting him away. “No,” you mumbled, pulling the blanket up over your head, and turning away from him, the action making your stomach roll. You let out a long, low groan.

“You feeling alright?” he asked, his voice taking on a note of concern. Hands pulled the blanket from your face, before he was feeling your forehead, checking for any unusual warmth. “You don’t feel like you have a fever,” he noted with a frown.

“Gonna be sick,” you announced, springing from bed and racing for the bathroom.

Bucky followed worriedly, one hand pulling your hair out of your face, the other rubbing soothingly at your back as you dry-heaved into the toilet. “Okay, no training today. We do have the meeting with the realtor later to sign the last of the papers and get the keys. But I can ask Steve to come keep you company while I go do that if you’re not up for it.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head and rising shakily to your feet. “You don’t have to bother Steve. It’s just a stomach bug, I’ll be fine.”

“Well, let me at least help you back to bed, and make you some breakfast, okay?”

“Fine,” you conceded, letting him support your weight as he led you back to bed. “But I’m not hungry,” you told him as you pulled the blanket close around you in bed.

“Not hungry, or worried you’ll be sick if you eat?” he questioned the validity of your statement.

You stuck your tongue out at him.

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “At least try to eat some toast for me? Maybe having something in your stomach will help.”

“If you get it to me before I fall back asleep, I’ll try,” was your compromise.

Quickly, Bucky raced into the kitchen, as you closed your eyes wondering why you suddenly felt so miserable. When you’d been sick in the past, there’d always been signs leading up to it. But this sickness had caught you completely off guard. 

“Gotta sit up for me, doll,” Bucky’s voice had you opening your eyes again, spotting him standing next to you with a plate in his hand.

You groaned, sitting up against the headboard and taking a begrudging bite of the toast.

He chuckled again. “I forgot how stubborn you get when you’re sick. Way more than you normally are.”

“Not sure how not wanting to vomit toast, and wanting to sleep makes me stubborn, but okay,” you said, taking another slow bite.

“Aren’t there usually signs before you get sick? I thought there used to be signs.”

“There are signs. Or there’s supposed to be. I dunno what the heck is happening.”

His brows pulled together in curious confusion. “You’re not…” his eyes shifted to look at your stomach pointedly. “Are you?”

Your eyes went wide at the suggestion, before you shrugged your shoulders. “Maybe?”

“Shit…”

“Would it be bad if I was?”

“No!” he rushed. “God no. Just…”

“We talked about all of this back in the forties, it became irrelevant for decades, and now that we started talking about the possibility of it all again, it’s all happening at once.”

“And we still have the Karli situation, yeah. But it’s fine. It’s more than fine. Do you want me to run down to the pharmacy?”

“Please?”

Ten minutes later, Bucky held you tight as you waited on the test lying on the bathroom counter with wide and tearful eyes. “Holy shit…” you both breathed in unison, as a small plus sign appeared in the result window. “Holy shit!”

__

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[blush-and-books]

sun's gone // but you always liked this time of day

angsty, hurt/comfort with a happy ending, juke canonverse. title from Place In Me by Luke Hemmings. special shoutout to my dear @unsaid-emily who loves this lyric as much as i do.

warnings: luke is just going through a lot and its scientifically proven that anger destroys brain cells so just be ready

----

Finding out that Rose's death day was on the same day as his mom's birthday was... Not easy, for Luke.

Him and Julie both mourning different things. Both of them felt different things surrounding their mom situations, and Luke knew that his job as Julie's "Luke" was to be there for her. He had been there for Reggie when his dad was leaving home every night to go sleep wherever his mom wasn't, and when Alex's parents turned into apathetic losers post-coming out.

He should be a master at all of this parent shit.

Unfortunately, there's a difference between losing love for or from your parents, and losing that parent to a force out of your control. Luke was used to the tension that was easy to complain about; to criticizing what his friends' families were doing wrong.

From how Julie talks about her, it doesn't sound like Rose Molina was doing anything wrong.

He can't help the way that rage smolders in a deep pit of his stomach. He hates that Julie's sad, and he hates that he didn't have a mom like Rose Molina, and he hates that the universe was cruel enough to give his favorite person such a wonderful mother and take her away before Julie was even an adult.

Sometimes, especially today, he's reminded of the hate he felt for his mom. When he was fifteen and wrote her a real song, one of his first when he started to improve his writing skills, and he could see the twitch in her eye of disdain.

That night, she told him to start looking at jobs. He was old enough, after all.

He went to the closest place he could find - a local diner - picked up an application, and cried.

She didn't care about his art; she didn't realize how his art meant more than anything he could buy with money. What was starting to sting was the fact that she probably would never care. And as he got older, she made it increasingly clear, and...

Yeah. Emily's birthdays were bitter.

Luke was bitter.

Julie was depressed.

He went to see her that day, it was a Saturday, and tried to talk to her. His hand softly ran up and down her side as she curled under the comforter, and when she invited him under the blankets he gratefully accepted the invitation.

Maybe Julie, the girl that made them whole again, could heal this little extra wound, too.

They talk. Julie cries; he avoids it.

"It's just really hard to be without her, you know? Sometimes shit just happens and it feels like a time she needs to be here, and she's not, and I don't know what to do."

Luke misses feeling like that. But it stopped about a month after he left home.

"Well, I mean, I've gone this long without a mom, and I'm fine. You can live without her. You're gonna be fine."

He says it with the same apathetic tone he always uses when he shifts into Emily-mode, and it isn't supposed to be like that, but it is.

Painfully.

And his mistake is obvious when Julie's frowning lips part open in horror, and her eyes are welling fresh with tears that illuminate the red around her irises.

Carelessly, with his eyes wide open, he's torn her apart.

Under the comforter, he feels cold. Even Julie's body next to him feels cold, and-

"Julie-"

"Get out. Please."

"I'm sor-"

"Luke, please- Leave me alone."

When Luke finally sobs, he's alone. It's dark outside and the garage is empty because the boys respect that it's a rough day for many people in this household, but the sadness and anger overcome him until he's opening his mouth to scream and nothing comes out, and when he's so dehydrated that his body is void of any tears, he sits on the couch with a damp face and plucks the chords of Emily's birthday song from 27 years ago.

He tries not to feel the numbing depression very often. But you can only push down such strong emotions for so long before they choose to ignore your fighting attempts.

Julie made it easier to battle the fury he felt towards his mom. That woman will always have a grasp on him, a place in him - probably because he never properly processed it. He's stuck with all of it now. The internal playlists of songs that remind him of how mad he is or sad he is, for him to listen to whenever his temper towards Emily seethes.

Tonight, he doesn't have a choice but to face it.

----

The next morning, there's a note for him.

Please give me the day to myself.

No author claims their identity, but the loopy "y" is a dead giveaway that Julie wrote it, let alone the content. His chest does that shitty thing where his ribs feel as though they are compressing against his lungs and breathing is hard.

He feels like that all day, but he still waits.

But he barely makes it to sunset before he is poofing to the hallway and standing before her bedroom, fist raised to knock.

The sunset was pretty tonight. He hopes she enjoyed it. Her favorite time of day is dusk, when the air only feels fresher because it carries a chill with it, and the world begins to slow down.

Luke knocks.

Julie answers.

"I'm sorry," he rushes out before she has the chance to interrupt or he has the chance to say something stupid. "What I said- That was my stupid, stupid anger at my mom. It was her birthday yesterday." Julie looks surprised to hear this, of course she didn't know, but she doesn't say anything.

"I don't know what it's like to go through what you did. I wanted to support you yesterday, and I didn't, and I know that. My feelings got the better of me, and that isn't fair. And I am so, so sorry, Julie."

She remains still in front of him, but only for a beat. Eventually, she moves aside, wordlessly, and stares at him expectantly.

He takes exactly four steps inside, and plants his feet once again.

"It's not stupid," is the first thing she says. Her voice has a piercing edge to it that he rarely hears, and he hates it, but stays quiet. "How you feel about your mom. Don't call it stupid. I don't think it's stupid."

She takes a deep breath. A tear slips through her lashes.

"But what you said was really fucking insensitive. All I needed from you was to be there and hold me and let me ride this wave, not try to relate or compare our problems. How would you feel if I tried to guilt you for running away because 'at least you had a mom'?"

Shitty. He'd feel shitty, because they are two different situations and she has no right to speak on something that she hasn't gone through.

He answers with that, verbatim. And he throws in another apology for good measure, making it clear that he understands where he went wrong.

"Good. You understand. Thank you."

Her eyebrows twist together. It's a tell that she wants to say something too.

"If you ever need to talk about your mom, you know I'm here for it. I didn't know her birthday was yesterday."

Understanding, he nods. He didn't tell her it was Emily's birthday, because the day was supposed to be about Rose, and then it wasn't.

"Thank you."

The two of them fall silent.

Luke doesn't want to leave, but feels like he should; Julie hasn't asked him to leave, but he doubts she wants him to stay.

They're just two kids with gaps in their hearts, left by the absence of their mothers.

Sometimes - all the time - Luke feels Julie filling that gap. Not as a mom, of course, but as another person; someone to love him and support him and make him happy.

Emily might not ever go away in his head. But Julie Molina, over anyone, will always have a place in his heart, in his head, and in his soul.

She's just magic like that.

So magic that she finds it in herself to step forward, and he is roped in by her gravitational pull, and they're falling into each other's arms.

Luke imagines that if he ever went to a heaven instead of coming back to the modern day, that this, Julie's arms around him, is the feeling that would greet him at that end.

Everything feels better here.

----

tags: @bluefirewrites @lydias--stiles @sylphrenas @wlwcarries @ruzek-halstead @willexx @sirena-de-lunas @babydagger28 @phantomsandsunsets

[hoodoo12]

The Ties That Bind (And How to Follow Them) 21/28

@turtlepated @mel-time @werwulfy @bunnys-beetlejuice-blog @infptarius @monsterlovinghours @strange-n-unbluusual @rainingpaint @fireflower1015 @go-whovian-universe @sweetcat-666 @genderless-cryptid @heresathreebee

SFW. Total collapse. Bruised escape.

Several things happened at once. Rigel kicked an additional mirror down, reaching for Pate just as a concussive wave of raw power rocked the room. It threw Beetlejuice to his knees again, unluckily back towards the middle of the summoning circle under the void centered above it. He twisted frantically, slashing with the make-shift weapon to try and continue to keep his Father from taking real hold of him. Rigel kept to his feet but swayed, as did Morena, although both looked slightly dazed. Pate, somehow, was pushing herself to her feet and scrambling forward, scuffing her feet on the glass-strewn floor. When the chalk was persistent, she crouched and swept at the circle with her hands despite the shards of mirror.

She broke the barrier with her shoes, palms, and blood. Whatever spell had gagged her was gone, and her shouting his name while rushing towards him gave him wild hope that this nightmare was almost over--

--until the shoggoth above them, most of its mass still trapped in a portal that hadn’t had enough time to open fully, sensed both that the ritual had broken and the freedom Pate had provided by breaking the circle. The thin fluting stopped as the portal stopped expanding and began to constrict again, and a roar of rage that was more felt than heard made the foundations of the tower shift and rock again.

Although still somewhat occupied by absorbing its offspring, Beetlejuice’s enraged Father flailed, sending whip thin tentacles further than it had before, no longer hobbled by the chalk circle, searching for anchors to pull its bulk through. The remaining upright mirrors were toppled, the very stones of the walls began to crumble. A blast of unearthly wind picked up dust and glass shards alike, sending the particles into the air in a dangerous spiral. Beetlejuice reached for Pate as she reached for him; he gathered her close and wrapped her up with a few tentacles for extra protection from the glass in the air. He shielded her as best he could while trying to get out of the circle. With the vacuum of the void above, it was like walking through waist deep glue. He shouted that she needed to keep her head down and leave, get out, but from the expression on her face he understood she couldn’t hear him. He began working extra hard to get her out as well.

