#i wanted to write emotional hurt comfort

[kavalyera]

𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 ?

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : Two friends meet again as kindred in an unfamiliar world

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : oc x oc, can be read as romantic or platonic, use of filipino words, emotional comfort

An embrace was painful, and living beyond that—knowing that one has a second chance was even more painful. David didn’t want to be embraced. He didn’t want to become this, he’d much rather die in the fire than become whatever the Anarchs and the Camarilla thought him about to be.

His motorcycle set aside, and David is looking over the Pasig on the Binondo-Intramuros Bridge. He has a short while before he’s back on the run again, on the run from everything. The Camarilla, the Anarchs, and his fellow clanmates.

He wasn’t—in his own thoughts—meant to live this long.

How long has it been since his embrace? Seven years maybe. Maybe eight. Time passes by with no reason and David doesn’t care much about it anymore. He’s grown past being that kalye kid that they say keeps fighting. Maybe he’ll turn back to God if God listens. Maybe he’ll listen, the Father almighty is just like his own father. Powerful, neglectful, significant in the eyes of others. He’s been abandoned in more ways than one—

“Oks ka lang, pre?” You good, bro? Asks another voice that’s all too familiar. David almost flinches when a hand touches his back, resting near the back of his neck. It’s almost instict to fight or run.

“Marianne?” David looks up at her and there she is again. Marianne. Mary. Marie. Anne. Mars, as their classmates once called her from elementary to senior year of high school. She hated that nickname, it was “too overused” she frequently said.

“I’m May.” She sits down next to him on the edge of the bridge, her forearm resting on her knee and the other foot dangling off the bridge, her sandal seemingly about to fall into the river but it doesn’t.

“Why are you here?” David asks.

May looks at him, taking his red tinted glasses and the world is clear and bright again. Manila in the night. There was her again, wearing his glasses and had seemingly changed herself. She was different, but still so familiar.

“I heard you died. I didn’t want to miss your funeral, you know?” May replies back with. “I went there, they told us your body was burned. I cried a lot, I remember our math teacher from grade-ten was there. Sir Oscar, yata.” Sir Oscar, I think.

“Miss niya ako?” He misses me? David asks back in return. “Di ako naniniwala sa ‘yo.” I don’t believe you. David smiles. Of course he knows Sir Oscar.

Sir Oscar was always a good man. David couldn’t bring himself to visit the old man past his retirement. He didn’t want to bring chaos to an elderly man’s life, he had a wife and kids. Well, his kids were grown and were in different places. His wife was dead, the man was living in peace, close friends with the teachers he called his coworkers still.

“Of course he misses you, whenever no one was raising their arms he called you back then ‘cause he knew you’d always get the answers right.” May says. “I thought you died.”

“Well…” David looks at her.

Does he really want to tell her what he’s become? In an instant, he was in agony, sharp burning engulfing him whole. His arm, he remembers, felt so cold from the burning sensation that it hurt. He was a tough boy, everyone knew that. But at that moment, David cried. He felt tears as pain washed over him. He was not tough at that moment.

“I heard you were making a name for yourself.” May says. “Tondo made you their Baron.”

David’s eyes shoot up to her back from the black waters of the Pasig river in the night. She knew of Barons, she knew of the Anarchs, she knew of the Camarilla.

“Hm?” David asked back for her to clarify.

“I got embraced.” May said. “Gangrel, or however you say it.”

“Oh, right.” David nodded slowly.

Cars passed by behind them. Manila was glimmering as the lights from buildings seemed to twinkle like stars in their warm, golden lights. Some were cold lights, cold and harsh.

“I’m a…” David rolls his hand. “Brujah.”

May snorted. Then she laughed. They both laughed. David found himself laughing with her and suddenly they were high school students again coming back home after a long day of quizzes, shit-talking, and writing lecture after lecture in their notebooks.

“Mangkukulam?” A sorcerer? God, David wishes. It’s probably much better than feeling the urge to resolve everything with his fists.

“I wish.” David shakes his head. “That’s Tremere, I think.”

“Ah.” May clicks her tongue, tilting her head to the side. “How have you’ve been?”

“On the run, and stuff.” David says. “I don’t…”

He’s not sure. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t like kindred life. Everyone else seems different, like they’ve settled into this reality of theirs fairly easily and David, even with being crowned Baron of Tondo, he still doesn’t seem to know what he is or what he wants exactly. He doesn’t know what to do, he’s alone, he’s afraid. He knows those three facts all too well.

“I’m not sure.” David says.

“Ohhh….” May replies back with. “On the run, why? What happened? They didn’t tell me anything, they just told me they made you Baron of Tondo.”

“De Silva doesn’t have an official blood hunt on me yet but it’s clear she wants me dead.” He puts it simply. Crossing her path is a death sentence on its own.

The entirety of Manila is a Camarilla paradise. Every kindred coaxed into submission by the higher authority, forced into obedience through fear and lies. David is fighting a losing game, he knows that. Fighting against a city with monsters much older is a loss.

“But why are you still here?” May asks.

David thinks. Why is he even in Manila? Everything was without a label and yet everything was tying him down to Manila.

“I need to try.” David says. “Try and fight. I’m not going to let Prince de Silva have total control. I’m not gonna let her have that peace of mind.”

May looks at him through his red tinted glasses, before she rests her head on David’s shoulder. “I’ll join you. You don’t have to do it alone.”

thank u sm for reading ueue ! ^_^

[wikiangela]

I'm here for whenever you need (to put it all on me)

bucktommy rating: G words: 2.4k summary: Buck and Tommy have a short conversation after running into Tommy's old Captain at the medal ceremony.

[read on Ao3]

___

“That’s really sweet, baby.” Tommy says, making Buck’s heart skip a beat. He loves when Tommy calls him that, just like he loves when Tommy uses his name instead of nickname. It just sounds so special coming from him. He makes Buck, Evan, feel special. “But I can take care of myself.” “I know you can. But you don’t have to.” Buck shrugs, and if that’s even possible, Tommy’s face shifts into something even softer, filled with affection and awe and endearment. Something else flashes through his eyes, something Buck thinks he recognizes, but it’s way too early for either of them to feel or say it. They’re definitely getting there, though, quicker than he’d ever expect.

[read on Ao3]

[pastafossa]

"You’re who I want." (Michael Kinsella x F!Reader)

Time for Day 3 of the Tuna-Tober prompt challenge! For Day Three, I chose to combine the fluff and angst prompts ("I feel real when I'm with you" and 'Broken'), and I also decided to try my hand at one of Charlie Cox's other characters for once, that being our favorite sad, tragic, sweetheart of a mobster Michael Kinsella! You can see the rest of the prompts I've chosen here if you'd like to know what's coming this month from me. Also, if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications! And off we go!

Ship: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader

Wordcount: 2k

Warnings for this fic: mentions of blood, kiss at the end, angst (but with a happy ending obvs)

It was Birdy that called you right as you were getting ready to settle in for the night, the heavy downpour a drumbeat against your windows that you’d hoped would lull you into a peaceful sleep. But that wasn’t in your cards tonight, it seemed. 

“He’s headed yer way. Things… didn’t go well tonight.” 

Not for the first time, you quietly cursed the way the Kinsellas had dragged Michael back into their business as you dug out the first aid kit, setting it beside a change of clothes and a few clean towels to help Michael dry off from the rain when he arrived. You didn’t care what the Kinsellas got up to on their own time, who they sold to and what their family business was. What you cared about was whether Michael had actually wanted this. You knew he'd had different plans when he'd finally gotten out of prison, plans of a quieter, more peaceful life. But he was a loyal man, one who was endlessly devoted to his family, and that loyalty, that devotion was something Amanda was all too happy to take advantage of. 

You had thoughts on her, too, but much like your night's rest, it would also have to wait. 

 “We lost a few o’ ours. He managed ta turn it around at the last second, but… Well, the family argued after. Things were said to him, and…”

Some nights, nights much like these, you wondered just how long Michael had left before he broke beneath the weight of expectation and grim responsibility. It was a burden he shouldered without complaint, even as it became clear he was destined to crumble beneath it. In the two years since you’d met that beautiful, quiet man in a small coffee shop, you’d watched those brittle cracks form, line by line. Over time, as he'd gradually begun to let you in, you’d discovered far deeper fissures that lay buried beneath his fractured armor. Your lack of fear, your absence of judgement over what he’d done in the past, had only pried open that door further until he sought you out with regularity, just as you did him. Time passed, and your orbits revolved closer and closer together, spiraling planets caught inescapably in the pull of each other’s gravity.   

Neither of you had named what this was between you. But if he could find comfort here, safety here, then you’d happily give it. 

 “Just… be gentle with him, dear.” 

Somehow, even the quiet knock at your door sounded exhausted. You hurried out of the kitchen where you’d been filling up the kettle—you’d learned very quickly how important it was to have it ready at all hours when you’d moved to Ireland—and headed down the warm hall to the front door. You unlocked the door and tugged it open, letting in the roaring sound of the pouring rain and a gust of chilled, bitter wind. 

“Oh, Michael,” you whispered. 

He was soaked down to the bone, his dark hair plastered against his skin as he leaned tiredly against the doorframe, his body wracked with shivers from the cold. What was worse: even with the rain, you could still see traces of blood on his shirt and his hands, with more of it leaking steadily from a ragged split on his lip. Fortunately, only the blood on his mouth seemed to belong to him. He tried to throw you a small smile, but it was far too crooked, too brittle to be real, and you had a feeling his eyes weren’t red because of the rain. The moment he realized you didn’t buy the act, that shield fell away, and you were left with just Michael at his most exposed, empty and limp on your doorstep. 

