#like they could’ve pretended he was avoiding saying it out of reverence

[ennard-is-near]

I’m sort of scared that the second FNaF movie won’t feature the bite of ‘87, or at least won’t properly do it, because they don’t want to confirm anything.

There are a few ways that it could be done. Either you have Vanessa talk about it Phone Guy style (+ visual flashback optional), have it happen to a character in the movie in the current year, or do a little reference to it without having it done properly (like the first movie’s “bite of ‘83” that wasn’t really proper, but a reference nonetheless.)

But keep in mind that in the FNaF canon, it is literally never confirmed who the bite victim was or which animatronic did it. Of course, fans are almost positive that it was Jeremy Fitzgerald and Mangle, but it’s never been confirmed. Even The Week Before seemed like it was purposely avoiding saying the victim’s name, instead just opting to call him “the victim.” And they also never say which animatronic it was, instead opting to dodge it completely (ie. “what he did to provoke the attack” using language that skirts around an animatronic entirely and makes it sound like 100% “The Victim’s��� fault, which isn’t relevant but it is very funny). And bc it seems like the movie is hesitant to do any canon confirmation of any sort, hence the completely alternate timeline.

I don’t actually think they’ll avoid it entirely, it’s simply too iconic (arguably one of the most iconic parts of the games) but I’m afraid it will be lame. I think that the iconic Bite of ‘87, which happens during the second game, needs to be a large or at least memorable part of the second movie. I think it’s genuinely necessary. And you will be hearing a long, bitchy rant from me if it isn’t included up to my very high standards (swirls my expensive wine in my expensive wine glass.)

[anachilles]

Hi! Love your writing 🥰

Requesting a BuckxBucky Drabble with the prompt for “SCAR” from the list you shared if you have the time! ❤️

[ 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐑 ] ― sender traces a scar on receiver’s body

hi!!! thank you so much!!! 🫶✨

Half-dressed, Gale appears in the doorway between their bedroom and the en suite, his expression caught somewhere between sheepishness and wearied resignation.

He looked so endearing in the mornings, though, Bucky had always thought so. All rumpled blond hair, heavy eyelids still clinging on with a white-knuckled grip to sleep despite forcing himself awake, and rosy cheeks that could’ve rendered him almost childlike if not for the fair, freshly grown-in stubble accompanying the colour.

Bucky knew all too well he was lucky that he got to see this version of the impeccably well-groomed, notoriously composed Major. He did the world and everyone in it a favour sharing Gale with them, but this version was just for him and he held the image close to his chest for safe keeping, tucking it firmly into his inner breast pocket.

Now, irritation etched into the tense line of his mouth, Gale glances down at where his wrist up to his elbow is plastered up, hoisted up and held in position by a fabric sling. Bucky follows his gaze, swallowing hard past the concern that’s urged forth. Gale says nothing but the wordlessness is heavy, expectant.

“You need some help?” Bucky says quickly, half-imploring but trying not to sound too imploring or overbearing about it, helping him out and extrapolating from the silence. It’s been like this ever since it’d happened, Gale needing a bit of help but not wanting to admit it, and Bucky physically incapable of resisting the urge to help him anyway.

To think that this was a man who’d gone to war, flew bomber planes over Nazi-occupied Europe in broad daylight, been shot down and had to bail out of one of said planes and hurtle to earth before spending the next 18 months in a prison camp, escaping from all of that with barely a significant physical injury to show for it.

To then break his wrist tripping over a pair of shoes in their own goddamn house.

“Please?” He gives in, shirking Bucky’s attention, quickly turning back into the bathroom before Bucky can even get to his feet.

Anytime. Anything. Always.

Gale’s shaving kit’s already laid out on the counter when he follows him in. The man himself is futilely fiddling about with a can of shaving cream, which Bucky slips from his hand with an affectionate “get”, and then, “I’ve got you” when he prompts Gale down onto the edge of the bath tub with a probing hand on the shoulder.

He quickly sets to work, lathering up the cream before swiping it gently across the other man’s face. His hands shake sometimes, ever since the war, but today, for this, they remain gratefully steady with the delicate task at hand.

Even when it means driving a blade across the two twin shrapnel scars symmetrically etched into each of Gale’s cheeks. A permanent remnant of the war, a lifelong brand dealt by the Nazis that he’d be forced to wear every single day. One that he couldn’t run away from so long as he had mirrors he had to look in, or panes of glass to catch his reflection in anyway even if he tried to avoid the former.

One that Bucky will spend the rest of his life endeavouring to recontextualise, or at the very least disarm, through pure, unadulterated, unrelenting love. Frequent kisses, reverent thumb strokes when he held Gale’s beautiful fucking head in his hands, and affectionate bumps with the tip of his nose even if only to get the other man’s attention.

They all had their scars, everyone who went and sacrificed whole parts of themselves (and often, for so many, so much more) for a cause much bigger than themselves or anything they could’ve imagined. The rest of them could hide them, cover them up and at least be able to pretend for a while they weren’t there.

Gale had to bear his.

“Looks good to me…” Finishing up the shave, Bucky takes a towel and starts wiping away the remaining suds and wetness, the fabric pausing for a half a second over the jagged white line on the right side.

“Thank you,” He sounds less tense, but tired; like he needs the coffee he clearly hasn’t had yet. The words ghost across Bucky’s wrist, Gale’s breath featherlight on his skin, and he’s suddenly stricken with gratitude in the intimacy of the gesture; of the moment.

Bending down, he retakes Gale’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, replacing the towel with his lips and pressing them into the mottled flesh.

A sign that he’s still here.

That he made it out.

That he’s alive and has the scars to prove it.