Through the whirlwind of chaos, Rigel had managed to almost lay a hand on Morena. The witch herself was laughing, reveling in it all, even as her acolytes screamed in terror and turned tail. “Look what I have wrought!” she shrieked. “Gaze upon this, and know that I am superior!” Rigel’s fingers managed to tangle in her hair and he yanked, pulling her fully off balance. She shrieked wordlessly this time, and gathering power in her hand, made to claw his face, when one of those thin tentacles from the shoggoth wrapped around her wrist.

⁂

A sigh of utmost relief left Pate’s lips as she and Beetlejuice collided just outside the circle. No one could hear it, however, over the roaring of the wind and the shoggoth. He ushered her away from the void, bent nearly double as they attempted to keep out of the way of the whiplike tentacles flailing haphazardly for purchase all around them.

The ground trembled underfoot, brick and mortar dust raining down from the walls and swept up in the tempest around them. It was as though the building were breaking apart at the seams, which in all likelihood it was. Rigel, she saw through the chaos, was squaring off against the red-haired woman, his hand buried in her auburn waves and snatching her off balance. Pate saw but could not hear the cry of rage that left her, saw the minute shimmer to the air around her hand that was clenched into a claw, ready to rake his face.

It was on the tip of her tongue to shout to him to watch out, having had a small sampling of the power that would be behind the attack, when one of the shoggoth’s reaching tentacles found her. A wide eyed look of surprise came over the woman’s face and she seemingly forgot about Rigel. Her free hand went to the tentacle, attempting to prise it off her arm but to no avail. Having found something to latch ahold of, the tentacle began reeling her in like a fish on a line. Rigel wisely chose to relinquish his grip on her and leave her to her well deserved fate.

Her feet slid along the cracking ground, her heels digging in in a futile attempt to stop her forward motion. Beetlejuice quickly hustled Pate around and away from the doomed woman, and as she got closer Pate could hear her screaming.

“No! I brought you to this plane by my power! You allegiance is to me! Release me!” Spittle flew from her lips as she began wrenching her arm this way and that to break the shoggoth’s hold on her.

Pate felt Beetlejuice’s arm tighten around her as he scoffed quietly.

“Shoggoths rebelled against their creators,” he called to her, though there was little sign that she heard him. “What made you think you could control one?”

They made it to Rigel, who stood watching the carnage unfold.

“I think it’s time for us to leave,” he said calmly, as though they weren’t standing in the middle of a tower that was moments from collapse.

Pate doubted either he or Beetlejuice had the strength right now to pull even one of them through the ether back to her apartment, so she wound one arm around Beetlejuce’s waist and took Rigel’s shoulder with the other, spinning him around. “Hurry before the roof comes down on us!”

Dodging receding tentacles and falling debris, they made a beeline for the door. It was wide open, apparently some of the cultists had already made their escape. Finally back outside, the ground continued to shake. “The whole damn hill is falling in!” Beetlejuice exclaimed, and they quickly distanced themselves from the structure, padding down the cracked asphalt to the bottom of the hill.

Sure enough, not long after they reached the bottom of the hill the tower fell in on itself with a thunderous crash that Pate could feel in her teeth. The jagged ruin held up for another minute or two before it sank into the earth and was gone from sight.

⁂

He’d have liked to watch Morena get eaten or crushed as her demands turned to wracked screams of terror--comeuppance was a great show--but with his Father further enraged and literally tearing the tower apart there was no time for entertainment. Pate kept hold of him as he continued to try and protect her from the flying projectiles and he didn’t even care she grabbed Rigel too. His younger brother made some comment about leaving, as if they’d overstayed at a party, but Beetlejuice didn’t even have the strength to snap something witty back like, “No shit, Sherlock!”

The trio barely made it out the door before the ground under their feet, unstable from the coal fire beneath anyway, rolled. With a final burst of fear fueled speed, they sprinted forward as one, out of the wake of the destruction.

Finally Beej could go no further. He stopped and barely kept upright, but turned when Pate and Rigel did to watch the building crack and collapse on itself. He didn’t know if any of the cultists had actually managed to escape, and couldn’t bring himself to care. Feeling weak and exhausted, Beetlejuice lifted his head to see Pate still holding onto to his brother. They were all covered in dust and he grimaced as he saw he hadn’t been able to protect her completely; a few thin lacerations from the glass shards marred her cheeks and arms. Rigel had turned his attention to her, lifting a hand to her face. Beetlejuice croaked, “Pate, baby--” but didn’t have the energy to do anything more. Neither of them had noticed and he hadn’t said anything in their rush to flee, but his Father hadn’t relinquished the hold he had on his tentacles, and a large section of his shadow mass had been shorn away.

Now that they were out of danger, Pate became aware of her various aches and pains as the effects of adrenaline waned. Her palms sported shallow lacerations from raking them through the glass particles on the floor as she rubbed out the chalk circle, minor cuts from airborne debris leaving knicks along her cheeks and arms but thankfully none had made its way into her eyes. She stood watching the cloud of dust rising from the sinkhole where the standpipe had been only minutes before, Rigel to one side and Beetlejuice to the other.

She caught movement in her peripheral vision and saw Rigel wordlessly watching her, his hand raising towards her face. His fingertips just barely brushed her cheek when she turned at the sound of Beetlejuice’s voice. He looked haggard after his harrowing ordeal, his face nearly gray and his hair likewise ashen in color. Pate stepped closer to him, her hands moving up to cradle his face between them, brushing at the brick dust and the thin lines of blood from his own cuts and scrapes.

Tears welled in her eyes, both from the relief at having him back with her and the ache of seeing him in such a state.

“Beej, oh my god, are you okay? Are you hurt? What can I do?”

The pressure from her hands, as gentle as they were, brought fresh, sharper pain to overlap the deeper agony settled in his core. Beetlejuice tried to wet his lips for ease of answering and found he’d been coated with dust that left his tongue drier than before. Pate’s hands continued to roam, seeking out injuries. Each minor flinch he couldn’t control made her flinch too, but nothing made her gasp as much as sliding her hands over his back and jerking away when he yelped with the pain. Her tears left cleaner trails through the mortar dust on her cheeks. She seemed shocked beyond words looking down at what her hands had encountered, and the thick, black ichor that had coated them. Slowly it dripped to the ground. Beej looked up at her with sorrow etched on his face.

“Pate, baby, beautiful--” he croaked, “--I’m sorry.”

He was weak. Broken. The few intact tentacles he had left retreated sluggishly; his shadow mass easing back into the pocket of ether it came from didn’t mean the pain left. He just had to suffer.

It was difficult to spare Rigel a glance. He hated that his favored brother saw him in such a state, but there was nothing he could do but suffer that as well.

Her heart hurt to hear his voice, so tired and throaty, almost as much as it hurt to see the viscous black ooze that had come off his back and onto her palms. She wiped them carelessly on her jeans before reaching up to his windswept and dust choked hair, caressing it softly.

“You don’t have to apologize, Bug,” she assured him. “None of this was your fault, it was all that crazy woman and her delusional followers.” Pate felt rather than saw Rigel behind her, his intent gaze boring into her. Even though he was just as run through the wringer as Beetlejuice, even though he had kept true to his word and helped her find and rescue her demon lover, Pate felt the fingers of trepidation working their way down her spine.

Now that their business was concluded, there was the matter of her debt to the suave if rather disheveled demon.

She turned to him, keeping beside Beetlejuice and circling his arm with both of hers, hugging it to her as she spoke to Rigel.

“I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done,” she admitted, swallowing a flutter of nerves and clutching Beetlejuice’s arm more securely against her, as though he could insulate her from the consequences of her own actions.

He would try, she felt sure, to intercede when Rigel claimed his due from her, but she was ready to pay whatever he asked of her. Or so she hoped.

She didn’t get it. She didn’t understand that while yes, he was sorry this was his fault because if he hadn’t had the brilliant idea to go try and talk to her mentor this whole thing would have never transpired, what he really meant was, “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe.”

His adored brother had assisted Pate in finding him. His glorified brother had helped keep Morena off her. His exalted brother made sure she didn’t trip or fall behind while the earth fell apart under their feet. His fucking brother had made to wipe the dirt and blood from her face, in an act of caring that he could barely believe, and he saw it with his own eyes. Pate kept hold of him, more like she was supporting an invalid than anything else, and thanked Rigel with sincerity. There was a tremble in her, however, and that set him on edge. It dawned on his muzzy brain that Rigel wouldn’t have done all this without some promise of compensation.

The physical pain was too great for him to come up with some snarky jab at Rigel’s expense. Beetlejuice could barely stay on his feet, and the ground wasn’t even moving any more. All he could do was stand here and wait with creeping dread for whatever shoe happened to drop.

⁂

Rigel scowled as Pate left his side for Beetlejuice’s. Dziban may have been destroyed and he may have suffered the pangs of that, he may be coated in dust and grime, but he was still less pathetic than his elder brother, who looked more homeless than typical with his clownish hair a dull monotone and that garish suit soiled with sticky tar-like blood and sporting new ventilation from countless rips and tears in the struggle against the shoggoth.

He scoffed at Pate’s exclamations of dismay and her worried questions. He sneered at Beetlejuice’s apology, and his lip curled further when Pate insisted this wasn’t his fault. Of course it was Beetlejuice’s fault; all ridiculously insane situations they found themselves in happened because of him! He wondered if they would share a sappy kiss, decided seeing something like that would make him retch, and dropped his attention to his jacket. Daintily he brushed it off. A few snags appeared in the fabric, but that was only because his talons caught in it by accident and not at all because his hands itched to stroke Pate’s face clean of any trace of dirt instead.

He refused to entertain the ludicrous idea that he was jealous.

Rigel looked up when Pate addressed him. Instead of smiling, instead of scowling, he kept his face carefully neutral. He managed a dip of his head in acknowledgement. It gave him some pleasure to know that Beetlejuice had to have worked out his lover would have bargained, but Pate’s obvious trepidation soured the victory. “We should go. There’s nothing for us here,” he stated.

tbc . . .

[firewoodfigs]

and A and B collapsed in it, exhausted

ERI!!! ILY 🥰💕

VADE ILY MORE <3 tysm for the prompt and I'm so sorry it took me so long to get back to it, but I hope you enjoy!! :')

(side note: this kinda spiralled out of control so it might be a better idea to read it on ao3 instead LMAO)

                                        xxxxx

There are a few things that her mind manages to dimly register before it loses focus.

One, the ongoing chaos around her — the yelling and screaming and the achingly familiar smell of smoke. Riza hopes that means the unit is safe, that the mission has succeeded. Adrenaline rushes through her veins as she struggles to remain alert, but her faculties are stubbornly uncooperative, and the only thing it really manages to absorb at the moment is pain.

Pain. Her hand is drenched, sticky. Riza inhales shakily, her breath coming out in short, ragged gasps. She’s bleeding from her side, and she has to bite her lip to keep from crying out as she presses down on her side. Her efforts are in vain; blood continues to drip on broken cobblestone like water from a leaking tap. She’ll probably need a blood transfusion or two. Riza just hopes she hasn’t punctured a lung (though she can certainly feel the makings and telltale signs of a broken rib or two).