“That bad, eh?” he asked tiredly, trying for dark humor and missing by miles.

“Shit, get in here before you freeze.” You caught his sleeve and tugged him forward until you could shut the door behind him. He didn’t fight you on it physically, for which you were grateful, but he couldn’t seem to resist at least a little verbal stubbornness. 

“I’m gettin’ yer floors all wet,” he said distantly. Without the need to pretend, his tone had gone empty and lifeless, drained of all energy as if he’d used up what little he had left on the walk over. He dropped his head slowly, staring down at the growing puddle of rainwater on the floor, his face twisting through an unreadable expression. “‘M sorry, pet. I shouldn’t have—”

“Floors can be dried, Mikey.” You waved the objection away, locking the door before turning back to Michael where he was still standing shivering in the hall, curled into himself as if he were reluctant to take up any further space, as if he feared he were unwelcome. And something about it, about the way he seemed to barely be holding himself together, just… broke your heart. “Come here.”

He shivered again, even as he shook his head, arms wrapped around himself. You could almost see him changing his mind, a wave of regret rearing up inside him, flashing in the dark of his eyes, eyes still looking too damp for just the rain. “I’ll… I’ll get blood on ya.” “I don’t care.”

He clenched his jaw, still refusing to meet your eye, a sign of just how bad things had gone for him. Some of the blood on his clothes and skin had joined the puddle of rainwater at his feet, the pale tile darkening to a tinted, rusty pink. And that only seemed to make him feel worse, as it seeped into the grooves and lines between each tile, staining it. “No, I-I shoulda stopped ‘a home first, cleaned up. And it’s late, yer clearly dressed for bed. We can talk another time—”

You crossed the distance between you both before he could take a single step towards the front door. He went stiff and rigid, closed off the moment you pulled him into you, but you let him work through it as you wound your arms tightly around him, hooking the fingers of one hand in his belt loops. You had to make it clear you weren’t going anywhere. You used the other hand to stroke gently down his back, heedless of the water and blood that began to dampen your clothes, breathing in the scent of warm whiskey and leather, of gun oil and fresh rain and blood. “Stop worrying about my clothes or the floors, you silly man,” you said softly, setting your chin on his shoulder. His breath hitched at your voice, his arms still locked between you, a barrier you knew he needed help to break down. “I don’t care about those. I care about you, Michael. No matter what happens, that won’t change. I’ll stand here all night with you if I have to.”

He choked out a shaking breath against your hair, and you could feel it the moment he began to break, his arms tentatively unwinding so his hands could find their way around your waist. Almost as if he were still convinced his touch, his need for comfort would be rejected. Something far warmer than rain dripped against your neck. “Why?” he whispered. “I don’t understand. I have nothin’ to give ya. To give anyone. I keep tryin’ to be what everyone needs, but I can’t even do tha’ right. Why do ya keep openin’ the door for a broken man, pet?”

“You might be hurt, but you’re far from broken,” you murmured, turning your head to lay it on his shoulder as his hold gradually tightened around you, his hands fisting in the fabric of your shirt. Another shaky breath rattled out of him, more of his tears rolling down your throat until he finally let his head fall to your neck, accepting what you’d offered. “I open the door because I just need you, exactly as you are. You’re who I want. So you can let go, Mikey. There’s nothing here you need to fix, no one else you need to be.” 

That was all it took, and between one breath and the next, he crumbled in your arms, the entire terrible night, terrible year, terrible life tearing its way out of him in choked, ragged sobs, the sounds of someone who hadn't been able to let go for some time. You held him as tightly as you could, soft, comforting whispers in his ears, your hands running gently down his back and back up through his hair as he let fall every last wall he’d put up between him and the outside world. 

It took time for that cresting wave of emotion to ease, time you spent with your head on his shoulder, with your chest to his, until eventually the shaking of his body began to slow, his breath easing against your throat into something slower and gentler. Only then did you guide him to the bathroom, setting him down on the side of the tub so you could clean him up. He accepted the care in silence, his eyes half closed, his form slumped and exhausted, drained after the emotional release. You knew better than to press before he was ready—and besides, people had demanded enough out of him tonight without you adding to it—so you let the quiet have its place as you bandaged him up, cleaning the blood from his hands and drying him off without so much as a hint of judgment. Whenever his breath grew a little shaky again, you’d lift his hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles to remind him he was safe.

You left him alone just long enough for him to change, and you were grateful you'd both decided he should keep a few changes of clothes here. It was another unspoken intimacy between you both, this knowledge that your home was a retreat for him just as his home sometimes was for you, even if neither of you had said as much. Once he was changed and he stepped out of the bathroom, dark eyes immediately seeking you out, you tipped your head in a request he follow you before heading towards the bedroom.

He hesitated, and you paused in the doorway, waiting.

It wasn’t every time he came here that you both wound up curled up together. So far, it only seemed to happen on those bad nights, those nights when one of you needed the other’s presence to act as a shield against nightmares, against waves of grief or bloodied hurt. Until now, however, those moments had always taken place on the couch, the two of you dozing off together under the excuse that you’d never intended to fall asleep at all and well, it was late, wasn't it? It was expected. Tonight, however, you just… thought he deserved a bed.

That you and he had never taken this step before hung heavy between you, weighted and intimate as he considered you, his gaze shifting over your shoulder to the open doorway in thought. Neither of you had dared offer access to the other’s bed until now. Hell, you hadn’t even kissed yet, though there’d been… moments when you’d both come close, dancing along that edge, driven by adrenaline or alcohol or just a quiet moment when you both seemed to be drawn into it. But there was no alcohol now, no mistaking the shift in the air. There’d be no going back after this, no more pretending, even if no one had believed either of you before now when you’d both sworn you were simply good friends.

After a long moment… the soft padding of his footsteps began to follow. 

The bed came first, soft sheets and the gradually returning warmth of him, one of your arms draped over his waist as he buried his face in your hair, the two of you twined together so closely that there was no space at all between you. 

Then came his voice, the soft lilt of it soothing you as much as your touch seemed to be soothing him. 

“I don’t know what I’d do without ya,” he murmured, his breath slowly easing down into something like peace, like contentment. He nuzzled at you gently, and you tipped your head up to meet his eyes. The warmth in them stole your breath away, filled with tender light and a devotion so deep you knew you could spend the rest of your life searching for the bottom and never find it. “Every time I think I’ve lost who I am again, yer there to bring me back. I just… I feel real when I’m with ya. I…” 

His eyes searched yours for a moment before he seemed to make a decision. He dipped his head down slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. Instead, you tilted your head back, your hand sliding up to tangle in his damp hair as his lips finally met yours. 

Your first kiss with him was a soft, new thing, fragile as spun strands of glass. His lips still tasted a little of copper and whiskey, skin chapped from the cold night air, but his breath was warm, and his mouth moved against yours with a growing confidence as you leaned into him, using your fingers in his hair to pull him in closer, his beard a pleasant scrape against your skin. His name on your lips was a sigh, a gift to him, one he breathed in as if he wanted to draw it down into the very heart of him. When he finally pulled away, he laid his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering closed as he just... breathed with you. You reached up to stroke your fingers warmly against his cheek, and he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, though he didn't seem ready to open them just yet. “Wanted ta do that for a while, now,” he admitted. “Since not long after we met, if ’m honest.” “I may or may not have wanted the same thing,” you huffed softly, his smile growing wider. 

“Can I take ya to breakfast tomorrow?”

You made a contented noise as you curled into him, and he wound around you, the two of you getting comfortable for the night. It felt… permanent, as if you two had simply been waiting to find your way here, this place you were both meant for. 

“I’d love that.”

And maybe tomorrow... you'd tell him you loved him, too.

[deoidesign]

Hey when your art friends share their work with you, please take note to not turn that into a vent session about how your own stuff sucks... It's just gonna make your friend feel like their art is hurting you, and they're not gonna share anymore.