[jimlingss]

Moirai [2]

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

➜ Words: 6.2k

➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Isekai!AU

➜ Summary: Death is supposed to be the end. Or at least that's what you assumed when you're hit by a TRUCK. But the moment you open your eyes again, instead of being sent to the afterlife, you've become a baby. And not just any baby. You're the female villain of a video game.

You turn the corner and dart down the hall.   “My lady!”   There’s a parade of maids chasing after you, Joan included in the bunch, and a frightened guard whose metal armour clanks with each movement. You grin, swinging your wooden sword around at them with a ‘huzzah!’. Pretending you’re a champion, you twirl around the pillar with one arm. But even with your theatrics, they’re still meters away and out of reach.   “Please! Come back! You have your dance lessons!”   You stick out your tongue. “Then catch me!”   It’s been one full year since you’ve started learning swordsmanship and admittedly, it’s become one of your most favourite times of the day. It beats sitting at a desk with the old fart droning on and on about dumb things you already know or having your posture criticized over and over again during dance lessons.    You’re frankly getting tired of having information and insults shoved down your throat.    Sword lessons are the only time you can be out in the sun and do whatever you want. You can tell that you’re improving too. It’s a pain in the ass to get the guards to take you seriously, but sometimes the tips and tricks they give are pretty helpful.   It’s fun.   Especially when there are people desperately chasing you.   “P-Please!” one of the girls cries out, running out of breath.   One of the best perks about being a five-year old is having endless energy in your body. And you’ll happily take advantage of that while you still can. “Pirates never give up! Argh, matey!”   But your play time is unfortunately interrupted by a deadpanning voice—   “What are you doing?”    The familiar sharp voice sends shivers up your spine and you freeze.   Your parade halts on their heels as well, immediately dropping their heads to the ground and placing one hand over the other reverently. “Your grace.”   “What is going on here?” Your mother’s footsteps echo through the marble hall, ball gown dragged behind her as her scrutinizing eyes lay on the help, the knight and then to you.   “I’m so sorry,” Joan is quick to confess, “The lady refuses to attend her dance practices.”   And she’s quick to throw you under the bus.   If you could, you’d stick up your middle finger at her.   Your mother turns, her glare laid upon you. You brace yourself.   “This is not how the future Devereux head should act.” Her voice is above a slight murmur, yet chilling and heavy. Her narrowed eyes have dimmed as they look upon you. She doesn’t need to yell to be frightening. “The Chevalier household has their youngest daughter playing piano and they recently went to the castle to show her talent. How will you compete, Anastasia?”   “I—”   “Or will you continue to tarnish our family’s name by being a child?”   You are a child. Technically.    The woman looms over you, her demeanour imposing and the burden of the household’s name lays upon your shoulders. You can’t help but feel small. It’s no wonder Anastasia took the Prince’s kindness as love and fell for him so quickly. Moments with him were her moments of freedom.   You stay quiet, solemn, knowing it’s not worth arguing. Your eyes instead focus on a younger maid who’s silently snickering to herself and before you can make note for later, your vision blurs.   “From now on, your swordsmanship lessons will be retracted until you’ve caught up with the rest of your lessons,” she says while looking straight ahead, not sparing you a glance. “The only places you are to be permitted in for the next month is your room and the study—”   It’s unfair. A punishment that doesn’t fit the crime.   But your voice doesn’t come out of your mouth.   The world tilts on an axis. It swirls. Your head is lightweight.    And before you could figure out what’s happening, there’s a shrill cry for you — “my lady!” — and you feel yourself falling back before the universe becomes pitch black. An abyss of nothing.   //   “Why did she faint?!”   When you come to, your first thought is that you’ve died. Again.   Illness. Heart attack. Maybe from the plague.    Fuck.   It’s frightening and you feel an urge to cry, knowing that you yet again didn’t complete your goal of living a long and fruitful life. That the years spent fighting for your survival were ultimately useless. But then you hear far away voices and realize your fingers can twitch. The soft mattress underneath you registers soon after and it sinks in that you’re in your room, bedridden.   “Well….your grace…”   “On with it! I didn’t bring you here to waste my time!”   “Herrick…”   Oh right. It’s the Eve of the Solar Festival, isn’t it? A day where commoners celebrate the empire and wish for its everlasting prosperity. You remember since you’ve never gone before. Around this same time last year and the year before that, you fell ill in the exact same way — cold, chest aching, dizzy spells.    It’s odd. Usually you aren’t so weak and yet somehow, you always get better in the morning once the festival is over. You don’t remember this ever being mentioned in the original game either. Or at least Anastasia never said anything about it and she would’ve totally milked it for the Prince’s attention if she could’ve. But maybe it’s an outside detail. Something the game developers were going to include in a future DLC.   “We don’t know what’s happening to the lady, your grace,” the healer says.   Your father bellows from his stomach, “Excuse me?!”   “H-Her pulse reads well and she has no fever either. I-It’s a very unusual case.”   In your half-consciousness, you perceive the bitter silence.    “Heal her at all costs.” Your father’s footsteps fade and your mother sighs.   You wish you couldn’t hear. Otherwise, it would be easy to demonize the pair as unsympathetic, psychopathic parents who only consider their daughter a chess piece. You’re sure the only reason they’re expressing so much concern is because you are the only heir after all. They really have no future if Anastasia dies.    But it’s still hard to quell the hope that they actually care for your wellbeing.    Still, you wish you couldn’t hear their desperation. It wouldn’t have to be so conflicting. Or bittersweet. The only time they show an ounce of their affection is when you’re on your deathbed.   You muster the strength to open your eyes once everyone’s left the room.    Most likely, you’ll live through this. You still have yet to have any of the game’s encounters or even start. Anastasia was alive for most of it, enough to terrorize the main character, so you’ll live too.   Shit. When does the game start again?   The opening scene was right before the debutante ball was held for all the girls in the empire.   You count on your fingers — give or take, there’s twelve or thirteen years left….   But you remember from the wiki fan page that Anastasia became engaged to the Crown Prince when they were kids.    Oh god. If you weren’t so weak, you’d roll over and scream into your pillow.   There’s an unsettling feeling boiling in the pit of your stomach.   No matter how much effort you put forth, you don’t know how you’re going to avoid that arrangement.