The last thing she hears a voice she’d recognise anywhere — Hawkeye, stay with me. Stay awake, you hear me?Instinctively, Riza tries to obey the command, but it’s hard when pain is spreading through her chest like an exploding star; when she can barely catch her breath. She picks up on the desperation in his voice as he lapses into informality — Riza, stay with me, please. You’re going to be okay— and manages to choke out an apology before her consciousness flickers like a spoiled lamp. She wants to tell him to not worry, to tell him how she’s truly felt for the past decade, but the last spots of light in her vision seems to fade away, somewhere far beyond her reach, and —

And then her world turns to black.

—

When she finally wakes, her world is an astonishing shade of white.

Riza blinks groggily. She would have pushed herself into a sitting position, but the dull ache in her side seems to hint that that would be a spectacularly stupid thing to do. So she continues lying down, feeling very much like an invalid. Her nose wrinkles at the nauseating stench. Antiseptics. Disinfectants.

The hospital.

Riza bites back a groan and, this time, fighting any sense of rationality and self-preservation, attempts to seat herself up. She hears a matronly voice fussing over her predicament — something about her being as stubborn as Colonel Mustang had described her to be, and would have snorted aloud at the hypocrisy if the morphine hadn’t done its job so expediently.

Riza falls back asleep, the pain slowly ebbing away as a hand reaches out to gently stroke her hair.

—

The next time Riza wakes, her world is spinning, tilting on its axis to create an indecipherable blur of colour. There are, however, blobs of light swimming in her vision, warm and golden —  daylight? It must be daytime, then.

Riza swallows a pained groan and forces her eyelids open. Her vision is hazy, but she notes, to her dismay, that the ceiling is still conspicuously white. That must mean she’s still in the hospital. She clears her throat and blinks, hard, thinking it might just be a hallucination or a side effect of having too much morphine in her system, but her surroundings remain the same.

The only difference this time is the voice that greets her. It’s deep and decidedly masculine, one that she would recognise anywhere. (One that has been haunting her dreams.)

“Are you awake, Lieutenant?”

“I am,” Riza mumbles. She will never understand how her body can be so tired even after she’s slept so much. She doesn’t even know how long she’s been out for. “How long was I out for?”

“Nearly two days,” Roy whispers, and she immediately detects the worry in his voice. She wonders if he’s gotten much sleep over the past two days; the dark circles lining his concerned eyes tells her that he hasn’t. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright, sir.”

Riza shakes her head lightly in an effort to dispel some of the dizziness. Slowly, she tries to ease herself into a sitting position, wincing as a sudden wave of pain surges through her abdomen.

“Lieutenant!” he half-yells, chidingly. Riza winces again when he circles his arms around her torso without any warning. “You shouldn’t be doing that.”

“Hypocrite,” Riza manages, weakly.

Another burst of pain renders her speechless soon enough, and then she’s gripping onto the bed rail like it’s a lifeline.

Roy ignores her comment well enough. Gently, he adjusts her back into bed, the hem of his black wooden scarf tickling her cheek as he does so. She mutters something about propriety and regulations, but Roy ignores that as well, instead bringing a cup of water to her lips. Riza sips at it slowly. She hadn’t realised how dry her throat was; it makes her feel like she's just swallowed sandpaper. Like she’s back in the desert.

Riza mumbles a thanks when she’s done and leans back against the hard pillow, bringing a hand up to shield her eyes from the sunrays. She is so very tired. She thinks she could use another shot of morphine, possibly another day in bed, but there are bigger, more important things at hand, like —

“How did the rest of the mission go?”

“We’ve managed to sort everything out, Lieutenant,” Roy reassures, frowning at her priorities. “Don’t worry about it. Worry about yourself, first.”

“You’re being hypocritical again, sir.”

“Maybe, but we can save this argument for another time.” His tone brooks no disagreement, and before Riza can so much as protest he’s already taken the liberty of laying her back down. “For now, rest.”

“I’ve been resting for two days, sir.”

“Clearly, you haven’t had enough,” he says, smirking in a way that makes her want to pull the trigger on him. Regrettably, though, the hospital has a no-arms policy, and she finds that even the pistol that she always keeps hidden on her thigh has been removed. Riza huffs. “Since you haven’t shot me yet for putting you in bed.”

“I will soon enough,” Riza mutters, but the words sound tauntingly hollow to her ears. Her eyelids are starting to feel heavy again. She can feel herself slowly ebbing away, drifting back into a void.

“I look forward to that. And Lieutenant?”

“Yes?”

As much as she tries to fight it, being awake for the past ten minutes has taken a toll on her still-battered body, and she’s unbelievably exhausted. Being so drugged up probably doesn’t help, either.

“Do not, under any circumstances, risk your life like that for me. Ever again.”

That’s what a bodyguard is for, is what Riza wants to say, but sleep reclaims her before she can properly protest, and it’s dark again. (She thinks she’d managed to articulate a resolute no, though.)

—

The rest of the unit, along with Rebecca, visits her the next morning.

Riza manages to remain civil and courteous throughout the entirety of their fussing — which is a miracle, she thinks, when Rebecca and Havoc are sobbing like she’s actually dead. (Riza rolls her eyes and pats Rebecca on her hand when nobody’s looking, hoping the contact will provide some confirmation that she is still in fact among the living.)

Falman, Breda and Fuery are, thankfully, a lot more composed than them, although Fuery himself looks like he’s well on the verge of crying too. Riza distracts him expertly with questions about Hayate’s well-being, and he perks up immediately at the mention of her beloved pup (who’s presently under his care, because he’s the only one she can entrust Hayate with).

“Alright, alright, the Lieutenant needs her rest,” Roy announces at last, much to her relief. As much as she appreciates their concern, she does need her rest, and she will probably need an extra dose of morphine, too; Riza can feel the ache in her side starting to flare up again. “It’s time to go.”

Riza hears a chorus of get well soon, Lieutenant, mingled with a couple of tearful goodbyes. (Rebecca mumbles something about Roy being a selfish prick who’s kidnapping Riza for himself and warns Riza against Stockholm syndrome. Riza rolls her eyes and tells Rebecca to stay away from shitty soap operas.)

Riza waves at them as Roy ushers them out. When the room is empty again, he turns his undivided focus back to her, and asks, “Are you feeling alright, Lieutenant?”

“I’m fine,” Riza insists, although her mind is already devising a way to ask for morphine without him noticing. She’s sure that he’ll kick up a fuss if he realises that she’s in pain; the last thing she needs is him moping around day and night like a kicked puppy.

Slowly, like she’s testing the waters, Riza eases herself up - with some uninvited assistance from her commanding officer - and breathes heavily, resting her head on the pillow. She notes the weird contraption around her waist and stifles a childish groan. The fact that it’s still there means that she’ll probably be wheelchair-bound for a while, but she’s already starting to feel restless from being stuck in bed for so long. (Riza wonders if this was how Roy had felt, when he had been hospitalised after his affray with Lust. She thinks she can better empathise with his decision to recklessly discharge himself now.)

“Are you hungry?” Roy asks suddenly. Riza shakes her head, but he continues anyway. “I made chicken soup.”

Riza watches, somewhat nonplussed as he extracts a thermal flask from an insulated bag and sets everything up on the overbed table. The sudden role reversal discomfits her a little. Riza feels strangely out of her element, being cared for like this (when it’s normally the other way round).

“Thank you, sir,” she says, both embarrassed and touched by his concern. “You didn’t have to trouble yourself —”

“It’s no trouble at all, Lieutenant,” he interjects gently, smiling.

Riza shrugs and sips at the homemade soup wordlessly. The warm liquid glides down her throat easily enough, and she lets out a hum of approval, pleasantly surprised by the sudden display of culinary talent from her commanding officer.

“This is really good, by the way. Since when did you learn how to make such good chicken soup?”

“Since ten tries and a burnt kitchen.”

Riza almost sputters. “What?”

“Just kidding. I’m not that bad of a cook,” he says, grinning as he ladles out a bowl for himself.  Riza stares at him disbelievingly. Burning down a kitchen is not something altogether impossible for him, considering his track record of culinary mishaps. “Really, Lieutenant. Give me some credit. I’ve improved quite a fair bit since my days as a teenage boy.”

“Well, this proves it, for sure,” she says, and his grin widens.

“I’m glad you like it.”

Riza offers a small smile of her own in return.

“I do, thank you.”

They eat in companionable silence. Riza is relieved to note that his mood has improved somewhat. since the last time she’d been awake. She might’ve been too drugged up to fully comprehend her surroundings previously, but she had been conscious enough to note the anger and frustration, the worry in his tone when he’d reprimanded her for her recklessness. And it’s easy to understand why was mad; he’s always had a peculiar habit of putting his subordinates above his own well-being.

Still, Riza doesn’t think she’s done anything wrong. She’s simply doing her job, and he’s simply being overprotective. She is his bodyguard, after all, and that itself entails sacrifice where necessary. And she would do it, in the blink of an eye, if it means keeping him out of harm’s way.

But Riza also knows him well enough to know when to back down from a losing argument, and so she simply pretends that conversation never happened. She’s satisfied with the way things are between them — for now, at least.

Above all, she’s just relieved to see that he’s safe.

—

Later in the afternoon, a nurse comes in to check on Riza.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Better,” she says, even as the growing ache in her side threatens to expose her lie. Roy looks at her, unconvinced, and Riza feels a sudden, uncharacteristic impulse to give the nurse a hug when she ushers Roy out for privacy reasons. She’s not really the hugging sort, but this nurse - Jade, Riza notes, from the little white name tag hanging from her breast pocket - definitely deserves one. “When can I be discharged?”

“Not so soon, my dear.” Jade clucks her tongue, as if disappointed that Riza had even asked such a thing. “We’ll have to keep you around for at least a week more, but you should be able to start physiotherapy in a couple of weeks.”

Riza visibly cringes when she hears this. Two weeks is a long time to be hospitalised, and she’ll probably be out of commission for a while at this rate — especially if physiotherapy is involved. (Throw in an overprotective boss in the mix, and she’s basically done for.)

“Is it possible for us to start physio earlier?”

“No such luck, sweetie,” and Riza cringes again, this time at the term of endearment. She’s always been a little uncomfortable around nurses like these, simply because the military doctors are usually the stoic, no-nonsense with no time for coddling.

(Between the two, though, she’s not sure which she prefers, but Riza decides she just hates hospitals in general. The rooms are stifling and smell like a mortician’s lab, even though it’s a place that is technically supposed to keep her alive and nurse her back to health.)

“I’ll be fine. Really, I’m feeling much better already.”

Jade sighs, the disapproval apparent on her pretty face. “Have you even tried walking yet?”

“No, but -”

“Good, you shouldn’t. You’ll have to use a wheelchair for a few days, before switching to a walking frame.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me,” Jade confirms, sounding a little more apologetic this time. “I would strongly advise against trying — unless you want to risk worsening your injury, you’re better off staying in bed.”

Riza frowns, very much displeased with her current predicament. As she’d predicted, she is, in fact, wheelchair-bound, but she hadn’t thought that she would have to rely on a walking frame, too. She’s never had to rely on one before — not since she was first trying to learn how to skate on the rink that one winter as a girl of ten.

“I’m sorry,” Jade says, patting her on the hand sympathetically. “I’m sure you’ll get better soon, with time and rest.”

Riza shrugs, feigning nonchalance. She’s irritated at the situation, but there's really not much she can do right now other than rest. Besides, her commanding officer will find a way to keep her here somehow even if she tries to escape.

“Alright. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, do you need anything else? More painkillers, perhaps?”