[munsonify]

desc. when with with your friends at a local diner, you see your ex boyfriend out with a new girl not even two weeks after the breakup. luckily, steve’s there to support you.

blurb • 525 words

you could feel your eyes welling up with tears the moment they laid eyes on him. him and his smug little smirk you only saw when he got something he wanted. it sent you into a spiral, and it was quick. you stumbled on your feet as you were guided towards a booth inside of the dimly lit diner, eyes not leaving what you saw.

he was sat with a girl with thick, curly blonde hair and a wide toothy grin plastered on her face. whatever he was saying must’ve been funny. her hand reached over to nudge his arm gently with a high pitched giggle. it was awful.

your friends knew of the situation - he’d broken up with you only 2 weeks before this, giving some fake excuse as to why he felt like he needed to. it broke your heart. you couldn’t quite pinpoint where it went wrong. you’d just been talking about your future with him days beforehand.

you sat yourself on the inside of the booth you shared with four of your other friends. it was a tight squeeze on your side, but you made it work. your thigh was pressed firmly against your friend steve’s, with the other pressed right up against the wall to your side. even with your knees knocking against his, and the slight stickiness you felt on the table, you couldn’t bring your eyes away from him.

you always had a feeling he’d been embarrassed of you. he’d insist on going on dates late at night, or in the next town over. he’d never ramble about you to his friends, or make an effort to show you off to anyone. it sounded self centered complaining about something like this, but you couldn’t help but feel overly self conscious about the whole thing. seeing him with a new girl, smiling proudly as she laughed at every last dumb joke he made, only made it worse.

it wasn’t until you felt a hand on yours that you pulled your eyes away from your ex. you looked down at your lap to see a third hand accompanying yours, large and slightly calloused and gentle. your eyes drifted to steve, whose eyes were shining right back at you, welcoming. he gave your hands a gentle squeeze, swiping his thumb against the back of your hand closest to him. there was something about him that helped you ground yourself.

steve offered you a soft, encouraging smile, his hand not leaving yours. you let yourself settle in beside him, taking a long deep breath.

he made conversation with you the entire night. his hand barely left yours as you spoke about whatever came to mind - life, friends, silly memories. he spoke to you with such care, even though the conversation wasn’t about your problem and worries. you liked how thoughtful and caring he could be.

steve was a reminder that everything would be okay. it was nights like these that made you remember you had someone to fall back on no matter what. you’d be forever grateful you had someone who wasn’t embarrassed of you. you’d be forever grateful you had steve.

taglist: @songbirdofthenight

[paingoes]

Rubies

Asking

“Aegre fero” here has a double meaning of “I’m sorry” and “It hurts”. Taking some license with the Latin I think. Forgive me.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, comfort!!!, crying, past trauma, conditioning, malnutrition mention, emotional whump, abuse mention, rocky recovery)

=========

Apollo readjusted the dials on the old receiver. He clicked in between the channels of the small device, listening in as best he could through the static. The sheer range of Galatea’s radio always impressed him. 

“-off the Western side now, escalating-“

“-running out of provisions! Just a reminder-“

“-tell Contra if she doesn’t fix her damn-“

“-worst summer in years, but not like-“

“-does anyone not need their kidney-“

Delta came out of his room, slipping quietly out into the hall. His short hair was hard to get used to. It was actually kind of curly when it wasn’t weighed down. Apollo thought it was cute. His expression was totally unreadable, but that was about typical for him. 

“Hey.” Apollo pulled one of the earbuds out. He didn’t move much beyond that. Delta had gotten comfortable enough that he didn’t feel the need to fuss after him nor the impulse to coax him out of hiding. It’d be better to stay still, not spook him too much.

Delta skirted the edge of the couch carefully and knelt down onto the carpet. He folded his arms on the cushion, resting his head down on top of them. It hid his face. Apollo took out the other earbud, leaning forward.

“You okay, bud?” Apollo’s eyebrows furrowed in concern. Delta hadn’t knelt for him in a while. He’d thought that he was getting out of the habit. Delta nodded, his face still buried in the cushion. Not speaking, but that was also to be expected.

“Do you want to sit up here?” Apollo offered, just in case he needed to be reminded that he was allowed to. He shook his head for no.

“…Okay. Let me know if you need anything, alright?” He only put one earbud back in. Delta spoke so softly, he didn’t want to miss it. He wasn’t going to force him to talk about it, if there was anything to talk about at all. Delta needed to do what made him feel safe. As odd as the behavior seemed to him, he wasn’t going to correct it. 

He turned his attention back to the radio, but kept his sights on Delta to see if there was any change. His eyes widened as he noticed the small hitches along his shoulders. He was definitely crying.

“Hey, hey.” Apollo put the radio aside on the couch, sliding down onto the floor. He touched Delta’s arm lightly, “C’mere.”

It was all the invitation he needed. Delta shifted off of the couch and into Apollo’s arms, burying his face in his chest. Small sobs wracked his body. Apollo was surprised at how silent he was being in spite of this. He made shushing noises reflexively, even though there was no sound. He felt the fabric of his shirt marginally tighten as Delta gripped it. 

“Aegre fero.” Delta’s voice wavered. It was only when he spoke that Apollo could hear just how much trouble he was having breathing. He carded his hands through his hair.

“It’s okay. Deep breaths, yeah? Four-seven-eight,” he said. Delta knew how. Apollo had caught him doing them alone before, unprompted. He was clearly used to being the only one to calm himself down. Apollo’s heart ached at the thought of him sitting up whenever they had kept him, forcing himself stable for somebody else’s sake. Still, he slowed his breathing, picking up the pattern. From where Delta was curled into his chest, he should’ve been able to hear it well. His shoulder blades gradually steadied. The shaking stopped. He didn’t let go.

“Do you…like when I play with your hair?” Apollo’s hands stilled. He realized he’d never actually gotten permission to touch it. He probably should have. Delta nodded slowly. His face was still hidden. Apollo continued to run his hands through it. It was very soft — and seemed to be a lot healthier than it had been when they’d first picked him up. He was proud of that, the way the malnutrition symptoms were gradually fading. He had missed cooking for people.

It took a while before Delta would pull away. His face was flushed when he did, eyes bleary. He looked down like he was ashamed. Apollo patted the couch cushion.

“Sit up, sweetheart.”

Delta climbed onto the couch, pulling his legs up to his chest. He was always more responsive when given direct orders. Apollo didn’t want to force him, but honestly, his joints couldn’t take any more time on the floor. He stood up himself, disappearing briefly to retrieve a cup of water. He brought back the burner phone too, passing both of them to Delta.

~

It was mortifying. When had he ever cried? He could count on one hand the number of times he had done it over the last two years. On two hands, he could count the last decade. Now it was like he couldn’t stop. He wasn’t supposed to behave like this. He had learned, so early on, that he was not supposed to behave like this.

It had felt so nice to be held for a second.

Mortifying.

Apollo sat back down on the couch and opened the IRC program. The burner phone buzzed in Delta’s hand. He unlocked it.

sunspot: Hey

nodiving: hi

nodiving: sorry

sunspot: Do you want to talk about it?

nodiving: i dont know

nodiving: i dont know whats wrong with me

nodiving: im not supposed to be like this

sunspot: Be like what?

nodiving: pathetic

sunspot: Why do you think it’s pathetic?

nodiving: because it is

“That’s circular logic,” Apollo said aloud. Delta typed faster.

nodiving: im not supposed to need anything and i usually dont

nodiving: now i have to keep bothering you for everything even things that dont matter

nodiving: im sorry

He began to type something else, but couldn’t bring himself to. He knew he should be punished for it. For having the audacity to even take notice of the emotion, let alone make it someone else’s problem. He should’ve just stayed in his room until it passed. 

sunspot: Everyone needs things. 

sunspot: I’ve been telling you this entire time to please come to me if you need anything

sunspot: Thank you for trusting me enough to take me up on that

Delta blushed, his fingers idle about the device. Apollo looked him up and down.

“When you say ‘things that don’t matter’,” he ventured cautiously, “You mean your own feelings?”

Feelings. The word itself sounded childish to him. He was supposed to be above it, as cold and mechanical as they’d trained him to be. But his skin was still damp where he’d been crying. It was a little late for that.

He nodded. Apollo couldn’t be mad at him for it; Delta already acknowledged their own worthlessness. It wasn’t a lie.

“Okay,” Apollo said softly, “I understand why you would think that. Nobody’s had much regard for them throughout your life. But it’s not true. Your feelings do matter. It was wrong for anybody to make you feel like they didn’t.”

No they don’t. Delta hid his face in his hands. He shouldn’t need this. He recoiled from the words as if they had burned him. No they don’t.

“I know you might not believe me right now. That’s okay. I’m still really proud of you for coming to me with this instead of trying to deal with it alone. Even if you think it’s not important, I still want to know what you’re feeling. It matters to me.”

Awful.

“Delta?”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded, showing he had heard. Not that he agreed, just that he’d heard.

Apollo paused while he caught his breath. It took a lot of effort to try and recover from what he’d just said. It still burned.

“Do you want to try?” Apollo encouraged.

Delta nodded, picking the phone back up. He typed slowly and decisively.

nodiving: nothing caused it

nodiving: im just sad

“Thank you. That’s a really good start, Delta. I know you’re not…used to talking. So maybe you don’t have all the vocabulary you need for it right now?”

Delta’s eyes narrowed at that, the mention of vocabulary. He wasn’t stupid. He read books.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know you’re smart.” Apollo raised his hands in mock surrender. “Your technical skill is advanced. You’re great at arguing. I know. All I’m saying is that you probably don’t have a lot of practice talking about this kind of thing. It might be difficult at first. And that has nothing to do with your intellect.”

That was objectively true. He had no idea what to describe what was happening to him, not with all the words he knew. He thought of the one that had shocked him most when they first suggested it. Abuse. He knew the definition. He did not see how it could slot into his life. Many of the words they used triggered that same uneasy feeling in him. Chess-piece. Feelings. Love. 

Most days, he could barely talk at all.

“I’m...gonna get you some CBT workbooks or something. We can work on it more later. Is there anything you need for right now though? Anything that normally helps?”

He didn’t know anything that would help. He’d never felt like this before. Whatever it was, it seemed like it was receding. The mood had passed.

He realized that crying might’ve helped. Touch. Talking. All the things he’d never been allowed before. All the things he thought he didn’t need.

Mortifying.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[babybirbb]

i need more carmy stuttering fics. i need more richie taking care of carmy fics. i need more adhd carmy fics. i need more hurt/whump carmy fics

[writing-whump]

Hector fic with Isaiah caretaker

Missing their brotherly love

Awww. This came at the perfect moment, nonny! Very very sick Hector from the seawater plus Isaiah. I struggled with this continuation for two days, then scrapped it and wrote it from the beginning and now I think it finally works, lol

Seawater part 2

"Isaiah. Isaiah, wake up."