Turns out, it’s unavoidable.   It begins two years later at seven years old, the D-day that you were dreading, the first domino that begins all the others.   “No! Please!” The entire household is stunned at how you’ve grabbed onto the Duke’s leg and wrapped your limbs around his appendage, practically dead weight and not allowing him to move a single step.    All your life, you’ve kept a good amount of distance between your parents — never daring to overstep your boundaries or sass them back no matter how much you wanted to. It’s more trouble than it’s worth anyway and it’s better to play on their good side.   But you’ve thrown in the towel. This is your last desperate attempt.   “I’ll be good, I promise I’ll go to all my dance lessons and all my history lessons and all my math lessons. Please, papa! Please!” You’re practically crying aloud. You wish someone would help you. “I don’t want to go to the Royal Palace!”   Edith is shaking her head while Joan is mortified at the sidelines.   Your mother’s expression is twisted in disgust while your dad is wholly aghast. Hey — it’s not like you wanted to do this either, alright?!   But your pleas fall on deaf ears. To them, it’s merely the whining of a child. A temper tantrum.   “My lady, please stop this,” Joan harshly whispers and rushes to pry your grip off of the Duke’s leg. Several others come too, maids and kitchen staff alike. Your strength is no match for theirs.   “My stomach hurts!”   Your father has no sympathy. “We’ve delayed enough times, Anastasia. If we postpone the meeting with the King again, it would be shameful to our house. Now get up.”   He’s done hearing the excuses — and while you’d usually internally call him out for being an ass, the moment you heard he wanted to take you to the palace, you did claim you have a fever.    Then you claimed diarrhea. A cough. Hid for several hours.   You’re actually surprised you managed to delay it for this long.   “There’s no choice, my lady,” Joan mutters quickly as she fixes the ribbons in your pretty hairdo. “You must go with the Duke today.”   Deep down, you know it’s true. You’ll be pulled along anyhow.    But you wish they would understand that this is a matter of life and death for you.   Your silence is a sign of raising the white flag and Joan retracts back to her place as your dad turns to leave the manor. He adjusts his hat as he’s escorted to the carriage and you’re about to trail after him, but your mother stops you.   You expect her to reprimand you, give an earful of what you should and shouldn’t do. But you’re surprised when she lowers herself down to your eye level.    She catches you off guard when she reaches out to button up your pea coat, attentive and careful in each swift movement. “This is a really important meeting, Anastasia. Do you understand?”    Her voice is soft, quiet enough that no one else aside from you can hear. You nod.   “You must be on your best behaviour. Your father, me, all the workers here, and the whole House of Devereux will be relying on you.” Wow. Way to not pressure a seven year old. “Today is the day that might change our lives for the better.”   As she finishes buttoning, her hands stroke your shoulders down your arms. The Duchess smiles gingerly, tiredly. For a moment, you feel guilty for being so selfish — for prioritizing your own survival and desires when everyone else was quite literally relying on you for their livelihood.   You find yourself swallowing hard before nodding again.    You get into the carriage without another word.    Well fuck. What now?   A part of you wishes you ran away when you had the opportunity — even though there was a good chance you would’ve been kidnapped and sold at an underground market or gone hungry or be shipped back right to your parents. Ashea, like any other place, doesn’t take kindly to wandering children.   But at least then you would’ve had more control and choice.    You know this isn’t just a fun field trip to the palace. The only reason the Duke and the King would meet like this is to seek an engagement. Your engagement with the Prince’s.    Half an hour later, you peek out the carriage windows to see the castle at the horizon.   Stone walls, seven towers, lookouts, the empire’s flag fluttering in the breeze — it’s a beautiful place with rolling green hills and beds of flowers that wind up the path. It’s a hundred times more grand than the Devereux estate and ten times the size too, stretching across for miles. But it’s also the location where all of it happens.    The beginning. The climax. The end.   “Anastasia.”   Your attention is taken when your father steps off the carriage. You take the servant's hand and hop down onto the cobblestone, following your father closely. He greets an important person or two and you lower your head to them in greeting as they complement how mannerly you are.   The two of you are led through open, lavish halls full of life-sized portraits and marble statues, and then through the garden. Even in both your lifetimes, you’ve never seen so many different kinds of flowers and vivid hues in one place.    Pansies. Orchids. Marigold.    Magenta. Lavender. Marmalade.   But you don't get to admire it for long. Not when the gazebo comes into sight.    A man with straight posture, dark hair streaked with gray to show his age and deep set eyes sits at the rounded table. Even with the absence of his crown, his status is shown through his navy cape ornate with golden swirls held together by an emerald jewel embellished with the royal crest. Wrinkles around his mouth, he has a fiercely stern expression until he cordially smiles as your father approaches.    Beside him is a spitting image, a smaller boy slumped in the white chair, visibly bored.   “Herrick! Good to see you, my old friend.”   “Your Majesty.” Your father bows and you follow suit, giving a curtsy and lowering your head. But at the same time, you can’t help peeking at the boy. His eyes meet yours and you look away.   Oh fuck.   It’s the first meeting between the Prince and Anastasia.    You’re sure for her it was impactful, nerve wracking, life changing. And it’s like that for you as well, but not so much on the positive side.   “Please, the formalities. Is this the daughter you've been speaking so highly about?”   “Yes, this is my only child, Anastasia.”   You plaster on a perfect, little smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty.”   The King hums. “A very lovely child indeed. The Devereux House is blessed.”   The Duke smiles. “Thank you.”   “Please sit and make yourselves welcome.” The King gestures and the servants nearby scurry over, pulling out your chairs, pouring tea and placing plates of biscuits on their table. In a blink, they’ve finished and you can’t help but muse how much better they are than the servants back at home. The King smiles and looks at his son. “Jungkook, don’t you have anything to say?”   “Nice to meet you,” he deadpans before his doe eyes wander out to the gardens.    Jungkook is wholly disinterested in you and this entire affair — you don’t blame him. You bet any seven year old would be itching to get out of their seat. But looking at him, you can’t believe you liked him so much in the game. You even had him as your phone wallpaper for a few months.   But from the perspective of Anastasia and knowing your outcome and your impending demise, he’s not even cute as a kid.   If anything, sitting across from him stresses you the fuck out.   You weren’t supposed to even meet him. This was the exact opposite of your battle plans. And yet the engagement is going to happen whether you like it or not. The greatest irony of all is that you know he’ll end up falling in love with the main character anyway instead of you. Aka. the orphaned girl who ends up adopted by a baron.   