Riza nods grimly. She turns away as the nurse administers another dose of morphine, and adjusts herself on the pillows in helpless resignation as she waits for it to take effect.

“Take good care of her. She’s a stubborn one.”

Riza hears these words faintly, through the charged, cottony silence filling her drug-addled mind. She tries to protest, but the words seem to come out like garbled nonsense, and the last thing she hears before falling back into unconsciousness is something that both irks and warms her heart immensely.

“I will.”

—

Riza begins her first physiotherapy session exactly a week later.

By some stroke of luck, she’d managed to bring it forward, after proving to the doctors that she had, in fact, made a rather speedy recovery — even if said recovery meant that she was still mostly stuck to a wheelchair. Her commanding officer hadn’t been too pleased, of course, but it was still worth being able to get out of her room and get up on her own two feet.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy, though. Recovery is an agonisingly slow, painful process. Riza finds herself trembling, just from supporting herself with a walking frame. It feels like someone is repeatedly stabbing her at her side, and she has to pause every now and then just to catch her breath.

Riza grimaces. She hasn’t felt this winded since the last time she’d had an awful case of bronchitis. Her legs are like jelly, and there’s a sheen of sweat that’s starting to stick to her fringe from all the heaving and wincing she’s been doing the past five minutes.

Still, Riza forces herself to keep going. She’s had worse, anyway, and this is nothing compared to the survival camps she’d endured back in the academy.

(It’s also nothing compared to what Havoc is going through.)

“Now try to put your left foot forward, Miss Hawkeye,” the physiotherapist says, and Riza follows suit, thinking of her friend as she takes her first steps. “Very good, now slowly, with the other foot.”

Riza continues as instructed, even as a fresh jolt of pain shoots through her side. Riza grits her teeth and staggers forward. She has to do this. She has to get better soon for the unit, for him. It’s bad enough that he’s already missing one subordinate, and she would rather die trying than be a liability.

(The thought of being an additional burden on his already worn shoulders is simply unbearable.)

—

“How did your first session go?” Roy asks later that evening, when he comes around to visit her. It’s already way past visiting hours, but Riza doesn’t need to ask to know that he’s probably charmed some poor, ingenuous nurse into breaking the rules and letting him in.

“Fine.”

Roy frowns. “I still think you should have waited for a bit longer before —”

“I’m fine,” Riza insists. The exhaustion is beginning to creep up on her, and she doesn’t think she can sustain much of a conversation - much less an argument - today. Riza notes the dark rings under his eyes and immediately softens. Guilt creeps into an overworked system, urging her towards a feeble attempt at reassurance. “I promise, sir. Don’t worry about me.”

Roy stares at her meaningfully, and then sighs as if to say, you know that’s an impossible request. He offers a wry smile.

“Alright,” he says, making himself comfortable on her bedside stool. He folds his arms across his chest and yawns, joking about increased paperwork and reduced efficiency in his absence, but Riza can tell that he’s still in a sombre mood; she doesn’t need to ask to know that he’s been beating himself up over her current situation.

Riza knows, however, that it’s not something that he’s particularly keen on discussing, and so she plays along with a teasing shrug.

“I hope you’re not slacking off, sir.”

“Oh, you know me. I wouldn’t dare.”

“I’ve known you long enough to know about your atrocious work ethic, sir.”

He laughs. “I’ll work on that, Lieutenant.”

“Good.”

—

Roy continues visiting her the following evenings, after her physiotherapy sessions. He’d insisted on tagging along at first, but Riza had convinced him that it was better for her to do them alone. It’s bad enough that the nurses are starting to think that there’s something more than a strictly professional relationship between them.

Besides, he’d made a promise to not skive off at work. That had been enough to get him off her back in the afternoons, but not enough, apparently, to prevent him from breaking in and visiting her at night.

“You don’t have to come every day, sir,” Riza says, because she knows he’s been basically shuttling between her and Havoc. The fatigue is obvious on his face; his complexion is paler than usual, taking on an almost sickly tone, and the rings under his eyes are starting to become almost bruise-like.

“Nonsense,” he scoffs. Riza rolls her eyes, because he’stalking nonsense. “I’m fine.”

“You look tired.”

“Is that meant to be a jibe at my appearance?”

“Yes,” she deadpans, pointing at the stubbles on his chin. “You haven’t even shaved today.”

Roy waves a dismissive hand as he carefully pours out her favourite congee into a bowl. “I still managed to charm my way in, so I’m sure I’m still as good looking as ever.”

“With all due respect, sir, you’re not.”

“Really, now, don’t be insubordinate —”

“I’m serious, sir.”

Roy regards her with abject horror, and heads to the bathroom to fix his stubbles while she slowly savours the steaming bowl of congee that he’s left on the table. Roy leaves an hour later, and at first Riza thinks he’ll take a hint and take the day off tomorrow, but he shows up the following evening, anyway, remarkably clean-shaven this time.

—

As much as Riza knows that her expectations are unrealistic, it’s disheartening to see that she’s still having trouble walking. It’s been nearly two weeks since surgery, and she’s received feedback that she’s making tremendous progress in physiotherapy, but it’s still too slow. She’s still not discharged. She’s still not allowed back at work, she’s still mostly confined to bed, and —

And she’s still useless.

She hates it, of course, but there’s really not much she can do right now. She can’t return to work without her commanding officer filing a restraining order of some sort, and she can’t discharge herself without an entire army of hospital staff hot on her tails.

She can, however, get past the nurses who are a little too preoccupied with the rumour mill. And so she does. Riza wheels herself furtively into a lift without attracting attention, and, having brought along her inconvenience of a walking frame, takes her rehabilitation into her own hands. She ventures out into the hospital garden, clumsily pushing herself towards standing. The floor is cold and the air tastes salty, but it’s the most alive she’s felt in ages. Her first step is shaky, and so is the next, but she is walking without supervision. Taking baby steps.

Riza smiles, even as her arms tremble from having to hold up her entire weight. She soldiers on anyway, persisting in her hobbling. It’s a strangely liberating feeling to walk by herself after weeks of enduring multiple sets of watchful, paranoid eyes.

But maybe she’s overestimated herself. The ache in her side returns with a vengeance, without warning, causing her to pause in her tracks.

Riza leans against the railings, gasping for breath. She presses a hand to her side as another wave of pain strikes. She’s a far cry from her usual athleticism, now. She doubts she’ll be able to ace the annual military fitness test this year like she normally does (she’s never fallen below the gold standard since graduating from the academy).

“Hawkeye!”

Riza stumbles when she hears her name. She only just manages to latch onto a nearby railing, but her limbs seem hellbent on giving way. She braces herself for the impact, expecting to fall flat on her face, but a hand reaches out to steady her from behind just before she crashes to the floor.

A little more than relieved, Riza exhales shakily and clutches onto her walking frame, with both hands this time.

“Hawkeye,” she hears again, and she knows instantly that she’s in for an (unnecessary) lecture.

“Sir,” she heaves. “I’m alright. Sorry for the scare.”

“What are you doing here by yourself?” Roy exclaims, and she shushes him with a displeased glare.

“Keep it down, please. We’re in a hospital.”

“Exactly,” he huffs, his voice taking on a reprimanding tone. “You shouldn’t be out and running about by yourself. Where are those nurses, anyway? Why isn’t anyone keeping you company? What if —”

“Sir,” Riza stresses, her irritation seeping through. The last thing she needs right now is to be treated like a helpless child. What she needs, actually, is some affirmation that she’s still a valuable asset to the team. Still useful. “I’m fine. You worry too much.”

“You’re not helping with that, Lieutenant.”

“The last I recalled, you were running around with a similar injury.”

“Yes, but I was an idiot, and you’re not.”

Riza smiles. “I can’t say you’re wrong there.”

“Anyway,” he continues, clearing his throat as if to regain some of his lost dignity. “You were nearly caught in an explosion, and then shot by a bullet. That’s far worse than getting impaled in the gut.”

“When you put it like that, I’m not too sure which is worse, sir,” Riza says. As much as she appreciates his concern, the double standard is beginning to grate on her nerves; she thinks he should at least be grateful she hasn’t broken out of the hospital by sheer force yet.

Roy huffs. “Stubborn as always, aren’t you?”

To that, Riza simply shrugs. She leans back against a nearby vending machine, enjoying the fresh air and dim lights for a bit before being forced to go back.

Roy regards her with a meaningful look like he’s debating whether to scold her or something else. Something she doesn’t want to expressly acknowledge. Not yet, at least — not during this crucial period of their lives that could very well dictate how the rest of it will go.

(But this is how it’s always been, Riza thinks. They’ve never needed words to convey the unutterable. In many ways, their actions have always spoken louder than its verbal counterparts, and it’s probably best for them to keep it this way, to suppress the felonious sentiments that they’ve already kept so closely guarded for years.)

“Put your feet on top of mine, Hawkeye.”

“Sir?”

“Just do it. You’re not that heavy,” he says, gently pulling her forward so that she no longer has the vending machine for support. Something nudges at her toes, and Riza raises a brow, as if to question whether he’s genuinely serious about this. “Go on.”

“You could end up with two broken feet, sir —”

“In which case I’ll get an extended leave from work, so really, that’s a win-win.”

“Seems like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” Riza says. She laughs quietly at his antics, and she doesn’t need to look at him to know that he’s smirking triumphantly, like he’s just bested her in a game of chess.

“Of course I have. Now get on, it’s better than walking around like you’re fully recovered.”

And because she knows better than to fight a losing argument, Riza just does as she’s told.

Gingerly, she puts her feet on top of his, mindful to not fracture anything. Roy pulls her close to him, wrapping his arms around her torso — whether to prevent falling, or to embrace her, she’s not sure, but she doesn’t mind, not really. Being shackled to a hospital bed for two weeks is enough to make her crave and cave into human contact.

“This feels an awful lot like we’re dancing, sir.”

“Again, a win-win.”

She rolls her eyes. “How very opportunistic of you.”

Laughter rumbles from his chest, genuine and unbridled.

“You know me. I would never pass up on an opportunity to dance with my favourite subordinate.”

“I’ll be sure to relay your message to Havoc, sir.”

“Thank you,” he says, and Riza bites back a laugh at the obvious sarcasm. “Alright, now just follow my lead. Move your left foot back.”

She does as she’s told, again. Roy repeats his instructions for the other foot, and the cycle repeats, until they’re trudging around in small circles. It’s like graceless dancing, Riza thinks, observing him silently as he frowns from concentrating so intensely on their every step. It’s just like when he’d first tried to teach her how to dance. (Dancing around campfires during the pumpkin harvest had never really been her thing - in part because it involved copious amounts of socialising and talking, and in part because she was born with two left feet - but it had been Roy’s, evidently. She hadn’t the heart to rain on his parade, and so had reluctantly obliged when he’d asked her to dance.)

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, sir.”

His frown deepens, and he stops moving for a moment.

“Are you tired?”

“I’m alright, sir.”

“You always say that,” he murmurs. “But I don’t want you to overdo it. Let’s get you back.”

Riza sighs resignedly. She is starting to feel exhausted, but there’s a part of her that doesn’t want this shared, private moment to end, either. She’s been enjoying it more than she should. More than she would ever admit.

“Alright,” she says, but Roy surprises her and pulls her in for a hug.

“I just wanted you to know that you’re not useless, Riza. Not at all.”

Her throat runs dry.

“Sir?”

“I know you’ve probably been feeling that way,” he continues, running a hand through her hair, now limp and sickeningly dry from all the time spent away from sunshine and conditioner. “Which is why you’ve been pushing yourself so hard. But I promise you you’re not. You could never be.”