Isaiah groaned, opening one eye at Matthew shaking his shoulder lightly. "Hmmm?"

"Stop playing a vampire. Up with you."

"Is something wrong?" Cowebs of sleep were slowing down his thoughts. Between training and afternoon, he slept like a dead, that was true. It helped him function for the rest of the time like he was fine.

Then again, Matthew wouldn't disturb him if it wasn't something serious.

"Go check on your brothers. Hector's sick as heck."

Yep, that was like a bucket of cold water, washing the cobwebs away. Isaiah sat up, kneading at his forehead. "What do you mean sick? What happened?"

Matthew shrugged, crossing his arms on his chest. "Threw up all over the hall, that's what happened. All seawater too. Think he drowned himself in a hissy fit or something."

"Seawater..."

"Yeah. I cleaned it up, just so you know."

Isaiah got up from the bed to change his lose shirt into a more formal short-sleeved button up and pants. "Did he ask for me?" he said hopefully.

"Nope." Matthew grinned. "Asked me not to get you, actually." He sounded terribly happy with himself for doing the exact opposite.

Isaiah shook his head. "Alright. Thank you." In that moment Isaiah was incredibly grateful Matthew was his second and would always be in his corner. Nobody else's.

...

Hector was pretty sure this was what rock bottom felt like.

He was heaving over the toilet for the umpteenth time, thick gushes of seawater shooting out of him like someone opened a damn faucet. Although that must have been the 8th time he was puking, his stomach still felt all bubbly and distended, firm to the touch.

He felt so incredibly full. The stupid water didn't seem to want to stop—he couldn't remember drinking as much of that damn thing as was coming back.

His mouth tasted bitter and salty, and he wasn't sure if his voice was shot from the salt or the repeated vomiting of it. Even worse was the constant thirst. He felt so thirsty his eyes and tongue burned, but he also couldn't phantom putting anything in his stomach.

It was as swollen ball of swirling cramps and misery. It hurt to touch, to not touch, to lean against anything.

Oh and the killer headache he was developing, that was fun too. Hector rarely got headaches, they were always somehow relegated to his youngest brother. Must have been from the dehydrayation.

He would have loved to drink so much, but the mere idea had him retching violently over the toilet again to the point he was seeing starts.

"Okay, just get it up, it's okay," Arnie said in a frantic voice that told him it was everything but okay. The younger blonde crouched beside Hector, one hand braced on his heaving brother's back, the other scrolling through Google articles about seawater poisoning.

Google to the rescue for real.

Hector spat a tangly bit of saliva into the toilet. It was just cloudy whirling seawater. He flushed the toilet and slumped back against the wall. A woozy feeling was joining the chorus of pains, the cold titles of the tiny apartment's bathroom digging into his knees.

His vision was swimming in and out of focus. Was he still at sea? His stomach was somersaulting like on a damn boat.

"This is good Hex. Your body will get rid of the salt and then you will make up for it with proper water and you'll be okay," Arnie said, hand patting Hector's cheek. "Just don't go passing out on me, deal?"

Hector forced his eyes open and snorted, the sound reverberating in his chest like a bullet. "Not passing out. 's fine, pipsquak. I'm fine."

His stomach muscles convulsed again and he struggled to keep the grimace off his face.

Arnie winced, attuned to his breathing. His hand landed on Hector's elbow as he helped him lean over the toilet again. Just in time for Hector's stomach to wring itself out of his throat, the splash echoing over the room.

Hector heaved several more times on empty, feeling the water swirl in his stomach, fighting for freedom. Or maybe just inflamming everything it touched for good measure. "Damn thing...w-won't stop..."

Arnie lifted himself on his knees to rub Hector's back, a steady presence. His worry warmed Hector up, gave him something to focus on. It helped with the panicky feeling rising in his chest as goosebumps rose on his arms.

The nausea was always there, horrible, higher than he ever felt before. He constantly felt like he could throw up, jaw tingling with it.

His stomach cramped fiercely, and Hector doubled over with a groan, falling into Arnie. The younger boy squealed, almost toppling under Hector's weight. "You can't even hold your head up anymore...we need to get you into bed-"

"God, my stomach...." Hector was way beyond caring what he was saying. The way his belly seized drowned out anything else. He curled up on the floor around his middle, moaning as his overfull insides tried to tear themselves in two.

"I got him," came a sudden voice. Another pair of hands was on Hector's back, massaging into the center of the tightly locked muscles. His body convulsed on the floor, his head almost bumping into the toilet tank, wasn't it for someone's palm on his forehead suddenly softening the impact.

"-Arnie, we need something to rehydrate him quickly-"

"-won't keep anything down! He retches every two fucking minutes, I don't know-"

The voices mixed, rose and fell with emotion but Hector couldn't tell them apart. It felt like his head was underwater, everything muffled by bubbles, and blood was rushing in his ears.

He recognized words like "pharmacy," "taxi," and "take Matthew." On some level, he could still perceive Arnie's voice jumping in worry and another calmer voice with an almost commanding presence saying something back.

The floor shifted under him and then fell away with a terrible sinking feeling. Hector struggled against the weird sensation, someone's arm around his back, hoisting him up. It was too quick, too unexpected. His belly cramped and sent out a new fountain of seawater. He felt like a water ballon toy squished in the middle.

"Hang on, buddy, hang on. It will be over in a second."

The temperatures changed as did the light, but his vision was still out. He could only see from behind his eyelids, eyes squeezed shut against the wave of vertigo and nausea clawing his mouth open at every turn.

He felt something soft underneath as he was lowered onto the bed, almost melting at the contact. That felt so much better than the hard floor. Before he could find his bearings, a gross feeling drove his teeth apart as yet another watery puke sprayed out.

Hands on his back again. Lifting him up on his side just enough so he could puke into something with a plastic bottom, the water splashing loudly against it. "There you go. It's okay, just breathe. Breathe, Hex."

It was a good tip since his throat burned with the rest of the salty contents. Hector took a breath, feeling like drowning all over again. He had to cough to clear his throat, but once he was breathing, he went completely limp against the pillow, exhausted.

It felt like he was asleep for entire two minutes, when he woke up again. He blinked his eyes open against, the offending afternoon sunlight. His mouth still felt terrible, his throat ached from thrist...the nausea was still there, high and horrible, but he could sleep through it, he would love to sleep through it...

A piercing cramp, like a knife to the stomach made him distinctly aware why he woke up. He shifted, trapped underneath the blankets, to curl up on his side, a whole-bodied shiver of revulsion shaking him from head to toe.

"You awake? Hey, bud." A hand on his arm, stroking small circles. He recognized the voice with a wince.

"Zaya...?"

"Yeah, right here. Welcome back to the land of the living." There was a smile in his tone, but with an edge of artificial lightness.

Hector forced himself to roll on his back to see and indeed, Isaiah was there, sitting against the wall on top of the blankets. All in black to keep in style, his hand still on Hector's shoulder, going with his movement.

Hector squinted his eyes, his head was hammering away with every breath he took.

Something about the sight of his oldest brother with that calm expression, only a gentle frown and the focused calmness of his eyes had Hector's insides twisting.

This was Isaiah's crisis face, the one when he was being attacked. When something was hurting. As if Hector's state could do that to him.

His breath hitched and he retched right there in bed. Isaiah grabbed the bowl near his leg with lightning speed, lifting Hector up into a sitting position.

Hector struggled over the bowl, stomach muscles spasming and burning with the exertion, but only a dribble of foamy bile came up.

"There, there. I know this sucks, but you are going to be okay," Isaiah said, patting his back gently while he put the bowl away again.

Hector wanted to laugh at the tone, the expression, the fussing. The exhaustion and nausea morphed into an intense, unexplainable stabbing in his gut. It came from deeper than his stomach, like it was stringing a cord all the way from his core. It caused an entirely different reaction than he expected.

He burst into tears.

Folding over himself, he was sobbing over his lap. He was just so tired of it all. He wasn't sure why he was sobbing, the pressure in his temples increasing all the more. His pulse quicked, his body protesting and struggling to give the last drops of liquid left to the few tiny tears that burned his eyes.

"Oh god, Hex, are you crying?" Isaiah pulled him into his lap, arms encircling him immediately. "You feel really rough, huh?"

"S-sorry, I'm sorry," he hiccuped, whole jest jostling with the force.

"Shhh, it's okay. You can cry all you want, it's fine. It's just me." Isaiah pressed him against his stomach, hand carding through the sweaty mess of his curly hair.

And Hector just gave in to the feeling. Being held like this, falling apart this thoroughly...he was shaking and tired and hurting and Isaiah was right there, where he needed him. He wrapped his hands around Isaiah like he wanted to physically stop him from ever moving again.

When the shaking sobs brought up a couple of burps, Isaiah didn't even flinch, just held him tighter. Hector was basically drooling in his lap, but the other wolf said nothing, cold fingers sliding to his cheek, his neck, shushing him like a child.

"Okay. We are okay. I'm right here. Everything will be alright," Isaiah chanted quietly in his ears, rocking back and forth. And Hector let go, losing himself in the reassurance.

[optiwashere]

I realized I hadn't written anything about Shadowheart's physical scars in the Asheeraverse. Let's weave them into Shadowheart's more internal scars, why don't we? How about quite soon after the Gauntlet, too. Girl's straight up not having a good time.

What if I said if the angst had some emotional hurt/comfort to go along with it? We love exploring characters' emotional vulnerability in this household.