This whole ordeal only serves to make you suffer.   The only way you could sabotage this meeting now is by slamming the teapot over Prince Jungkook’s head. And that would either get you thrown in jail for treason and executed or sent back to the Devereux estate on house arrest where your mother would kill you.   Oh god. It’s death either way.   “Are the sweets not to your liking?”   It takes a second for you to register that the King is looking at you. That he’s speaking to you.   You go wide-eyed, realizing you haven’t had a bite of the cakes, the biscuits or sipped on any tea. You’ve completely tuned out their conversation. But he’s been watching you and Jungkook from the corner of his eye, assessing your interactions closely.    Your palms go clammy as you open your mouth before closing it.    “She’s just shy,” your dad swiftly informs with a polite smile. It’s a complete lie, but one the royal monarch believes.   “Ah. We shouldn’t bore them with adult talk then.” The man turns to his son. “Jungkook, why don’t you go off and play with Anastasia here?”   “Okay,” he mumbles and slides off his chair.   You follow suit, a bit relieved that you were dismissed from the overly formal atmosphere.   The two of you go deeper into the gardens until the gazes of your father and the King’s fade from view. Jungkook is wearing a white ensemble with a cape which he dirties with the way he’s kicking rocks in his path. He seems burdened that you’re beside him.   “What do you like playing?” he asks.   You’re perplexed on how to answer. You’re not sure how you should play with an actual seven year old. Then again, you like to run away from the maids and swing your sword around on your down time. But that’s just because you like their reactions.   “Sword fighting.”   Jungkook blanches as if he just bit into a lemon. “What kind of girl plays with swords?”   Suddenly, you’re overwhelmed with an urge to kick the royal prince right in his shin.    But as the annoyance floods you, an epiphany comes along with it — if you can’t avoid Jungkook, maybe it’s time to switch strategies. Maybe you can start sowing the seeds of your future survival right here, right now. If one day, he’ll be condemning you of countless crimes and looking down at you as an evil villain, maybe you can turn his perception in the opposite direction.   Harmless. Overbearingly nice. Arrows that practically point ‘I’M NOT A THREAT WHATSOEVER!’.    You’re a genius.   You force the highest pitched giggle you can. “Really?”   Jungkook kicks another rock. “Girls have flimsy arms and trip every time you touch them.”   Ah. The ancient version of: girls have cooties and so you should stay away from them. Alright, alright. You can work with this.   “What do you like playing, Your Highness?”   “Anything that’s not with girls.”   You pause and laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound too stiff.   Jungkook suddenly lifts his head and turns to you with the swivel of his heel. You stop as well and his index finger juts right in your face. “Since I’m the prince, I’ll have mercy on you. We can play servant and king.”   “What’s servant and king?”   “I’m the king.” His thumb pokes himself and then he’s back to pointing right between your eyes again. “You’re the servant. You have to follow me and all my orders or off with your head!”   What a little shit.   How is this going to be any fun for you?!   But you draw an enormous grin on your face, left eye twitching in the process. “Sounds like fun, Your Highness!”   He strolls off. “Let’s go, dumb dumb.”   Your teeth grit and you inhale a deep breath. It hurts your pride to be insulted by a literal seven year old, but you can handle it. When it comes to life or death, you’ll easily befriend the hero.   “Fetch that stick, peasant!”   The prince points at the distance and looks at you expectedly.   Your teeth grit. But you muster a smile and dash forward.   When it comes to life or death, you’ll befriend the hero……….probably.   “Here you go, Your Highness.”   You present the stick to him with both hands and the brat smirks. A rush of air leaves his nose and then he takes the stick. You’re not sure what to expect, but your entire body freezes when he hurls it as far as his arms can go. He points between your brows a second later. “Go get it!”   Motherfucker. “Yes!”    Once Jungkook’s tired of having you fetch like a dog, you trail after him closely. The green hedges are triple your size, acting like corridors of the garden before they open up to certain areas filled with beds of flowers or a fountain. Some paths are unpaved, so you listen to the crunch of rocks underneath his shoes amidst the quiet.    When you’re not out of breath and running at his command, it finally sinks in that it’s the first time you’re with a main character of the game. For the seven years of this lifetime thus far, there was only really you. Your parents were supporting characters at best who just took the opportunity to slyly diss the main heroine a few times at royal gatherings. But other than that, you’re currently facing the backside of someone you know a lot about.   Who he will become. What his future holds. What his desires are.   You pipe up, “Prince Jungkook—”   “That’s Your Highness, peasant!”   You clench your jaw. “Your Highness…”   “What?”   You quicken your steps until you’re beside him and he turns his head. “I’ll support you forever if you want to fall in love with anyone! I don’t care about being the crown princess or the queen!”    For good measure, you flash a wink and a thumbs up.   “What?” His boyish face is twisted up in disgust. “Why would a peasant be a queen?”   You hold in your sigh. “I’m just saying. If we ever get engaged or something, it can always be annulled when we’re older. So feel free to love on, Your Highness. Make love, not war!”   Your words completely fly over Jungkook’s head.   His face reads that he has no clue what you’re talking about.   And he turns away from you. “You’re weird.”   You scoff.    You’re not sure how you can become friendly with a seven year old when you’re internally twenty years older than he is. If you had chocolate on you, you’d use that as a bargaining chip. But clearly, you only have your body, brain and the surroundings at the moment….   What do seven year old boys like?   What do they like?   As you scan your surroundings, your eye catches something in the bushes. You stop and get closer.   At the same time, Jungkook realizes you’re not following him anymore and turns around. “What are you doing, peasa—” His words are cut short by a shrill shriek of absolute terror.   Your brows furrow and you thrust your hand closer to him. “It’s a ladybug.”   The tiny red and black polka dotted bug is crawling in your hand. Jungkook screams again.   He’s stumbling back, nearly tripping onto his butt, doe eyes reflected with complete horror as if you just chopped off his mom’s head. “Get that thing away from me!” his voice cracks up and down two different octaves and realizing his weakness, you grin.   You know your plan was to seem as harmless as possible, but it’s just too much fun teasing him.   “What thing, Your Highness? Your servant is merely showing you a small forest creature.”   “No! Stop!”   He scrambles and starts running away.   You chase after him while giggling manically. “Prince Jungkook! Where are you going!”   “Get the bug away from me!”   He turns over his shoulder with eyeballs nearly falling out of their sockets, face bright red, and you take the opportunity to toss the ladybug at him. Jungkook’s shrieks echo, pitched and earsplitting.   You’re forced to stop with how hard you’re laughing and by then, he’s ran for the hills, completely gone from sight.   