Riza chews on her bottom lip contemplatively. She wants to ask how he’d read her mind, but there’s no point asking questions that she already knows the answers to. They’ve known each other for a long time, after all (she knows he must’ve been thinking the same thing during his earlier convalescence, too).

“I - thank you, sir.”

Roy nods, his chin tickling the top of her head.

“Besides, that word is meant for me, not for you.”

Riza laughs, but it comes out muffled as he continues stroking the back of her head.

“Your level of self-awareness today is off the charts.”

“I know,” he smirks. “Shall we?”

She nods, and Roy guides her back into her wheelchair. Their extensive experience with covert operations is particularly handy during a time like this; Roy manages to somehow evade all of the staff on duty and successfully wheels her back into her room without arousing suspicion.

Riza is so enervated that she practically sinks into the mattress without protest, even as Roy helps her in. She eyes him as he makes himself comfortable - as comfortable as one can be - in the old, lumpy chair beside her.

“Sir,” she croaks out. Riza clears her throat and tries again. “Sir.”

“Yes?”

Riza shifts a little to make space. She’s thankful that it’s already evening; she’s pretty sure she’s blushing by now, because she’s never been so bold, so forward before. (He’s usually the one taking initiative when it comes to things like this, but the unhealthy pallor in his skin is enough for her to make an exception.)

“You should rest, too.”

“I am, Hawkeye.”

She shifts a little more to the side. He gets the hint.

“Well, since you’re asking so nicely —”

“I'm not asking.”

Roy laughs, but he slides in any way, military regulations and meddlesome nurses be damned. They’ll be fine, Riza thinks; the nurses aren’t known to be particularly alert past midnight. Besides, Roy is probably sensible enough to get out before dawn, and if he’s not, he’ll probably charm or bribe his way out somehow. She’s not normally so cavalier about breaking the rules, but Roy deserves a night of proper rest, at least. It’s the least she can do after all he’s done for her.

“If you say so.”

“I didn’t,” Riza insists, stifling a yawn. She’s so tired that she thinks she might fall asleep while talking. “Get some rest, sir.”

“You too, Hawkeye,” he says, yawning as he pulls the miserable excuse of a blanket over them both. “Sleep well.”

Riza feels the ghost of a kiss on her temple, before her world becomes blissfully dark.

[eeveearoace-creative]

merry christmas! have some angst ^-^

Anne groaned as she slowly opened her eyes to what looked like a black void.

“Where…?” she pushed herself up, looking down at her hands to realize that they were made of bright blue light. “What…?”

Distant orange buzzed at the edge of the darkness, impossibly far away and yet eerily all to close at the same time.

The only other figure in the blackness was a small girl made up of green energy curled up just a few feet away, sobbing into herself.

“Marcy?” Anne whispered, sharp tears beginning to sting her eyes as she stared at the small green shape balled up on the ground, whimpering.

The glowing green creature didn’t respond.

“Mar-Mar?” Anne tried again, taking a step towards the girl and reaching out her arm to rest a bright blue palm on her friend’s shoulder.

“Just stop it,” a voice that was so distinctly Marcy wailed. Anne froze. “You’re not real, I know you’re not real, so just leave me alone!”

“Mar-Mar,” Anne breathed, crouching down next to her friend as the small girl curled impossibly deeper into herself, sobbing.

“Hey, it’s me,” the blue girl murmured. “And I’m real, I promise.”

“No, you’re not,” Marcy whimpered, still not looking up at her. “You’re not, you’re not real, I won’t let you trick me again.”

Again? Anne blinked.

“Hey, Marce? Look at me. I don’t know who you think I am, but it’s really me, I promise.”

Marcy hesitated for a moment. Taking a deep, reluctant breath in, the glowing green girl slowly opened her eyes.

And despite the fact that Anne still had no clue what was going on, she knew this was wrong. Marcy’s eyes weren’t supposed to be made of orange light.

“… Anne…?” Marcy whispered. “You’re… you’re blue?” She put a hand to her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Holy frog, you’re real… you’re actually real…”

A strangled sob forced its way out of Anne’s throat as she wordlessly wrapped the bright green girl in a tight hug.

“I… I thought…” I thought I lost you. Anne put her hand on the back of Marcy’s head, holding the other girl as close as she could. “I was… I was so scared…”

“I’m so, so sorry,” Marcy sniveled. “I, I hurt you and Sasha so much… it’s all my fault…”

“Hey, hey, it’s…” Okay? It’s not okay, but… “You made a mistake, alright? And you didn’t deserve what happened to you, you never could.”

“Anne…”

Then Marcy started screaming.

“Marcy?” Anne fretted, stumbling backwards. “Wh-what-”

Orange ran like tears, like blood from Marcy’s eyes, overtaking the green light that made up her body. She screamed and clawed at her eyes, orange coating her hands and running up her arms. Her body twitched and trembled before beginning the spasm violently, the young girl screeching in pain.

Anne called out her friend’s name, but she didn’t respond.

Then, completely overtaken by orange light, Marcy stopped moving.

“Marcy…?” Anne whispered, reaching over towards her.

The orange girl smiled before responding with a cold voice that wasn’t hers.

“Hello, Heart.”

***

Anne woke up in a cold sweat.

[restlessfandoming]

“the president and the troublemaker” (part 12) (chilumi fic)

“Lumine is the student council president and Childe is the school’s number one troublemaker. They cross paths more than they’d like. Especially when Childe finds out Lumine’s big secret. Highschool AU à la Kaichou wa Maid-sama.”

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7] [part 8] [part 9] [part 10] [part 11]

[Fic Masterlist] // [AO3 Link] // [Main AO3]

i know these be delayed af :’) i am trying very hard :’)

* * * 

the president and the troublemaker (part 12)

“The winner gets to go on a date with Lumine,” Venti said.

“Sounds like a deal,” Childe agreed. 

“Hold on!” Lumine interjected sternly. “I haven’t agreed to any of this.” 

Venti and Childe both turned towards her—Venti much more scared, embarrassed, Childe much more amused, inquisitive. 

“I’m not going to be fought over like some stupid carnival prize,” Lumine seethed. 

“Ah...sorry, LuLu…,” Venti said quietly. 

Childe regarded Lumine for a second. “Okay,” he said, turning to Venti. “How about just a regular competition then? No prize.” His blue eyes glinted. “Except pride of course.” 

Lumine rubbed at her growing headache. Why is he so dramatic? “You two do whatever you want. Just don’t make me a part of it,” she told them, sitting down on a nearby bench to spectate. 

Venti also glanced at Lumine, before nodding to Childe. “Okay. Pride it is.” 

“Highest score after...six arrows?” Childe suggested, examining one of the arrows. 

Venti nocked an arrow on the bowstring. “How about only three?” 

Childe scoffed. “Getting a little confident, are we?” 

The bard drew back his arrow, and fired. The arrow sliced through the air, implanting into one of the gold rings on the target—the ring just outside the bullseye. 

“I’m not confident without reason,” Venti said with an all-knowing laugh. 

Childe looked at Venti’s score, a slight twitch of a smile on his lips. “Not bad. A challenge—I like it.” 

“Childe,” Lumine said, brows furrowed, “since when did you do archery?” 

“Since never,” he answered, nocking an arrow, then drawing it back. Even with no knowledge of archery, Lumine could tell his posture was all wrong, the tilt of the bow too slouched—compared to Venti’s refined stance. 

“There’s always a good time to start,” Childe finished. He fired the arrow, the arrow landing in the black ring near the edge. Venti held back a snort, and Lumine’s eyes flickered to Childe’s face. 

His eyes were slightly narrowed, focused on the arrow. She expected them to be void of light, as they were when he was deeply serious, however there was a sharp glint now—the promise of struggle. 

She knew he loved competitions (why else would he be pursuing the same career as her?) but he hated anything that came too easily. He found solace in turmoil. He found solace in coming out on top after a dark, bloody battle. 

“How about we call this a practice round?” Venti said with a cheeky grin. 

A smile from Childe while his eyes remained unmoving. “Where’s the fun in that?” He turned to Venti. “Your turn.” 

The bard blinked warily at him a few times, before prepping for his second shot. This time, the arrow landed further from the center, planted into the middle blue zone. 

“Drats,” the blue-hair boy hissed. 

Instantaneously, Childe fired his second arrow, finding it in the same blue zone. He tilted his head, shifting the bow around in his hands, inspecting it. 

“Your turn,” Childe said again, still examining the bow in his hands. 

Venti wordlessly raised his bow, one eye closed for precise aiming. He took longer lining up this final arrow.

Is he actually worried Childe’s going to beat him? Lumine wondered. There was no way, right? Venti had training while this was Childe’s first time handling the weapon. 

Venti fired the arrow, completely still as they all watched it soar through the air. 

It landed in the blue. 

He let out a sheepish laugh. “Seems like I’m a bit rusty,” he said. After a moment, he shook his head, setting the bow down. “No worries, LuLu. Childe has no way of beating me,” he whispered to her. 

She nodded; that’s what was expected, wasn’t it? Then why do I feel disappointed?

Childe stepped up to the line, bow and final arrow in hand, rolling his shoulder. Then, he threw the arrow at the target. 

He threw the arrow at the target. No bow used. Just his hands. Like a javelin. 

Venti and Lumine’s eyes widened as the arrow slammed into the gold circle—the same gold circle Venti had hit earlier. 

Childe looked at the board briefly, an obvious look of pride on his face as he turned back towards the two. 

“What do you think of that, Pres?” he asked. 

Lumine huffed and rolled her eyes. “Very impressive,” she said sarcastically. “Only you would think of doing something like that.” 

“I must say,” Venti said, “Though unorthodox, you picked it up quite quickly.” He smiled and held out his hand. “A good game, sir!” 

Childe raised a brow, a tiny smile at his lips as well. “Good game,” he echoed, accepting the handshake. 

Well, that went better than expected. Honestly, she had expected Childe to sock Venti in the face, and she was glad this was the outcome instead.  

“How about another game?” Venti suggested. 

“Watch out,” Childe said. “You might end up being the loser next round.”

“At least I wasn’t the loser this round,” Venti retorted with a stuck-out tongue. 

Lumine sighed. And there they were, back to bickering. “I need to check the time. We’ve got to get back to the bus at some point,” she told them, standing up to head back to the lockers. 

She stopped in her tracks. 

Even from across the arcade, she could see a man pulling out her white messenger bag from her locker. And he already had Childe’s and Venti’s belongings under his arm. 

Without a second thought, Lumine lunged, sprinting across the building. 

“Wait, LuLu! Where are you going?!” Venti shouted behind her. 

At the sound of Venti’s yelling, the thief’s head snapped up, and he immediately noticed Lumine running at him. His eyes widened, and he booked it out of the arcade with all their belongings, and disappeared from sight. 

Lumine made it to the front of the building, stopping to look down the streets for a sign of the thief. 

Behind her, she heard Childe and Venti catch up, panting. 

“What’s wrong?” Childe asked. 

“Thief,” she spat. “Took all our stuff.” Her eyes scanned the streets.

A flash of white in an alleyway. Her bag. 

Without a word, she dashed towards the alley, Childe and Venti following her lead. 

Turning into the alley, she saw the thief, still running. The thief had slowed down, just a bit, but seeing the three students barreling towards him, he picked up speed, turning a corner down another narrow alley. 

He led them through a maze of narrow alleyways, crossing them through street after street. 

Lumine’s lungs were on fire, as were her legs—every alarm in her body screaming to stop—but she needed to catch that thief. Her hearing was all tuned out, save for the pulsating rush of blood in her ears, and her eyes tunneled in on the thief. I have to catch him. I have to catch him. Ihavetocatch—

Someone grabbed her arm from behind, yanking her to a stop. 