No Archive Warnings Apply.

Rating: M for themes and a fade to black

Category: F/F

Ship: Shadowheart/Trans Fem Tav

Tags and AO3 Summary beneath the break!

Tags: Romance, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Religious Guilt, Loneliness, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Bathing/Washing, Scars, Trans Female Character, Trans Tav (Baldur's Gate), Half-Orc Tav

Summary:

One night, with Baldur's Gate waiting for them just on the horizon, Shadowheart sits by herself and fears about what may come when she confronts the Sharrans that once called her sister as well as her former Mother Superior. She thinks herself alone, lost. With Asheera at her side, she cannot be truly alone. Together, they explore Shadowheart's scars.

[wexhappyxfew]

and then i breathed

(a/n): AND SO I JUST STARTED TYPING (enter danny devito meme). basically, i started with an idea for this and couldn't help but keep writing so please enjoy!! serving up a nice view of kennedy x bucky in the stalag because that's where we really see the most development from them, more than anything. and to say the least, i am majorly misty-eyed over this and especially kennedy's character. when first developing her character, i didn't realize how much she'd develop up until this point and i am absolutely loving every bit of her in this angsty, hurt/comfort perspective. and of course, bucky makes the perfect person to put opposite her in so many ways. someone who equals her in humor and dialogue. i sincerely hope you all enjoy - this is almost a love letter to the kennedy x bucky girlies. thank you!! :D

The sound of the plane breaking in half had hit her like a slap in the face.

She remembered the sound so vividly that when the silence consumed her, her mind became overwhelmed by that very sound - the intrepid ripping of metal straight in half as she launched herself out of the belly of the plane, pulling the cord on her parachute, swinging through the war-torn sky alive with flak, enemy fighters and bullets, dangling out in the air, half-hoping something killed her right then and there.

She could hardly remember the feeling - landing in the middle of Germany, mind an absolute wreck, looking around for signs of Lieutenant Bradshaw or Lieutenant Carlisle or even some of the boys who'd been deposited into Silver Bullets after the 100th had run thin and they'd split the girls up.

Jenkins, their co-pilot, Hefner, their bombardier, Thillburn, their radio ops, or their turret ball gunner, Stalinker, their other waist gunner, Klinger, and tail gunner, Gronkowski.

None of them had shown.

She was half-hoping Margie was somewhere nearby, but had come up empty-handed.

She remembered the words that had come through the comms when Lieutenant Bradshaw had said they needed to bail out.

The ringing of that fucking bell.

The sound still wrung around in her head when she wasn't doing something to keep her mind distracted. She remembered it like a stop-motion picture. Flashes of moments that she wasn't sure were even real, but were true enough that her body reacted in ways she couldn't explain.

She watched herself stand in the belly of the plane, pulling the wounded Thillburn over, and attempting to wrap his crooked arm that was knocked into the worst possible position, the blood coating his shoulder and chest, soaking through his coat and covering her hands in a sticky mess.

She remembered him yelling, his words clouded by fear, nothing but a blank thought in her mind - what had he been yelling? What had he been trying to tell her? Were those his last moments of human contact before she helped to plunge him out of the plane? Was he alive? She'd known the kid for a few weeks, with only a few missions run alongside him, but had he been dropped out of that plane and lived? He had family back home, he had a life, a girlfriend he'd been writing to. Was he alive?

The look in his eyes sometimes came back to her a night, when she settled into her bunk and stared up at the wooden ceiling; it came back like a bad dream each night. His eyes boring into hers, begging to keep him alive. The thought made her skin crawl, it made her heart race, it made her want to lose it, trapped in this stupid excuse of a camp.

"You gotta stay with me, Thillburn!" Kennedy had yelled, her throat hoarse practically, her hands slick with blood as Thillburn writhed there on the ground, the whole plane creaking and screaming through the air, parts flying off and exploding off behind them, the yelling in her comms enough to make her vomit, the bell ringing overhead, the entire plane contorting and spinning through the air like the nightmare it had been. Over and over. Thillburn screaming.

Jenkins yelling to bail out, his form appearing in front of Kennedy, as he pointed and yelled to the opening. Her wide eyes filled with terror as she watched Jenkins pull Stalinker up from the ball turret, half-dead on his feet, blood dripping down his face, a giant piece of flak hanging out from his chest.

Kennedy remembered looking up and seeing Lieutenant Bradshaw dropping down from the cockpit, landing with such precision and calculated gusto, that Kennedy was sure that only force on the plane that had kept her level-headed in that moment was seeing Lieutenant Bradshaw come towards the group and calmly manage the situation.

Moving the frantic Jenkins towards the opening and telling him to go, hastily removing tags from Stalinker, and helping Kennedy to guide the flailing Thillburn to the belly of the plane to drop out.

Kennedy remembered the look in Annie's eyes; fear bathed in absolute horror and uncertainty - yet shoving it aside for the crew. To uphold command pilot the best she could. Kennedy remembered hearing Thillburn screaming for her as he went flying out of the plane, like a rag doll in his parachute begging for mercy.

"Kennedy!" he had screamed out into the open air, "Kennedy!"

And that's when she shot awake, her whole body in a damn-near paralysis, as her eyes locked on the wooden bunk above her, the sudden realization of the silence succumbing around her and where she was, along with the pounding of the blood in her ears, racing - over and over.

Slowly, she shifted her gaze away from the top of the bunk and towards the tiny room, all the members of the 100th that were there, completely and entirely asleep. It brought her a slice of comfort to see Lieutenant Bradshaw curled up on the bunk beside Captain Brady, her tiny bit of dirty-blonde hair hardly visible with the current hold Brady had on her there.

Annie put out so much for Silver Bullets that having her safe there in the arms of someone who would lay down his life for her, was a comfort. She could see the laden forms of Major Cleven, Bessie, Crank, Murphy, and Hambone around the place, along with Benny who was in the bunk above Margie, who nearly lay on death's doorstep on a bad day. Days of her current state had left her barely alive, but she was slowly improving.

Slowly, Kennedy brought her gaze towards the window and felt her heart nearly launch out of her chest. Bucky Egan was stood there by the window, his form unmoving, and his head slightly hung downward, his hair looking as if he had tried to get it into some sort of conformed place, but had failed. He looked so much more….quiet, in this light. Where he looked as if he was the only person awake in the room, trying to come to terms with whatever the hell they were currently in. His broad shoulders were still pronounced and held high, but there was something distant and withdrawn about his form that she was sure if she kept staring, he'd fade to black.

"You okay?" Kennedy locked her eyes on his form by the window and swallowed, "I know you're awake, Farley." Kennedy slowly reached her hand up to her chest, attempting to calm her racing heart and keep quiet. She felt if she tried to talk to him now, her heart would pound out of her chest fully and her words would get clogged in her throat enough to make her physically sick. And Bucky would see right through her like she was glass. In the cover of night, she let her walls down for herself and she didn't want another soul to have to see her like that. Broken and vulnerable and cracked all over. Bucky didn't need that. None of them did.

"You were mumbling in your sleep." Bucky whispered quietly again from the window and she heard him shift a bit, like he was moving his weight from one side to the next by the window, his voice still muffled - he wasn't looking at her. Kennedy swallowed.

"Bad dream." she whispered out, her voice unsteady, "I'm fine." She heard Bucky let out a quiet puff of air that sounded a bit like a breathy laugh, but she didn't bother. It seemed by this point, despite all efforts, Bucky could read her like an open book whenever he pleased.

"You sure?"

"Positive." Kennedy answered back, softly and quickly, an uncontrollable pinprick of a smile on her lips, "You get that sorta stuff in your mind with the shit we've all been through." She was playing it off, she was trying to make it seem like it wasn't a big deal - even if she could still hear the bail-out bell ringing in her mind. Over and over. Again and again.

"What was in it?" Bucky asked her, a genuine softness to his voice that made her heart give a dull pound, "Your dream?"

"Nothing." Kennedy said quickly, louder than she wanted - she heard someone shift on a bunk across the room a bit. She blinked a few times as her heart began to race.

For a moment, lying in that bunk, with the only person awake in that room being Bucky, she wanted nothing more than to be standing beside him, reveling in his presence and his body heat and his tall form, telling him everything in that dream and letting him tell her they were fine, that things would be okay, that in a way, it wasn't real. Even though it was. But she felt glued to that bunk. Frozen.

"Nothing?" Bucky said, a hint of a smile on his lips - she could always tell when he was smiling through his words and she couldn't see him. His voice became a bit deeper, and a bit lighter all at once, with a slight hint of surprise and hidden joy he didn't want you seeing. But she heard it every time. "Nothing at all, huh?"

"Serious." Kennedy offered back, "I'd tell you if it was bad. I'm fine." Bucky let out a soft laugh as she continued staring at the top bunk, her mind slowly crumbling into shambles. She wanted to be there beside him, she wanted some form of comfort that wasn't a wooden bunk and the bitter cold. She wanted him.

"C'mere, Farley." Kennedy slowly turned her head and found Bucky, for the first time, looking right towards her bunk, his eyes glowing a bit more in the darkness, reminding her, surprisingly, of Frank, Marianne's cat back on base. Watching her with that look in his gaze that drew her in enough to want to get up from the bunk.

Kennedy slowly shifted, and pulled her long legs over the edge of the bunk, before letting her feet slide to the ground. She stood there for a moment before turning to him and taking quiet steps towards his figure there against the window.