Oh god. You can’t believe he’s so scared.    You can’t believe you were so scared — he’s just a kid.   Your giggles taper off as you wander the gardens by yourself. It’s freeing to stroll at your own pace without a brat demanding you to fetch sticks or barking at you to do this and that. It’s a chance to finally admire the surroundings.   You’re sure the first time Anastasia saw the castle, it became her dream home. The place is similar to the aesthetic background graphics of the game and it was always described as beautiful by all the characters. And it really is that way.   But this is also the place of her demise and possibly yours.    You’re sure the only time you’ll be able to enjoy the palace and be this carefree is right now.   You’re admiring the blooming carnations, peony and roses as you turn the corner. The figure standing by the sprouting fountain doesn’t register until after a delayed moment and your eyes lift to see a woman — mysterious in her gray dress. It’s simple attire, but the fabrics are layered on top of one another, light enough that they drape down and flow to the breeze. Her brunette hair is tied into a bun and as if she feels the pressure of your eyes, her bright irises turn towards you.   You realize you’re staring and you blink several times, approaching her politely.    She pulls her charcoal shawl closer to her and smiles. The light wrinkles around her kind eyes crease. “Are you lost, child?”   You shake your head. “No. I’m just looking.”   She crouches down to match your height, gazing at you tenderly. “Where are your parents?”   “My dad’s talking to the King.” You point off in the distance as curiosity eats at you. She doesn’t look like an ordinary worker but not a visitor of the castle either. “I’m Anastasia.”   She searches your expression as if she’s endeared by you. “That’s a beautiful name.”   “Thanks! Who’re you?”   She’s soft-spoken, voice above a quiet murmur, “My name is Erena Robane.”   You frown. The name rings a bell. “Lady Robane?”   “No.” Her laugh tinkles. “I’m no lady.”    Before you can press your mind any further and pick apart your brain at why her name sounds so familiar, she reaches into the small pouch she was carrying and hands you a wrapped piece of candy. “Would you like one?”   Your eyes light up at the pink square. “Yes, please!”    You know better, as an internal twenty seven year old, than to take candy from strangers, but the Duke and Duchess never give you any sweets. So you’ll happily take what you can.   Erena smiles and drops the treat into your outstretched palm.   Not wanting to risk getting it confiscated by Edith, Joan or your mother if you brought it home, you quickly unwrap it and throw it into your mouth. It’s peppermint and it’s pretty damn good.   The woman looks at you patiently, waiting for a reaction, so you give her a thumbs up and a “Yummy!”   She laughs faintly. “Do you like candy?”   “Yep!” You hold out both hands as if you’re trick-or-treating. “Can I have another one, please?”   Might as well seize the chance while you can. It’s a dog-eat-dog world.    “You have very good manners.” She smiles, taking another out of her endless pouch and dropping it in your hand. Oh man, you’re starting to really like this lady. “My son likes chocolate, but I only managed to get candy for today.”   You chew the hard candy in your cheek, crunching down on it. You hope it rots your teeth and makes Edith’s life a living nightmare when she has to deal with it. “Your son?”   Her lips part to speak. But she’s interrupted—   “Mom?”   By sheer coincidence and coincidence itself, a boy with floppy, brown hair turns the corner of the garden. Thin lips, but chubby cheeks and bright eyes of deep mocha. You’ve known him the second your eyes have laid on him. A younger form of the person you fear most.   Taehyung.   You gasp and immediately spin around, hoping he didn’t see you, pretending you didn’t see him.   “I have to go now!”    Before Taehyung’s mom can utter another word, you run away. You don’t notice how Taehyung slows as well, brows furrowed at your receding form.   To see Jungkook is one thing. But to see Taehyung, the one who will use, coerce and lead you to your doom, is another. Jungkook handed down your judgment, but Taehyung is the one who led you there.   He’s the villain.   //   “You did decently,” your mother informs a few days after the whole affair. “We might have to go to the palace more often from now on.”   You nod, unable to dwell in her approval, mind still lost in a daze.    Taehyung — a half prince born a year before Jungkook. He has the blood of a royal with his father as the King, but his mother is merely a palace maid. You remember that he seeks revenge for her death after she’s poisoned by the jealous Queen.   But if she’s still alive, that means it’ll happen soon.   This year.    Springtime.    You’re slowly recalling the details of the event, the catalyst that begins Taehyung’s descent into madness, how he became the game’s villain. But you can’t involve yourself. You just can’t.   You shouldn’t have met any of them in the first place.   You shouldn’t get entangled in their story, in their lives. If you want to live, if you want to survive, you have to avoid Taehyung at all costs. So you can’t. You can’t. Can’t.   A day passes as you focus on your studies.   You can’t.   Another two days goes by, six meals eaten.   Can’t—   On the seventh, your silver spoon clanks noisily against the porcelain bowl, slipping from your grasps, dropping downwards in your deep trance that throbs your temples. Joan turns at the ruckus and you look at her, already standing up.   “I have to go to the castle.”   The guilt eating at you has won its battle.    “Pardon me?”   “Today. Right now.” You rush out of the room and down the hall, determination set in your strides. Maybe you can avoid this. Maybe if you do, he won’t become the game’s villain. Then he won’t be a threat to you, and you won’t be a threat to anyone. You’ll live and so will his mom who’s done nothing wrong.   The maid struggles to catch up to you. “My lady! Please! Wait! What do you mean?”   “I forgot something really important!”   “Y-You can’t just go. My lady! You must ask permission from the Duke and Duchess!”   “There’s no time to.” You’ve never been more serious and somber. There isn’t an inch of mischief, no childish selfishness. Twenty seven years has amounted to this very moment. And you use your status as the Duke’s daughter to command the girl. “Come with me. If the Duke or Duchess gets mad, I’ll take the blame.”   Joan sighs, annoyed as she looks around as if someone else could reason with you. But as you turn to her, looking her dead in the eye, she shifts on her feet and hesitantly calls for a carriage.   You’re in it before you can blink again.   There must be time. There hasn’t been any news yet. No reports of a death in the castle.   You can warn him. You can avoid this tragedy.    “We’re here, my lady,” Joan informs, peering out the window at the enormous stone walls and towers looming high above the clouds. The carriage doors open and she guides you out.    Your feet land onto the cobblestone.    But there isn’t any welcome. No guards that ask what your business here is. No servant passing by.   Instead, there’s chaos in the distance.    Your head whips to the noise and Joan shouts as you dash off towards it. Yet no one notices you in the midst of the pandemonium. No one would pay mind to a small child. You’re left to linger in the open halls, butlers that quickly walk past, maids whispering amongst themselves—   “Did you hear?”   Your head turns towards two girls.   “The King’s mistress just died!”   You came a moment too late.