!!!

With the adrenaline coursing through her veins, she immediately used the momentum to swing around, leading with a powerful punch. 

Childe easily deflected her punch with his forearm, and—before she could try to kick—he swept his own leg under hers, knocking her off her feet. 

She felt like she was falling backwards in slow motion, watching panickedly as Childe let go of her arms. Her mind was bewildered at the notion that Childe would purposefully let her fall like this—he had always saved her so what was he doing?

But then he scooped his arms under her, catching her in a princess carry, one knee on the ground. 

The air rushed from Lumine’s lungs, and she let out hoarsely, “Why did you do that?” 

There was a slight frown tugging at his lips. “Lumi, you were about to run into an intersection.”

Lumine blinked, and the world filled in around her. 

The thief had in fact led them to a bustling intersection, and only now did she hear the WHOOSH of speeding cars rush past them. She glanced around; if Childe hadn’t stopped her on the sidewalk where they were, she would’ve run straight into oncoming traffic. 

“You didn’t have to do all this,” Lumine grumbled, climbing out of his hold. 

“You didn’t have to punch me,” he replied, one hand still on the small of her back. 

Venti jogged up to them from the alley, out of breath. “Wha-Why are we stopped?” he managed to get out. 

“Unless you want to become roadkill, the chase ends here,” Childe said, pointing at the street. 

Lumine bit the side of her cheek, eyes still searching the area for any sign of the thief. There was nothing. 

“Uhm, quick question guys,” Venti said. “Where are we exactly?” 

The three of them looked around. 

The area was completely unrecognizable. In their desperate chase, the thief had led them far away from where they had started, with no way of knowing how to get back. 

Lumine cursed. “Did any of you keep your phones or wallets on you?” The two guys shook their heads, and Lumine let out a frustrated groan. “How are we going to get back?” 

“We could ask around for help?” Venti suggested. 

“Not going to happen, unless you know how to speak Chinese,” Childe countered. 

“It’s worth a shot,” Lumine said with a sigh. She started walking down the sidewalk, looking for any passing civilian or store. 

They seemed to be in a more residential area, more run-down than modern. It definitely looks like a sketchy part of town...

After some time, they reached a small stretch of commercial buildings. However, the buildings were even more run-down than the previous houses, and dark figures were huddled around the vicinity. 

A group of three men stood outside of a rusty pharmacy, eyeing the students as they approached. They all donned a sort of bandana masking their faces, and arm guards wrapped their wrists. A treacherous aura surrounded them. 

Maybe we shouldn’t ask here…, Lumine thought. Before she could turn them all around, Venti stepped forward towards the men.  

“Hello, gentlemen! Could you guys show us the way to the Stone Gate?” he said, completely oblivious of the situation. 

The men looked at each other, and the tallest one with a sleeveless blue vest, stepped forward. “Are you kids lost?” he asked. 

“Oh, Archons! You fellas speak English!” Venti cheered. “Yes, we got separated from our school field trip.” 

Lumine glanced at the other two men, hearing a whisper of, “Look at their school uniforms. They must be rich.” 

She looked over at Childe. He was also assessing the group, and she noticed him subtly stretching. He was preparing for something.

Childe looked at Lumine, and she nodded at him, already reading his expression. He nodded back at her, turning to the group. 

The two men in the back were obviously beginning to size up the three of them, while the leader was still speaking with Venti, stalling. 

Venti...always too trusting of people. 

“So, you kids are on a school trip?” the leader asked. “Long way from home, right? You bring a lot of cash with you?”

Venti sheepishly rubbed the back of his head. “Oh, yeah, I guess. But funny thing is—”

The man pulled out a knife. “Okay, so here’s what you all are going to do. You’re going to give us anything of value on you, and we will send you on your way to the Stone Gate...unharmed.” 

The two other men pulled out weapons as well, one with a sharp broken bottle, the other a hammer rusted with dried blood. 

Venti took a step back, gulping audibly. 

“Or,” Childe said, raising his fists. “How about you leave us be, and you escape...unharmed?” 

The men laughed boisterously. “Look at this kid. Trying to be tough—how cute,” one of them mocked. 

“LuLu, we have to run,” Venti whispered to her, eyes darting back the way they came. 

That would have been the sensible option. The men had weapons, they were older, they were crueler. 

But seeing these men reminded her of her painful past, the very past that fueled her through her entire life. Because these men, that thief, were exactly like her father. Putting others in pain while they got off without consequence. 

Not today. 

Lumine raised her fists also, standing alongside Childe. “Last warning,” she said lowly. 

The men burst out in laughter again. “Wow, these kids are funny!” 

“What are you guys doing?!” Venti hissed. 

“Don’t hold back, girlie,” Childe murmured. 

“Never,” she said. “Big one together.”

Childe nodded. 

The two of them crouched. Then, they sprang forward. 

Catching them off-guard, the two of them focused on the leader first. Lumine threw out a high kick, hitting the leader right in his knuckles, while Childe slammed his knee into the man’s gut. 

The man dropped to his knees, his knife clattering to the floor, before his crew even registered what happened. They cried out in surprise, and Lumine kicked the knife far away. Childe applied a swift hit to the back of the leader’s head, registering him unconscious.

Childe and Lumine turned to the two other men. 

“Well?” Lumine asked them. 

“Are you two still up for the challenge?” Childe said.

The one with the bottle growled. “Damn kids need to be put in their place.” He charged at them, the one with a hammer following suit. 

Glass bottle slashed at Lumine. She quickly jumped back, and he jabbed forward towards her. Too slow. She ducked, and he slammed into her shoulder. She then wrapped her arms around his waist, squatting to utilize her lower center of gravity, and easily lifted him with the strength of her legs. She threw him back over her shoulder, letting his head crash into the ground. He went limp in her arms, unconscious just like his boss, and she let his body fall to the floor.

She turned to Childe just in time to see him uppercutting Hammer. Hammer stumbled back, cradling his jaw. But he still lifted his weapon, ready to throw it right at Childe’s head. Lumine started to jump towards him, rushing to disarm the man. 

Then something whistled by her ear, and collided with Hammer’s hand, and the weapon clattered to the floor. A sizable rock fell next to it.

Lumine turned to see Venti holding a similar rock, aiming, and ready to throw. Of course Venti hit with that much precision. 

“There’s more where that came from!” he shouted. 

In Hammer’s stunned state, Childe easily threw a powerful punch at his face, and the last member was knocked unconscious.

The three of them stood still for a second, all panting into the otherwise silent street. 

After a while, Venti’s eyes flickered between Lumine and Childe.

“So…,” he breathed. “You two...want to explain what just happened?”

Lumine’s own breath hitched as the realization dawned on her. 

Venti had just witnessed her fighting. Her secret side. Shitshitshit—

“You can do crazy things when your body is pumped full of adrenaline,” Childe said, massaging his hand. 

She nodded, eyes sending a silent Thank You to Childe. “I needed to protect you, Venti,” she said. “My body just went on auto-pilot I guess.” 

Venti dropped the rock in his hands, a frown now visible. “No...that looked...coordinated. Trained. Not just some random street moves.” 

Lumine swallowed the lump in her throat. She glanced at Childe, who was only silently observing her now. 

She knew what Childe was doing. He was watching to see what she was going to do. Was she going to lie to her dear childhood friend? Or was this childhood friend so precious that she couldn’t do that? 

Venti devoted so much of himself to her—he loved her. He was always that shining beacon of optimism for her. He believed in her. 

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t lie to him. 

Lumine stood up straight, looking Venti in the eyes. 

“I’m a professional fighter.”

* * *

[part 13]

[omniscientwreck]

To Belong

Alright here’s some hurt/comfort as requested. Canon divergence where Caleb wasn’t able to dispel Gaudius’ hold on Essek. 

One of Lucien’s many eyes looks toward him and everything slows. Warmth seeps in through his pores, sinking in through skin going straight to his head. He hears their call and for a moment he resists but, why would he? 

He’s never belonged. He didn’t belong in Roshona, surrounded by religious zealots blinded by the comfort that comes with trust. Incurious, simple minded fools. He didn’t even belong with the Nein, not really. None of them trust him, he’s been eclipsed by his sins and nothing can break through to them. 

He needs a blank slate, if he is to belong anywhere he has to be able to start over completely. That is what Gaudius offers, a new beginning, no judgement, no proving himself. He doesn’t have to work for their acceptance and love fills his heart. The Somnovum will take him as he is and there’s never anything he’s wanted more.

Everything is clearer now, these people were never in it for him. He drags his hands, beginning to pull at the strands of gravity as Lucien fills his mind with the power he can achieve once he’s one with them. When he joins the city.

The human lifts his hand to cast at him and without even thinking he waves his hand to counter the spell. “Essek no!” The blue tiefling looks horrified, feigning care even now. 

He curls his fingers in, pooling gravity and thrusts his hands forward, centering the darkness on the wizard who’s toyed with him for nearly a year. The effect isn’t immediate but it will pay off, he’s sure and those caught inside, the humans, the clerics, the angel, the halfling will feel it’s effects soon enough. 

The firbolg is the first. He hasn’t taken much damage but this seems to get to him. As Essek’s fingers clench he crumples like paper and Essek squeezes before releasing. He flies as far as he can but it isn’t far enough. More will come. 

Up next, he feels the thief resisting, she’s strong and muscles through but it’s not pretty. Her form stretches briefly as he pulls and stretches with two hands before snapping back into place and he’s sure she cries for the wizard who cannot hear or see her. Something twinges in the back of his mind but Lucien calls out again and he remembers the family waiting for him. 

The monk tries to appeal to him through her newfound abilities, she seems to be able to see through the darkness. She tries her hardest to reach some part of him still foolish enough to turn away from happiness and towards them, he hardly listens. She moves to run out of his grasp but just before she can make it he grabs hold and twists. Her body contorts and he can almost feel her crumble away, but she gains control and she just barely breaks out of his grasp. 

He feels Caleb try to resist but his efforts just aren’t enough. He looks Essek directly in the eyes, and he hears whispers of the wizard’s voice try to get through to him, “You must break free, we need more time”. Essek’s face stretches into a wicked grin at this obvious manipulation tactic (I will show you belonging the way he couldn’t bear to) as he twists his wrist and pulls down, compressing the body in front of him. The wizard nearly leaves his influence but he’ll have another chance to take him down. 

The angel didn’t stand a chance. She can’t resist the pull of his gravity and even if she could scream the monk’s name she wouldn’t be able to see her or save her. As he finishes with her his mind drifts back to memory, spurred by the wizard’s sweet words. We need more time. It will take time. You were not born with venom in your veins. Something snaps in the back of his mind and the Nonagon’s whispers turn to acid in his mind. He can see properly, he drops the spell and turns to Lucien, screaming as he turns on the beast with nine eyes, unleashing a torrent of inky black lightning, hitting him square in the chest. 

-------

The battle is over and by some strange grace they’re all alive. The Nein are both celebrating and consoling each other. In the end they appealed to Molly and, for the second time, he was his own undoing. 

It feels like intruding to be there, he who has done another irrevocable deed. He would leave immediately if he still had the energy but that effort is insurmountable. Caduceus had gotten them back to their own plane and they’re resting in an open field, surrounded by Caleb’s alarm spell, taking turns at watch. None of them are quite ready to be around their loved ones quite yet, needing one more night together as a family before dealing with the gravity of what they’ve accomplished. 