As she approached him, in this sudden quiet atmosphere, where it was just the two of them for once, not another soul awake, she felt every inch of his gaze on her. The moonlight outside reflected the side of his shadowed face enough for her to see that sad, far-off look in his eyes, and the hint of a hollow smile on his lips.

"What?" she asked him, regretting that she could get nothing better to come to mind when she was suddenly stood by his side. She watched Bucky grin at her in the darkness, from right there beside her and looked out the small window again and nodded.

"First time you see the stars out here?" She followed his line of sight and looked out the dusty window pane and, for the first time, just as he had stated, saw the stars. Glowing, twinkling there above them, ever-present and shining just as brightly as they had when she was a small child back home in Boston, staring up at them at night, praying for the future. For a moment, the world went still and she was that young girl again looking at the stars.

"Yeah, actually." she whispered back to him, looking up at the dark sky, before slowly glancing over at him, his full face illuminated in moonlight. For the first time, up-close, she got a good look at the scars on his face, underneath his eyes, the bruising (which was finally, slowly fading) and the way his eyes seemed more sunken in than she remembered. She swallowed.

"How long have you been awake?" she asked him quietly, watching as the corner of his lip curled upwards at her voice.

"Long enough." he whispered, and then shrugged, "Happens nightly. Don't get as much sleep as I want. Half the time, I stay awake because I don't need one of those German fuckers coming in here and pulling some shit." Kennedy stared at him, her heart pounding at the way his jaw had clenched and his eyes had gone dark.

"Nightly?" she asked him, resisting the urge to reach out and tenderly touch that face of his and tuck him into bed. These boys pushed themselves to the edge, it was no wonder all the girls were acting the way they were with these boys out here. They had no one but each other and youth brought a sense of maternal instinct to them all half the time.

"Yeah," Bucky said quietly, before glancing over at her, his eyes big like a puppy-dogs, "it's why I knew you were awake. You stopped breathing heavy - you hear that sorta stuff when you can't sleep at night." Kennedy watched him, her eyes flicking between his eyes and those scars on his face and she suddenly wanted nothing more than to wrap him in her arms and tell him in some way the world would be okay again.

"You've been up every night since you got here?" Kennedy asked him softly, "Bucky…." Bucky let out a soft chuckle and shook his head before looking at her.

"Kenny, it's fine." he said quietly as he leaned towards her slowly, that little nickname Judy usually called her rolling off his tongue with ease - it was always Farley, always, always Farley, what was this? "Never been better. Hey, I'd tell you if it was getting bad, alright?" Kennedy watched him sling her words right back at her and sighed slightly, her worry rising to levels she wasn't sure had been possible.

"So," Bucky said, glancing back out the window they were leaned up against, smiling slightly, "what was going on in that dream of yours?" Kennedy sighed and she heard Bucky laugh quietly.

"Are you seriously going to keep asking me that?" she managed out back to him, as quiet as she could.

"Maybe." he said with a humorous tone to his voice, "You get all passionate when I piss you off, so, maybe."

"I really wonder what goes through your head sometimes." Kennedy whispered back, with a slight bit of teasing in her voice, before she felt reality wash over her and she couldn't help but look to him again, regaining that feeling of wanting some sort of comfort. She couldn't work out the feeling of her nightmares, or that feeling of being alone in that bunk and trying to fight off her mind - it was making her go crazy.

"You wanna know?" Bucky asked her, gently nudging her shoulder, his voice suddenly more serious than she'd heard it ever before, sending her a quiet smile, "I'll tell ya." She watched him, her eyes unable to turn from his in a way that made her eyes glued to his.

"I'm really fucking scared of the way this place'll change me." he told her quietly, that smile on his face fighting to stay on his lips, like a part of him was trying to convince himself that he wasn't scared, that this wasn't what he was feeling, that this wasn't the reality, "That I won't ever get back to the person I was before getting dropped in here like a sack of potatoes." He let out a weak laugh and leaned against the window pane again, "Fuck." Kennedy watched him slightly from her tilted head and watched as he struggled to keep that smile on his face.

"Keeps me up at night. All this shit." Bucky said again, trying to do some more, further, convincing for himself, to make it all plausible. Kennedy felt so quiet beside him that she was sure she felt like a nuisance because of the fact she was saying nothing. But it felt like Bucky was saying things that he'd bottled up and was now forcing out because of the fact it was spilling over at this point. And he was trying to pull it all back in, but failing.

"You're still Bucky Egan to me." Kennedy said, her voice, for the first time in weeks, firm and confident. She looked over at him, with a nod. "You always will be." Bucky smiled at her, tender and gentle, and nudged her shoulder affectionately.

"Thanks, Kenny." he said quietly and she smiled at him with a nod. Then, both their gazes were set out the window pane again. But Kennedy was itching to say something, to get her voice to work. She felt like she needed to say something else. Almost awkwardly, she reached up to rub behind her neck before glancing at Bucky again.

"I was reliving when the plane got hit." Kennedy said quietly, causing Bucky to look towards her with a mixture of surprise and worry written all over his face, "The dream. It was like I was on the plane again as it went down. As Annie told us to bail. It happens all the time. At night, even when I nap. It's always in my mind. Those final moments." His eyes worriedly washed over her face as she stood beside him, suddenly any sort of stars or moonlight seemingly forgotten about and his focus solely on her.

"Every night?"

"Mostly." she offered, with a nod, "You get used to it. The bail out bell. The plane snapping in half like a toothpick. The screaming." Kennedy shivered, with a nervous smile on her lips.

"You could've woken me up." he offered to her and she shook her head.

"I usually just count back from 100 and then I'm asleep again," she told him quietly, "my mind's usually blank the second time I get myself to sleep anyway." Bucky stood frozen beside her, his body ridged and his eyes hard and narrowed. He slowly nodded, like taking in what she was saying was physically hurting him.

"Thillburn?" he asked her. She must've been mumbling his name on her lips at night. He must be dead.

"Radio ops." she said quietly, "He was half-dead when Annie and I got his parachute on him and got him out. Haven't seen him since."

"What happened to him?" Bucky asked, his voice distant.

"Flak got him…..I think. Came right through the side of the plane." Kennedy managed, as her eyes became misty, "He was begging for me to save him, ya know?" She looked over at Bucky and that moonlight bathing his face and sniffled slightly, before shrugging and looking back down at her fingers, knotted into one another, her thumb rubbing in that same spot over and over when she was worried. She let out a shuddering breath.

"Kennedy, Kennedy, he yelled, over and over. Don't know if I even did anything to save him." Kennedy managed out, "I just hope he landed somewhere…..and if he went, it was peaceful. Ya know?" She looked to Bucky and watched him nod firmly at her - even just seeing him acknowledge her was enough to know in a way that she wasn't crazy deep down. That someone was listening to her and she didn't sound like she was talking out of her ass to him.

"Stalinker. Ball turret gunner," Kennedy offered looking over at Bucky, "must've died on impact. Flak got him." What if that had been Judy, Kennedy thought quietly, feeling her stomach turn.

"Jenkins, our co-pilot. He disappeared somewhere in the clouds." Kennedy said softly, "They were shooting at us after we jumped out. The Germans." Bucky's grip on the window pane made his knuckle turn white and she saw him glance over at her with a stern look in his gaze.

"It just…it lives in my mind. That moment, those 15 minutes of hell," Kennedy said softly, "it's so stupid, but I just can't get it out of mind. Thank God for Annie, hell she was the only stable one of us up there. She's the only reason I'm probably alive."

"Bradshaw's pretty good for that, huh?" Bucky said, his voice more strained than it had been and she nodded as she looked over at him, "She keeps us all going more often than not." Kennedy managed a shaky smile and nodded to him as her eyes welled with tears. He slowly looked towards her and noticed that look in her eyes, nearly quicker than herself and offered her a weak smile.

Bucky didn't take another second though to reach out to her shoulder, closing that small distance between them, rubbing his hand against her shoulder, in circles, over and over, allowing her to catch her breath for a moment, knowing he was right there beside her.

"It's not stupid, Kenny," Bucky said quietly, his thumb brushing against the bare skin on the back of her neck, "you know that. The shit we went through, how we all got here. It was all fucking hell. Thought I was gonna die out there. I'm half-surprised I'm even standing here talking to you now."

"I'm glad you are."

"Thanks, Kenny." She managed a watery smile his way as he smiled weakly back. They watched each other in the quietness for a moment, and she watched as Bucky smiled wider at her, which made her feel safer in that moment more than anything else.

"C'mere, Kenny." he said quietly, pulling with that arm on her shoulder to him. And with how weak and broken she felt, she took that small step between them, and let him pull her into his arms, collapsing into his warm embrace, her face breaking against his chest, as his arms wrapped around her, holding her up against his form.

Kennedy had become pretty good at crying without making a noise, but with each tremor that came from her body, she could hear her silent whimper in the back of her throat that was enough to make her fracture more.

The sound made her think of when she was younger, racing after her brothers on Main Street, unable to catch up to them because she was the youngest sibling and the shortest with the smallest legs. And she'd usually trip and split open her knee and be sobbing her heart out. And then her brothers would come back and coddle her and wrap up her knee with some fabric from one of their shirts and help her back home for her Ma to fuss over.

And soon enough, it happened all the time, and she was able to mask it all. She'd brush off her brothers and her Ma and she toughened up, so she could keep playing.

Eventually it became her way to hide everything from everyone.

But with the way Bucky was holding her, she knew he was looking through her like glass, like he always did.