No one cries.   The arrangement is short and unluxurious, the bare minimum of what would be acceptable for a royal family. A priestess in front drones on impassively about the afterlife, but as you look around, no one grieves. After all, they wouldn’t shed tears for a mere maid.    This is merely a charade to quell away scandalous rumors and to give nobles an excuse to come to the castle and be acknowledged.   You’re overwhelmed in black, a tulle skirt and puffed sleeves. Your parents stand on either side of you, your father in a jacket with the house’s emblem and your mother with a veil covering the right side of her face. Like many others, your family has come for appearance sakes.   But for you, it’s different.   The woman inside the closed casket has shown you a kindness that you so seldom receive.   And because of your hesitation, because of your self-preservation and selfishness, this happened.   Once the burial ceremony is over, your parents mingle amongst the nobles, laughing cordially behind gloved hands as you follow after them and cutesy. It feels like you’re a show pony, brought around to show what the future of the Devereux looks like.   But after a while, you manage to slip away from the scrutiny.    And by sheer coincidence and coincidence only, you find him.   At first it’s the noise of heart wrenching sobs. It’s unrestrained wails and choked hiccups in between that attracts your attention. You twist through the familiar hedge corridors and the moment you turn the corner, your eyes lift to a small figure underneath an oak tree.    He sits alone. He cries to himself.    The boy with floppy, brown hair has his knees pulled together. He incessantly rubs at his eyes as if that alone could stop the tears that well and pour. He cries enough for the tens of people at the funeral, substituting their apathy with his anguish. His entire body wracks and the moment he whimpers “m-mom” in-between, it’s shaking to your core.    This is the beginning. The start of his path of destruction.   In this entire castle that stretches across the horizon, only his mother ever loved him. The half-prince. The Forgotten Prince. The one dirtied by regular red blood, not blue enough for the golden crown.   Taehyung mourns, vision blurred by his grief.   But as he rubs his eyes with his small fists, black shoes appear between the gaps of his hands.   He looks up. Your arm is extended in front of him.    Taehyung looks down to your folded, pink handkerchief. He looks stunned for a moment, as if he’s surprised that there was someone here. That someone actually heard him. That someone came.   He takes your handkerchief and sniffles.   “I’m sorry,” you murmur.    Sorry that she passed away, that he has to endure this, that you didn’t save her when you could’ve.   This isn’t just a game you’re playing anymore. All these people aren’t just characters.   You’re living a new life. And all these people have emotions, desires, thoughts of their own.   You’re not sure how you can comfort Taehyung. What you can say to make it better. “Your mother loved you a lot. I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to be crying so much by yourself.”   He hiccups, snivelling uncontrollably. “B-But if I don’t cry for her, who will?”   You don’t know what to say.   Tears continue to slip down his cheeks and as you linger awkwardly, you decide there isn’t much that you can say. So you sit beside him. You sit underneath the canopy of the tree and branches of rustling leaves, on the soft bed of grass, looking out at the garden.    This is all you can do.   You don’t notice the way Taehyung looks up in-between his mourning, glossy eyes pinpointed on the profile of your face.    The pair of you sit next to one another in the silence of his sniffles until it levels. Until he can breathe again—   “Anastasia!”   There’s a sharp call of your name, one that can only belong to your mother. You immediately come to your feet again as if a dog whistle has been blown. But as you hurry away, you turn over your shoulder. Your eyes connect with Taehyung’s brown ones, and for a moment you slow.   You leave a second later.   You twist down the hedges and turn the corner, nearly bumping straight into her. She looks down at you with her brows furrowed. “Where did you go?”   You smile. “I got lost.”   It’s futile. You know it now.   Trying to avoid the three that will lead you to your demise is like trying to wish you’d suddenly vanish off these lands. You know it won’t be the last time that you see Taehyung. It won’t be the last of Jungkook either. Or whoever the heroine will be. It seems like the more you try to run, the more you inadvertently become involved. But you’ll hold your head up high and face whatever is to come head on.