Fjord holds Jester, keeping an eye on the horizon and whispering comfort as she silently cries into his shoulder. Beau and Yasha are curled together trying to sleep, Caleb has Frumpkin around his shoulders and Veth is curled into his side, Caduceus’ legs overlapping with Fjord’s in the tight space. There’s hardly room for Essek to sit in this small circle of sombre camaraderie, and the emotions of his travelling companions are simply too much for him so he stands to put some distance between them. Just for a moment. Just so he doesn’t have to look them in the eyes.

He stands, knees cracking and makes his way out to he open field. Nobody seems disturbed, none of them react and nobody calls after him. In the night air he’s met with stars and silence, the night sky used to comfort him. Now it’s a void he could be swallowed in and with the way he feels right now, he wishes it would. 

His hair is coated with somebody’s blood, his body is battered and bruised and his spirit is shattered. They’d taken him along to help, they’d allowed him such an important opportunity to redeem himself and he’d nearly killed them. He’d made it far easier for Lucien to knock them down, luckily Caduceus and Jester had been focused and able to heal quickly enough. He’d ended up being a burden and once again a traitor. 

“Essek.” He hears his name, a warning so he isn’t startled. Caleb’s voice drifts on the breeze, “Are you alright?” 

He sighs, letting his head fall and squeezing his eyes shut. “No.”

“Let’s sit.” 

He obliges, silent, waiting for Caleb to set the tone. 

“You need to know we do not blame you for what happened. Yasha turned too, these things are not our fault.” 

He can’t bare to look over but he does anyway. Caleb’s eyes shine with worry, furrowed brow pulling creases into his forehead. “It could have turned out so badly Caleb. That magic, it’s made to kill. You are all very lucky for your ability to escape and my comparative lack of experience in battle. I could have turned you to dust.” 

Caleb sighs, “Guilt over hypotheticals is a waste of your time and energy. You could have, but you didn’t. We’re all still here, and we wouldn’t be without you. Don’t let yourself fall into the trap of comfortable self-loathing, you’ll waste years.” 

“You couldn’t understand Caleb, I was convinced. I didn’t even want to resist. It was only-” he pauses on the brink of the confession and decides to throw caution to the wind, “It was only you that brought me back. My mind wasn’t my own, I was imprisoned and lied to and I was stupid enough to believe it.” 

“I understand more than you know.” He looks instantly older, Essek has frequently wondered what Trent had done to Caleb to take such a bright and excellent man with so much kindness in his heart, and turn him hard. “I have been deceived, lied to, it lead to my worst moments. I’ve told you we are not so different and it’s clearer now more than ever. If there is redemption for me, as I’ve been assured many times there will be, you will find yours.” 

Essek shakes his head, “It would have been nobler for me to die for the world than to continue this pathetic existence. It would have been a just end, poetic and balanced. Now there’s so much unresolved I don’t know where to start or where to go.” 

Caleb’s hand covers his on the grass, “Well, we can start by researching, it’s what we do best. Everyone else has someone to go to, family to see, something to go back to. I only have forward momentum, more to learn and see. You could join me, we can go back to Aeor and see what comes.” 

Essek nods, “I do not deserve that but because I am a selfish creature I accept your offer.” 

Caleb squeezes his hand and he looks up again, into his eyes, “It does not matter what you think you deserve. You are not the decider of what I offer you.” He has a fierce look about him, he may have hit a nerve, “Trust that I know what I want and when I say I want you with me it’s not out of pity or some savior complex. Let me offer you this and quell any self-pity or doubt. I’m not obligated to like you or want to be around you, but I do because I like you Essek. I think it should be plain by now that I like you a great deal and I hope that you will come along with me, to see where this leads us.” 

Despite himself, Essek turns his hand over under Caleb’s and tentatively laces their fingers together. He’s seen him do similar things with the Nein and when Caleb doesn’t flinch he relaxes a bit. “I will trust you in this. I am also quite fond of you. Thank-you, for your words. For your trust. One day I hope to feel worthy of such a gift.” 

Caleb squeezes his hand and leads him back to the tent where they sit side by side wordlessly before falling asleep, still holding hands.

[lesetoilesfous]

Karl/Anders with “Staring At The Other’s Lips, Trying Not To Kiss Them, Before Giving In”? 🥺

Aaaaaah this was such a good prompt anon, thank you! Sorry for taking so long to respond!!! 

(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)

@dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Kanders

Characters: Anders, Karl Thekla

Tags: the Circle is awful, reference to Qunari mages, reference to infanticide

Rating: Mature

There are one hundred and eighty two reasons as to why this is a bad idea. Karl has been keeping track. There’s a notebook stitched into the base of the mattress he got when he moved into his new Enchanter’s quarters that is almost entirely dedicated to the subject of exactly why he cannot become infatuated with Anders. The rest of the book’s pages are dedicated to extended laments about the fact that it seems to be happening anyway. 

Anders, for his part, is oblivious, speaking faster than Karl can easily follow, flushed with exhilaration after his latest prank. He keeps glancing at the door to Karl’s quarters, jumpy as a first year apprentice. It is doing nothing for Karl’s nerves, and both of them fall silent at even the faintest sound of metal on stone, expecting one of their many faceless keepers to burst in and drag Anders down to the Circle dungeon for his latest misdemeanour. This is reason three as to why this is a bad idea. 

Anders’ long, clever fingers flutter as he tries to illustrate his story, nails bitten to the quick, knuckles scraped berry red with his latest scrape. The thin slot of sunlight that squeezes through the envelope of glass permitted at the top of the Circle’s bricked up windows has been scraping ever farther down the length of Karl’s modest quarters. Anders has been here for three hours, easily two hours longer than it would have taken anyone to notice. But Karl has not yet been able to ask him to leave. This is reason forty-eight as to why this is a bad idea.

There’s a small scar just below Anders’ bottom lip: a sliver of silver skin that almost blends into the paleness of the rest of him. Karl remembers the day it happened: Anders had been shouting something about one of the apprentices, and the templars had assumed he meant violence. At the time, Karl himself hadn’t been sure: with his red-blonde hair loose and snarled with a long night of sleeplessness, Anders had looked like Andraste herself come back from the Void to pick a fight with the Maker. They’d Silenced him, and Rhian had punched him, and her gauntlet had split his lower lip and chin open. The children had screamed, and Anders had spat blood onto the floor. By the time he’d been subdued, the chance of magical healing stopping the scar had long since passed. Now it sits beneath his lip like a fang, forever bare and glittering. This is reason seventy-two as to why this is a bad idea.

“Karl?” Anders’ voice is softer than it ever is anywhere else in the Circle tower. Karl startles, and looks down to see Anders’ expression touched with humour. “Where did I lose you?”

Karl begins, “Ser Rylen -”

Anders laughs, rough and low and warm, and rubs a hand over his forehead. “So, all of it.” His thin lips twist into a rueful grin. “Sorry, it’s been a weird day.”

Karl has never heard Anders apologise to anyone else. (This was reason eighty-five.)

He shakes his head, leaning forward and moving to squeeze Anders’ knee before he catches himself, hand freezing in midair as his fingers curl, and he draws back. When he looks up, Anders is watching him, pointedly. Karl clears his throat and gets to his feet, fishing a water jug from the shelf and two rough wooden cups. “Do you want a drink?”

Anders snorts, and before Karl has a chance to prepare for it, he’s standing right behind him, smelling of sweat and books and elfroot. Anders’ body is warm, and slightly taller than Karl’s, and when he speaks he breathes into his ear, taking the cups out of Karl’s frozen hand, covering the back of Karl’s fingers with his own. “Allow me.” A shiver ripples down Karl’s spine. This is reason one hundred and six.

There’s the sound of a cork popping free from a flask, and suddenly the eye-watering stench of potato vodka. Karl blinks, rapidly, and raises both eyebrows at the oval shaped leather flask Anders has whisked from somewhere in his robes. (Reason one hundred and twelve). “Where did you get that?”

Anders rolls his eyes, and passes Karl a cup. “Don’t be such an Enchanter.”

Karl shrugs, and drinks the vodka in one bracing gulp. It burns his throat with bitter heat as he swallows. “I cannot be anything other than I am.”

Anders slouches back down onto the bed, long arm resting on Karl’s desk. He’s already pouring himself another cup, and gestures wordlessly for Karl’s. “What is that, the Qun?”

Karl accepts the cup, and feels a rush of heat when Anders’ fingers brush over his, again. He forces a shrug, and lifts the cup to his lips in a vague effort to hide his burning face. He tells himself it’s the alcohol. “Koslun had some interesting philosophies.”

Anders huffs.”Is it the sewing their mage’s mouths shut, or the blinders that got you? I think it’s the massive fucking collars for me.” Karl frowns, lowering his cup.

“We only know what we’re allowed to know about them. Those reports might be - “ Anders raises an eyebrow, eyes yellow and catlike in the evening light. Karl falters “- exaggerated.” (Reason one hundred and thirty.)

A muscle in the corner of Anders’ narrow jaw twitches, and the frown on his brow doesn’t quite ease as he drinks. His expression is dark when he speaks, gaze directed squarely at the stack of letters Karl has been drafting to the Brotherhood. “Yeah, and Tevinter doesn’t kill children. Don’t get your hopes up. It’s probably exactly as ugly as we don’t want it to be.”

Now Karl does rest a hand on Anders’ knee, and tells himself he doesn’t hear it when Anders catches his breath. The other man looks up at him with eyes a little wider than usual, lips faintly parted and pink as the roses in his mother’s garden. Karl squeezes, fingers scratching against the rough wool of Anders’ Circle robes. “What happened to all that youthful idealism?”

Anders shrugs, and his narrow shoulders are bony and angular, even smothered by the shapeless fabric of his robes. He doesn’t move away. “I grew up.”

Karl shifts a little closer, until his legs bump Anders’, and he catches the long, scarred hand resting on his desk in his own, winding their fingers together. Anders is always cold. Karl suspects it’s a circulation issue, as the Circle is only ever anything other than temperate when the charms malfunction, and that doesn’t happen often. He’s always colder than Karl. (Reason three.)

Karl glances at the door. There are no shadows creeping below the threshold, but he waits for six heartbeats all the same. When none come, he returns his gaze to Anders, and speaks in a murmur. “You know, I always thought idealism was a choice.”

Anders huffs, but his fingers squeeze Karl’s so tightly it almost hurts. The envelope of sunlight that makes its way into Karl’s quarters has begun to scrape its way over Anders’ head, glittering against the gold and ginger in his hair. “A stupid choice.” Anders’ tone is bitter, and he swallows after he speaks. Karl tries not to wonder what happened today that he doesn’t know about. 

Outside, there’s the sound of heavy metal boots on stone, regular and inevitable as a heartbeat. Anders moves to pull back, but Karl holds him, gently, firmly. Anders’ nostrils flare as he glances sidelong at the door. The shadow that stretches beneath it distorts like some half-remembered demon, blackening the dust below the wood. Karl can feel his heartbeat in the back of his throat, heavy and bruising. (Reason one hundred and seventy nine.)

The templar moves on, the crunch of metal on stone echoing against the Circle tower walls before it eventually fades into the ever-present murmur of every other person living here. Anders lets out his breath in one great shuddering gust, and Karl resists the urge to do the same. Both their palms are sweating. (Reason one hundred and eighty.)

The sunlight by now has scraped down past Anders’ shoulders and the back of his head, lighting his eyelashes gold and illuminating the pale ghosts of what might be freckles, if they were allowed to step outside into the sun. His brown eyes are yellow and gold and his nose is long and crooked with breaking. He is terribly beautiful. (Reason one hundred and eighty one.)