Kennedy could feel his warm breath from his slow-moving breathing, washing down on top of her as his one hand stayed steady on her lower back and the other lingered between the back of her head and her neck, her unruly hair mused in his fingers as he continued to hold her there. A part of her told her to stand up, move away from his embrace and his arms and him; she was strong enough on her own, she could handle this. But her other half told her to stay there, let him hold her, in the cover of darkness, in the middle of the night - someone was willing to hold her there and not let go. No one had ever been like that towards her, no previous person in her life had been such a way around her.

Holding her in the cover of darkness to try to chase away any sort of nightmare like the ones she always had.

Slowly, she turned her cheek against his chest and listened to the soft pound of his heart in his chest. Her cheeks wet with fresh tears, her eyes itchy and no doubt beet red, she couldn't help but relish the feel of his arms around her - he was so warm, so present, just standing there. It was like the ocean waves had crashed over her, pummeling her down onto the sand, and were finally, slowly receding again, letting her breathe. Kennedy slowly pulled her face from his chest and looked up to search for his eyes again and found him already watching her with that quiet look of his; she attempted to smile.

"I'm sorry if the front of your shirt is wet. It's cold enough as it is," she whispered quietly, her voice sounding like she had been yelling for hours, "thank you, Bucky." Bucky quirked out that lopsided grin of his.

"I don't mind. Honored to have a woman like you wrapped in my arms," he whispered back to her quietly, a small laugh following, "I think we should do this more often." Kennedy sniffled out a small laugh, reaching her hand up to flick his shoulder in her weak attempt at protest that she always did with him. But with the way he was looking at her and holding her, she couldn't keep up their usual banter it seemed and just let him hold her.

"You think?" she whispered back, and then sniffled, smiling slightly, "You tell anyone about this and it's on-sight, alright, Major?"

"Yes, ma'am." he said, his voice low as she let out a small laugh and rolled her eyes at him, not entirely minding the feeling of his gaze on her and hands pressed onto her back. She watched him for a moment, before he cleared his throat.

"Hop in my bunk," he said quietly, "you'll sleep better. I'll be your knight-in-shining-armor or some shit. Fight off the nightmares." Kennedy watched him, her cheeks blazing, her eyebrows rising in surprise.

"Uh…really-"

"Yeah, yeah, seriously," Bucky said, "anyone's got questions, I'll give 'em their answers, alright?" Kennedy watched him.

"And to think you were heckling Annie and Brady because they were doing the same thing-"

"Kenny." Bucky said giving her a look and she couldn't help but chuckle softly.

"I punch sometimes in my sleep." she muttered.

"You can punch me whenever you need."

"Bucky." He let out a small chuckle.

"C'mon." he said softly, nodding his head towards his bunk. It was at least 10 degrees colder when she pulled from his embrace and they slowly trekked over to his bunk. She glanced at him and his tall form beside her and he nodded her on encouragingly. She pulled herself up into the bunk and rolled to the wall-side before shifting a bit and turning her head towards him, watching as he sat down and settled down inside the bunk beside her. He made a quick move of laying the blanket over them, keeping the few inches between them, very much a present and existing thing.

"Get some sleep, Kenny." Bucky whispered softly this time. She was staring up at the wooden ceiling of the bunk above her again and could feel her heart beginning to race. His body heat next to her was a help - with the wall on her other side. She felt comfortably cocooned in for the first time, knowing if the Germans were to come in, Bucky was right there.

Kennedy slowly shifted her head to the right and looked towards Bucky again and found him wide-awake, staring at the ceiling of the bunk above them, too. She couldn't help it. She rolled onto her side and then shifted closer towards him, causing his eyes to meet hers again.

That silent stare down lasted for a solid minute, before she pressed her body up against his side and wrapped her arms around herself before pressing her face against his arm and letting out a sigh, his warmth infiltrating her body and making her feel at peace for once.

And to say it didn't take long for his own arm to lift up and pull her closer, as she quickly snuggled in at his presence wrapped around her body, his touch firm, but gentle, was an understatement.

"Someone likes to cuddle." he whispered to her. She grinned against his ribcage, before sniffling.

"Shut up." she whispered back. He chuckled back.

She could finally breathe.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

where do you belong?

prompt: "i warned you"

whumpee: illya kuryakin

fandom: the man from uncle

hi again :) this fic is like not exactly established relationship but there's somethin going on there. you'll see. anyways. title from the sign by ace of base.

“Я тебя предупреждал.” (I warned you.) His boss’s voice spits poison down the line, and Illya fights the impulse to hold the receiver away from his ear in a futile effort to escape the worst of it. 

“Простите. Я не думал…я больше не буду так делать.” (Forgive me. I didn’t think…I won’t do it again.)

“Я в этом уверен. Или нужно ли тебе напомнить—” (I’m sure of that. Or do I need to remind you—)

“Не нужно. Понял.” (You don’t need to. Understood.)

“Ладно.” (Alright.)

The other end of the receiver is put down with a far too respectful-sounding click. 

Illya, for his part, flings the entire telephone across the room. It hits the wall, dents it, clatters to the floor, shattering noisily. 

His hands are shaking. He balls them into fists, fingernails digging into palms with more than enough force to draw blood. 

The pounding in his head won’t stop. He’s trying to make it stop, to control himself, he’s better than this now, but he feels scraped raw, laid bare, and on the edge of exploding. 

--

Napoleon returns to the hotel with a spring in his step and a wallet that does not belong to him in his pocket. 

He’s had a most successful afternoon, and he intends to get cleaned up and enjoy a nice dinner courtesy of the former owner of the wallet, an ex-Nazi who is about to have much larger concerns on his mind than the whereabouts of his cards. 

He’s hoping he can convince Illya to join him, though his partner will doubtless protest against anything that’s not explicitly allowed in their mission protocol. Napoleon favors the opposite assumption—that anything not explicitly banned is fair game. 

He opens the door, intent on ambushing Illya with the question, but he can’t even get out the first syllable. 

Illya is standing by the little table which had previously held a phone. The phone in question is in pieces near the opposite wall, which bears a clear indent from the impact. Illya himself stands unmoving, hands curled into fists, breathing raggedly. 

Napoleon approaches him carefully, locking the door behind himself and making a fair amount of noise so there’s no chance Illya will be startled by his movements. 

He stands right in front of his partner, whose eyes are cloudy and not looking at him in any case. 

That’s more than alright. He doesn't need Illya’s eyes at the moment, anyway. 

All he needs are his hands. He gently takes hold of Illya’s left hand, uncurls it. Illya neither fights nor helps, which Napoleon takes as a good sign. 

He’s bleeding, four half-moons etched into his palm, blood smeared across his skin and crusted beneath his nails. 

Napoleon deftly pulls the handkerchief from his pocket and wipes at the cuts, cleaning away the fresher blood. They still bleed sluggishly, and he carefully wraps the handkerchief around Illya’s hand to stop this. 

He ties the fabric tightly, then rubs his thumb in small circles on the back of Illya’s hand, a way of saying, I’m here, it’s okay, I’ve got you without having to disturb the silence. 

The story is the same with the other hand, except that Illya uncurls it willingly. Napoleon squeezes his fingertips, the one part of Illya’s hand he’s sure won’t hurt, and then briefly abandons him to locate another bandage. 

He finds a suitable washcloth in the bathroom. When he returns, Illya’s more focused. He’s still not looking at Napoleon, but he’s more present, at least. 

Somewhat relieved, Napoleon gets to wrapping Illya’s right hand. He hesitates for a moment before lifting it and pressing a soft, quick kiss to the skin not covered by the washcloth. 

Illya doesn’t pull away. Napoleon feels himself relax. They haven’t really put words to this thing between them, this feeling that extends beyond the bonds of partnership and into something deep and hazy that neither of them quite knows what to do with. Napoleon always feels like he’s testing his luck when he initiates this kind of contact, and on this occasion, he’s lucky indeed. 

“Спасибо,” (Thank you,) Illya whispers, so quiet Napoleon scarcely hears him at first. He glances up at Illya, finds his blue eyes—usually piercing and keen but now muted and dull—looking back at him, full of sincere appreciation and something that Napoleon isn’t quite brave enough to call fondness. 

“Пожалуйста,” (You’re welcome,) he whispers back, and when Illya sinks forward into his arms, trusting, he tries not to think about how much it feels like he belongs precisely where he is.

thanks for reading! i was debating whether to put the convo in russian but i figured it's happening in russian so i might as well. but idk if that might be annoying to ppl. so if you are not a fan of that (or if you're a native speaker and you see i fucked up) pls lmk and i will change it up!! anyways i hope you liked it!

[sparring-spirals]

oh. so. this dream and this vision and this exchange after and everything that has been building to here.

All that rage, all that desperation, Imogen's knowledge that Liliana's judgement is flawed and searching for any reason to understand, searching for a way to bring her out of it. Bring her back.

"Show me" and she does and.

Its- beautiful, its wonderful. Its the unmaking of the world and of history and it feels- so good. For a moment Imogen feels something she hasn't for YEARS. A life and a possibility and a future full of peace she hasnt had for ages, hasnt even bothered hoping for. For a moment, Imogen sees it, but more importantly- she feels it- the freedom, the peace, the dream. Stronger than any vision. She sees it. She feels it.