[cant-think-of-anything]

Pirate AU (Part Five)

Lucie watched Alastair gently clean his sisters wounds before bandaging them up.

Knowing how much they cared for each other, she had expected Alastair to be angry. And though he was ready to quite literally murder Tatiana, he didn’t seem mad at her. Lucie couldn’t say the same for herself. 

Cordelia had gotten hurt. She could’ve been killed if she wasn’t protecting Lucie. Dragging her out of her spiraling guilt, Thomas pressed a cup of tea into her hands, warming her cold fingers. He was also watching Alastair. 

“You could not have done anything to prevent this Lucie.” 

Lucie stilled. Thomas had arrived with Alastair who ended up sending a message to Eugenia. The three of them had helped Lucie clean up the glass and left Alastair to address Cordelia’s shoulder since he was the only one who knew any form of medical training. When Lucie had questioned him, he responded he knew how to do many things, like baking and tattooing. She had decided not to ask if he was being sarcastic. 

Thomas and Eugenia seemed fueled with purpose. Upon telling them Tatiana Blackthorn, the same woman responsible for the public marriage scandal between James and her daughter a few years back, was the one who had killed Barbra, they seemed more focused on vengeance than anything.

Eugenia snapped her fingers loudly. “Oi! Lucie, Thomas get over here.”

Alastair and her cousin had spread out a map of London they had acquired from the library. Combining the information that had come from Alastair and Lucie, they had placed that Tatiana was indeed another pirate, and apparently belonged or led one of the scariest crews to exist. Which was really just delightful for them.

After locating the ship’s docking point, Alastair had gone earlier, confirming that the ship was there and, judging by the symbol carved into its wood, the correct ship. 

“We need to get in somehow,” He said quietly while studying the maps.

Suddenly, Thomas looked up. “Christopher.”

“Who?” Alastair asked, staring as if Thomas had lost his mind. 

“My cousin, he makes things, if we need to break into a ship he’s quite good at making destructive things.”

And that, seemingly, was all it took. As her friends packed their items, discussing quietly, she watched Cordelia, still asleep, breathe softly in the firelight.

“I don’t want to leave her,” Alastair said, startling her. “But I trust you’ll take good care of her.” 

Lucie turned her face away. “For what happened… I’m sorry.”

Alastair looked up, surprised. "You needn’t apologize for that. My sister makes her own decisions, however ill-advised they may be sometimes. She won’t blame you and nor do I.”

Before Lucie could respond Eugenia rapped her knuckles on the door to grab their attention. She watched as they left, leaving her alone with an unconscious Cordelia. Mostly alone she thought, looking at her very tall friend who was staring at the fire. She sat next to him, crossing her legs on the couch and letting her head fall against his shoulder.

“Pirates,” He whispered, shaking his head lightly.

“Indeed,” Lucie responded before adding “Thomas, darling, have you seen what they wear?” 

Thomas laughed and bade her goodbye, following Alastair and Eugenia. 

~~~

Eugenia thought she had met her fair share of quiet people, but being in a carriage with Alastair was like being in a carriage with a well dressed mannequin. Thomas had mentioned needing to drop by one of his other friend’s houses and promptly abandoned Eugenia. 

“You found my brother.” She said, cutting into the silence.

“I did,” Alastair replied, still staring out the window.

How was it even possible for a person to talk this little? Eugenia made a frustrated noise and waved her hand in front of his face, smiling at his scowl.

“I’m trying to thank you,”

“I found your brother entirely by accident. I don’t think that’s praise-worthy.”

“Well you saved him by the sounds of it.”

“He told you?” Alastair sounded surprised. “Well I suppose I did it out of instinct. And a bit of thought went into how you would feel.”

Eugenia smirked, pretending to swoon. “He cares!”

Alastair swatted her arm before reaching into his coat. When his hand withdrew, there was a silver longsword in his grasp, the hilt littered with rubies. She sucked in a breath and reached her hand out to touch the engraved handle. She felt a jolt of surprise when Alastair gave it to her.

“All our weapons are gold anyway. It wouldn’t match. Try not to get yourself killed.” He went back to staring out the window, but Eugenia found she didn’t mind. 

~~~

Thomas ducked into Christopher’s lab, cursing London’s tiny doors to find his sister and Alastair already seated there. 