Karl swallows in an effort to dislodge the lump in his throat. “Idealism isn’t a stupid choice. It’s a brave one.”

Karl can feel Anders’ eyes on him, can feel every movement of his body, as close as they are: every shaking breath, and the way each one shivers down his long legs. He can’t stop looking at Anders’ lips. Anders’ holds his breath, and the sunlight slips down over his chin and into his lap.

Fuck it.

Karl leans in, and kisses him. He feels Anders’ exhalation tickling against his moustache and beard, feels, after a moment, the pulling curve of a smile against his lips. And then Anders’ free hand is plunging into his hair, scraping against his scalp as he presses him closer with a soft hiccoughing sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and over the astringent, bitter taste of the vodka in their mouths, salt makes its way onto Karl’s tongue as the skin against his cheek dampens with tears. Anders squeezes his hand so hard it hurts, and pulls back only for a heartbeat to breathe, forehead pressed against Karl’s as he laughs, breathless and low. “Finally.”

Reason one hundred and eighty two: I love him.

[mae-gi-writes]

From Now On | Kevin (The Boyz)

You break down with Kevin when a loved one passes away.

Genre: angst, fluff, sad, mention of death, Kevin moon is an angel 

A/N: for a very special soul. <3 I love you. Stay strong. 

----

Numb. Empty. Void.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“My sympathies.” 

“She was an amazing woman.” 

A hand on your shoulder. You don’t bother looking up, “I can’t imagine how hard it must be.” 

No, you think to yourself. You can’t. Because right now, I am walking through hell. 

There is an abundance of hushed murmurs that fill the room where your mother lays in her casket, looking so ethereally beautiful and serene with her eyes closed and a tinted pink flush scattered over her cheeks. But that’s all a lie, for you know exactly without looking too closely that her chest isn’t rising and falling as its supposed to be. 

“Y/N,” another hand on your shoulder, though this time you recognize the sadness etched in your older brother’s tone. Turning to see Hyunjae’s composed features, what gives him away is the puffiness of his eyes, the scarlet tint to his nose. 

Almost instinctively, your hand reaches out to grasp his arm. A reminder that you are here, with him. Next to him. 

“I can’t find the sandwiches,” he croaks out in the shell of your ear, quiet enough so that no one can hear, “could you help me find them? I think the guests--” 

At this point you can already feel his voice choke up and trip over itself. You squeeze his arm in a gentle manner, “I got it,” you send him what hopes is a sweet smile, though it can hardly pull up your cheeks, before slipping away intot the kitchen. 

It’s impossible to navigate through the swarm of bodies currently littering the corridors. You maneuver yourself to the best of your ability but soon get yourself trapped between a few older women who claim to be your mother’s old classmates, which does not help the tide of pain wrenching through your chest and practically snapping your heartstrings in two every single time the reminder echoes through your mind. 

“She was such a dear! So talented! You look just like her you know,” one of the ladies say with overzealous flair and with tears dotting her eyes. It makes you feel sick, though you manage to plaster a shaky smile.

“It’s sad that I didn’t even get to say goodbye to her,” another sniffled into her tissue. 

“It must be ten times worse for you, Y/N,” they throw you a bunch of watery-eyed gazes and it takes all of your self-control not to scream in their faces to leave you the fuck alone.

You take a step away, “Sorry, I’m just really busy. I’ll talk to you guys later--”

“But wait Y/N, we want to know more,” one of them cry out. 

The other tugs onto your arm, “we can’t believe it happened. And she was so young too.” 

Your brain is screaming at you to run away. To hide. Anything to stop the slow pain spreading through your limbs and causing you to freeze up, your heart clenching and your lungs squeezing so hard through your chest. It’s hard to breathe. Like drowning underwater. Ears blocked and through raw.

You don’t realize that you’ve stumbled back a few steps their arms pull you forward. The women keep on talking over you in hurried sopranos, their voices bouncing around in your skull and causing your head to pound. 

It’s too hard. It’s too much. The memory of your mother’s face surges up through you. The way she died, unfairly, too young. Tears gather before you know it and you can’t breathe and can’t breathe can’t breathe --

“Sorry, I’ll have to steal Y/N for a bit.” 

A hand clamps down on your shoulder, pulls you away. The voices fall away and you take this moment to focus yourself on the warmth of the hand gently holding on to you as its owner steers you away until you are clearly out in the terrace.

It is only then that you manage to let out a shaky exhale. Your headache clears, just a little bit.

And it is only when he speaks that your eyes slide up to the said voice in question.

Kevin gazes down at you wordlessly, maroon orbs soft in the dim afternoon light. 

“Hey, you okay?”

Gratefulness rushes to your heart, just as your eyes fill with unexpected tears. 

You burst into sobs. 

It takes only a second for Kevin’s arms to wrap around your shoulders before he tugs you over to his chest, and as you bawl your eyes out at the unfairness of the world that you can’t even say goodbye to that one person who’s been present from the moment you were born, your hands find purchase onto his shirt if only in a pathetic attempt to stop yourself from getting overwhelmed by the amount of emotion that rips through your throat in the form of hoarse whimpers. 

“Shh,” Kevin mumbles a bunch of sweet nothings in your ear and though you loathe the fake sympathy that comes with a crowd that barely knows you and much less what you are currently going through, you can’t find the energy to push your boyfriend away.

After all, you do trust him more than yourself. For once, you allow your walls to come down. 

You cry and cry and cry. 

You cry, until there seems to be nothing left of your tears, until your tear ducts have dried out and until your entire body seems to be shaking with barely restrained tiredness. 

And through it all, Kevin holds on to you. He holds on like he’s never planning to let go, and your hands clench a little tighter, you hold him a little closer. 

A while later, after almost all guests have vacated your house and after you’ve managed to nod at Hyunjae when asked whether you’re doing okay, you manage to retreat to your room with Kevin in tow, his hand holding onto yours and providing you with a warmth that brings you comfort. 

He sits beside you on your bed as you both watch the sun set in the distance, pinkish hues dominating the sky and painting it in various shades of golden orange and red.

It’s beautiful and yet saddening at the same time to see the first day go by without your mother’s gentle voice floating from the kitchen. The emptiness lingers in the air, a void that mimics the hole in your heart. 

I miss you.

More tears slowly well up at the corner of your eyes and you quickly wipe them away adamantly. You’ve cried enough these past few hours. Enough is enough.

I’m sorry I never told you how much I loved you.

Kevin’s thumb rubs comforting circles over the back of your knuckles. In the silence, you allow yourself to bask in his presence. 

That is really all you need for now. Nothing more. Nothing else.

Just time. Time to heal. Time to suffer. Time to just exist until the pain ebbs away.

I’m sorry I took you for granted.

“Y/N,” Kevin’s soft murmur reaches your ears, “you want to talk about it?” 

You shake your head before biting your lip so hard you taste blood.

“Okay,” he mumbles. That’s when he beckons you into his arms, an embrace that you gladly accept as you crawl into his lap and curl up -- head pressed against the crook of his neck and hands held close to your chest -- as his head comes to a rest atop yours, but not before pressing a gentle peck to your forehead. 

“You know,” his words are muffled against your temple, lips moving against your skin with lingering warmth, “you don’t have to hold it in with me right? I don’t--I care about you. I don’t want you thinking that I can’t handle it. Because that’s what I’m here for.” 

God. This man. A sob almost crawls out of your throat. So you nod, grip his shirt a little tighter. His scent washes over you, a mixture of pine and a dash of coffee mixed in with a boyish smell that comes from his deodorant. 

 It makes you feel at home. At ease. At least with Kevin, there’s no playing pretend.

You’re unsure whether you fell asleep in his embrace, but before you know it your eyes are drowsily fluttering open to meet Kevin’s back. You go to call out his name, only for the smell of fried food hitting your nostrils and turning your head to catch sight of the plate of untouched food by your nightstand, your heart can’t help but melt a little at his thoughtfulness. 

Noticing your movement, the said young man turns before smiling down at you softly, “hey,” he murmurs gently, practically throwing his phone on the other side of the bed and crawling over to where you lie, “you hungry? I brought food. Or rather, Hyunjae did.” 

You know you should eat. God knows when was the last time you’d eaten. But the thought causes your stomach to churn slightly and you shake your head.

“But Hyunjae brought your favourite: meat buns,” Kevin pouts ever so slightly, and pairing that with the slight rumble of your stomach makes you cave in. 

So you nod and he grins back at you, quickly scrambling to your bedside so that he can feed you before you can even protest. You find you don’t have the energy to, only watching him peel off the wrapper and break it into small, bite-sized pieces. 

“Ah,” he holds one out to you and you accept it begrudgingly. You’ve never been too fond of being taken care of. But at this precise moment, you can’t find it in yourself to argue, especially since Kevin has been nothing but your pillar of support throughout the last few hours. How you would’ve managed without him, you don’t even know yourself. 

As he feeds you the rest of the bun, he talks aimlessly about the food vlog on youtube that he’s just binge-watched and how he wishes to visit New York someday to be able to try out all these fancy street foods that keep haunting his dreams. Somewhere along the line, you realize that it’s a little easier to swallow, a little easier to smile up at your doting boyfriend talking animatedly while swinging his arms around. He always does that whenever he gets overexcited. 

Right now, he’s moved on to talking about safe driving on roads implemented by AI technology, “seriously though, it’s kind of scary how technology can do everything these days. At this point we’re not going to  have a zombie apocalypse but rather a robot apocalypse. Can you imagine?” 

“Then they’d be easier to kill, wouldn’t they?” you mumble out, and while it is soft and barely coherent, Kevin’s ears perk up at your participation. That’s probably the first word that falls from your mouth ever since you woke up.

“I guess so, unless they’re already programmed with a hundred of ninja combat moves or something,” he shrugs, moves a little closer to wipe off a few bits of flour stuck to the corner of your lips, “maybe they can even google search it and analyze movements within seconds,” he shudders at the thought, “ooh, scary.” 

“Kevin?” 

“Hm?” his eyes peer into yours, coffee-coloured orbs swirling with naked affection, hand pushing away a stray strand from your face. 

When you speak next, you feel a sob catching in the back of your throat, “thank you,” you swallow hard, “for everything.” 

It happens all too fast. The way Kevin’s arms reach out to swallow you up once more in a bone-crushing hug that leaves you breathless, his lips permanently pressed to your forehead before he nuzzles his nose into your cheek. 

“You don’t have to say thank you,” he murmurs in-between the smallest of pecks he litters across your cheekbone, “that’s what I’m here for.” 

The familiar sting of tears cause your eyes to grow glossy, but this time it’s almost as if your own heart feels a little lighter, a little less burdened. Sleeping had done you some good, and eating had appeased the swelling ache in your stomach.

But Kevin. Kevin had definitely patched up a band-aid over your heart. 

"I know it’s going to be hard, these few months to come,” Kevin continues in a gentle murmur, “but from now on, if you feel like you cant handle it, you have me.” 

Your murmur out a soft agreement, but that doesn’t seem to cut it, for Kevin’s fingers clasp your jaw to tilt it upwards. Your eyes slide to his, intense and persistent. 

“Y/N, I got you. Okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. 

He keeps on watching you for a few more silent seconds. Satisfied then, he pulls you back against him, tucking your face into the crook of his neck once more and placing a chaste kiss right upon your left eyelid, then right eyelid. Then down to peck your lips as your breath stutters out shakily. 

“I’ll be there.” 

It’s a promise. A promise for better days. And hugging him a little tighter, you can’t help but believe in the hope laced through Kevin’s words.

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