And she wakes up, and she- unknowingly, perfectly, mirrors her own mothers words, looks around, asks- did you see it? Did you all see that? (I wish you all could see what I could see-)

They didn't- of course they didn't. They saw Liliana, too far gone, spouting nonsense, they saw her reach out, they saw the refusal to listen to reason. They did not see the vision. (They couldn't have. Even if they'd seen it- would they have understood? How could they? No beautiful vision would have captured the thing that left the awe in Imogen's lungs- the peace. The freedom. The finality of, finally, finally, being free of this gift that has only been a curse.)

They didn't see the vision. They saw their friend, tapped on the forehead after hopeless pleas. They've been seeing their friend make further and further excuses for someone they know is a danger, someone siding with people they are working so hard against. That has hurt them. They've seen the way she can't quite denounce Liliana. They've hedged around it: If she's not on our side, will you be okay- You know if she's not on our side, we'll have to-

They've been watching. They're seeing plenty. They did not see the vision. They couldn't have.

They saw a fruitless conversation. They saw their friend rebuffed by someone she loves. They saw her wake up with a strange kind of light in her eyes and- say.

What if its not so bad? (The world ending. Half of the world being eaten. Innocent lives lost. Our loved ones cut down for a fever dream and delusions of power and grandeur. Us, cut down, for some stupid plot for a moon and petty revenge against the gods and a desire to end the world.) They've been watching her, make halfhearted arguments, sidle away. Make increasingly desperate excuses. Ask: What if.

(Its so easy to ask, what if. Its so dangerous. Sometimes the if is used to hide away lives and lives of collateral, of blood red loss. Sometimes the if has already been answered and paid for, and the act of asking is its own form of violence, all over again.)

"Well Imogen, I wish my family didn't have to die for her brighter tomorrow."

And the way Imogen collapses, a little- presses her face into her hands and crumples under the weight of the reminder, like voices piling in after weeks of being in blissful quiet in a forest. Like reality breaking in after a beautiful dream. "You're right. I'm sorry. You're right."

"I swear, I wanna see this through, I do."

"She just presented this vision of- it didn't seem so bad."

And the Bells try to help, to be kind. They say: We understand why this must be hard for you. She's someone you love, its hard to deal with them thinking a different way. What did you see?

They are trying so hard, to reason through it, to balance their own hurt with kindness and sound arguments to lead her back. They want so badly, to lead her back. Have her back.

The problem however, is not the soundness of the argument, is not the reason or the logic- but the overwhelming allure of that sensation- of that promise- of the hope- of the ideal. Of a mirage that already drew Liliana in. That is pulling Imogen's gaze, despite. Despite, despite, despite.

Hope is such a tricky thing to kill.

[wr-n]

Nightmare has such a complex about owning things, i love it so much. Just the fact that the people he chose to keep with him have significance to him and people taking them away is more of an atrocity to him than anything else.

That's why he was so upset when Cross decided to be more loyal to Dream because he saw him FIRST. He was supposed to be HIS.

He knows Dream isn't trying to intentionally goad him into rage-filled tantrums, but he still hates that, yet again, everyone loves Dream over him.

It's why he clings to Killer and Dust because they want him. They try to get closer to him even when he hurts them.

They're so special to him.

With Horror it's... complicated. Because he knows that what they had could never get any further than a boss and employee relationship and that was sufficient. But it does sting him sometimes when he can feel Horror's thoughts of leaving and never coming back.

[demonio-fleurs]

started writing, trying to get some idea for a smut fic out that i can finish without getting too bogged down in the details with, started to get into it, realized what i wanted to happen just felt wrong with the emotional context and went against my own smut headcanons for how sabo & koala are, so now i'm back to square one.

[gaycousinlarry]

.

[navree]

You briefly talked about this one time - what are your thoughts on Maegor and Aenys? Do you think Maegor actually cared about his brother? You would think that that care would carry down to his neices and nephews but once Aenys was dead, he was wiping them all out. What made Aenys different that Maegor actually accepted him instead of trying to immediately remove him from the throne like Visenya wanted him too?

My thoughts on Maegor and Aenys can honestly be boiled down to a crowd in the Coliseum of my mind chanting "sons of the dragon! sons of the dragon! sons of the dragon!" on repeat but I will endeavor to go into more depth.

I actually have gone more in depth on Maegor and Aenys's relationship here and elaborated far more on it here, but my view on them is that it's the quintessential tragedy, it was doomed to fail. Maegor and Aenys's relationship was always going to be tainted by forces outside their control, even from before they were born. Aenys was the son of the favored wife while Maegor was the son of the one Aegon couldn't even stand by the time he was born; Aenys's mental breakdown was always going to stunt his interpersonal relationships other than the one with his father and the one with Quicksilver as he recovered; five years isn't an insurmountable age difference but it's significant in that early childhood development phase. All of this, the circumstances under which Maegor was born and the relationships their parents had with each other and the conflagration of situations that was the First Dornish War and how it affected the family, all of it basically doomed the relationship from the getgo. My view of it was that they were never going to be truly brotherly, not in the way that we see from the modern Starks or Orys and Aegon. But, as I mentioned in those prior responses, I don't think it was all bad. Aenys put a lot of trust and value in Maegor, and Maegor seemed to respect that and respected Aenys's kingship and wanted it to go well. I also find it incredibly important that Maegor accepted his banishment, because we know what happens when Quicksilver and Balerion go head to head. He would have made easy work of his brother and he probably knew that, but instead he accepted Aenys's word as law, left and stayed away until he was recalled by his mother only after Aenys died. That, to me, does speak to the fact that Maegor cared about him. Some of it might be transference, with Aenys as Aegon's clear favorite and Aegon having gone without giving Maegor any of what he might have craved from him (the throne, his approval, his affection, I theorized a lot more on Aegon and Maegor's fractured relationship in that first ask about humanizing him) Maegor might have turned to his older brother in hopes of getting some taste of what he wanted from his father with the only version of his father he has. It's also possible that, once Maegor was a bit older, three to four, Aenys had recovered enough from his ordeals to try and interact with him and be a good brother, in spite of not being raised in the same location. Aenys seems like the type to have wanted to try and do right by his kid brother, if the olive branches he extended to Maegor during his reign when they were both adults is any indication. So even if they weren't close in childhood, Maegor's memories of Aenys when he was a child might have been of someone earnestly trying with him, trying to be good and supportive to someone who doesn't seem to have had much of a support system in the family beyond his mother.

And it should be interesting to note, Maegor does seem to have extended some care towards his nieces and nephews initially. While he did usurp Aegon the Uncrowned, he didn't immediately go after him, he actually let him live unmolested for up to a year, considering that he took the throne in 42 AC and the Battle Beneath God's Eye occured in 43 AC. It was Aegon attempting to muster armies and take back his crown that led to his death, not Maegor taking the throne, for all we know, though it's unlikely, if Aegon had gone into exile the way that Maegor himself had, he might never have died. And while Alyssa and Viserys and Jaehaerys and Alysanne were absolutely hostages, there's no record that they were ever treated badly, not even Viserys who was residing in King's Landing. While I'm sure being a political hostage with the uncle who killed your brother and was slowly becoming more and more mentally unhinged wasn't a picnic, there's no evidence that Maegor ever did anything to Viserys or had anything done to him, and that Viserys didn't live any life other than a comfortable one as a blood relative to the crown. And by the time Visenya died and Alyssa fled with Jaehaerys and Alysanne, Maegor's mental state was already dangerous (this was post coma/Tyana magic interference that may or may not have helped exacerbate him into a crazy person) and that's probably why he responded as badly as he did and had the poor kid tortured to death. Maegor's cruelty to his family can be directly linked to how badly he was doing from a mental perspective, so it's entirely possible that he started out without any intentions to hurt Aenys's kids, because they were Aenys's kids, but as he descended into tyranny and madness, that was one of the core elements of him that was stripped away until only The Cruel remained.

I think a huge part of what made Aenys different, to Maegor at least, really is just that familial connection. Visenya didn't have any connection to Aenys beyond the fact that he was Rhaenys and Aegon's child, and that doesn't do much for her (even though I do think she loved them both, especially Rhaenys, it's just that the whole Dornish War thing and the rift probably turned any potential affection for her nephew into pure apathy. Not to get into Visenya conjectures and whatnot, but that Downton Abbey quote after Matthew dies where Mary says "with Matthew's death, all the softness he found in me seems to have dried up" is soooooo Visenya/Rhaenys coded, that's exactly how I imagined Visenya eventually went after Hellholt. Leave me here to die.) so she was more willing to be harsh and critical of him, especially when compared to the child of her own body and her own direct lineage. But for Maegor, that's his brother. A connection to his father, and someone he had a relationship with in his own right. He seems to have cared enough about that, perhaps even loved Aenys enough, that it really meant something to him, and that he didn't want to directly steal his own brother's birthright in spite of how bad he felt Aenys was at it or not. He could have felt grateful, moved even, by the trust Aenys was putting in him as a brother by giving him Blackfyre and making him Hand and trusting him to secure his reign, and wanted to live up to that trust, prove worthy of it. Their relationship wasn't ever fully reconcilable, in my mind, due to the circumstances it came about it that were entirely out of their control, but it feels like they really tried, on both sides, to bridge that gap as much as they were emotionally able.

TL;DR I think that it was doomed from minute one, but neither of them entirely let it just go into that good night and they probably did have best intentions with each other, even Maegor, considering that he accepted Aenys's rule and helped him and he does seem to have tried to be good to Aenys's kids before he went completely doolally. Probably best summed up as "there was some kind of love there, but love isn't always enough".