Christopher’s head was bent over his notebook, his hair nearly catching flame on an open fire before Alastair threw a damp towel at his head. 

“Thomas!” Christopher greeted, his face lighting up. 

“We need your help,” Alastair said. He seemed to hate any form of pleasantries. 

“With?”

“We need to get into a… very thick wooden box,” Eugenia cut in.

Christopher’s face clouded, and Thomas could practically see his mind working. Christopher was the smartest scientist in London and that Thomas could say with entire surety. He didn’t like keeping things from him, they had been inseparable for so long but this was not his secret to tell. 

He listened as Christopher told them what all he needed to create such a substance and Eugenia rose, offering readily to go to the market. Thomas thought he saw a flash of silver in her coat but she was gone before he could ask. His cousin’s face was in a deep revere of thought it seemed so Thomas left the room, Alastair close behind. 

~~~

Eugenia wished the cobblestones on the ground of this godforsaken market would swallow her up whole. She quite liked the boisterous activity and the loud arguing. What she did not feel so fond of was crouching in the alleyway like a lowlife trying to avoid her own family. Matthew Fairchild and Anna Lightwood were known to frequent illegal places and as much as Eugenia loved them, she wished she could snap her fingers and make them disappear. If they found her here they would certainly tell the rest of their friends, and Eugenia couldn’t risk putting Lucie and Thomas under scrutiny now. 

“Hello?” 

Eugenia cursed vehemently before turning around to face whatever person called out to her. 

And oh, Eugenia was going to positively faint. Someone would have to drag her out of the market and send her body home. There was a woman standing in the alleyway, a hat shaded half of her face but Eugenia knew it was just as lovely as the rest of her. The mystery woman brushed long black hair out of her dark brown eyes to study Eugenia. 

“Are you all right?” The woman asked with her perfectly shaped lips moving to help her up. 

No. “Yes! Of course.” 

She looked amused. “Is there a reason you're crouched in a dirty alleyway then?”

“A perfectly normal, justifiable reason yes.” When the woman waited for her to elaborate she added “I can’t let my family see me here.” 

“Ah,” She responded before sticking out her hand. “I’m Kamala.” 

“Eugenia.” 

“I came in through a back exit, I can take you through there.” Kamala hesitated then, and Eugenia realized that their hands were still interlocked. “If you would like that.” 

Well she couldn’t have said no to that.

~~~

Alastair, it seemed, liked to perch on dangerous places such as the third floor balcony. Thomas was caught between the urge to join him to see the appeal or pull him off so he wouldn’t get hurt. 

Thomas watched as he tipped his head back, his perfect dark hair rustling softly in the wind. Moving closer hesitantly, he placed his forearms on the railing, seeing Alastair’s eyes open from the corner of his vision. 

“Are you okay?” The words slipped out on their own accord.

Thomas turned, facing the shorter boy fully. Alastair’s entire being seemed stressed and worried and while Thomas understood why, an irrational part of him wanted to see if he could fix that. 

“We might die.” 

“Not a pleasant thought.” 

“I don’t care much what happens to me, but Cordelia and my mother can’t survive on their own.”

“Why? Cordelia seems capable enough.” 

Alastair shook his head, turning his eyes away as if he’d said too much. 

“Where have you sailed?” Thomas questioned, leaning back onto piller, sensing the signal for a subject change. He also couldn’t quite wrap his head around the “pirate” thing. 

“Many places. All of them were better than this repulsive town.

That startled a laugh out of Thomas. “I can understand that. I wish I could leave this city too sometimes.”

Alastair leaned closer and cocked his head to the side “Where would you go?”

Thomas flushed and leaned back. “Anywhere I suppose.”

Alastair looked as he was going to respond but the door banged open. Thomas jerked away, just realizing how close the two of them had been to look at Christopher. 

“Eugenia’s back.” He called, his eyebrows furrowed as he looked back and forth between them. 

~~~

Cordelia felt as if someone had an iron arm clamped to her shoulder and was shaking her brain vigorously. She opened her eyes and groaned at the stabbing light. 

“Cordelia?”

Lucie, she tried to say but found that she could not. She felt an actual hand wrap around hers and soft fingers brush hair from her forehead. 

“It’s okay, don’t say anything.”

Slowly, Lucie’s outline cleared and she could see her lovely blue eyes hovering a few inches from her face. Suddenly it was hard to breathe for entirely different reasons. 

Lucie gently laid her hands on Cordelia’s arms, careful not to disturb her wounds. Cordelia found herself suddenly overwhelmed with how close her fire-lit skin was, the hesitant brush of an escaped curl against her neck. She never wanted to pull away. 

“I know you just got hurt on your shoulders,” she started hoarsely, “but I thought…” 

Cordelia, finally able to find her voice said “Never blame yourself Lucie. If it were to protect you I would do it a thousand times over.”

She heard Lucie’s breathing stop before she pulled away slightly, much to Cordelia’s disappointment. 

“They found the ship. We’ll find her too.” Lucie’s eyes blazed bright. “I want you to teach me, show me how you wield your weapons, set your ships on water. She took far too much already and I refuse to let her take more.” 

~~~

You know that one tik tok audio that’s like- “Everyone is just who they are and who they are is just stone cold gay?” Yeah that’s this fic

ALSO someone help me out who’s taller in Joshwood?

Tagging: @adoravel-fenomeno and @barbra-lightwood (Also I didn’t say this before but I can add you if you want)  

[esmealux]

Could you do 31 and 23 for the prompts?

I absolutely loved this prompt, thank you! <3

This got a lot longer (1.8K) and a lot angstier than I intended. But fret not, it's hurt/comfort at its core and it's Deckerstar stargazing. And also,

ANTI-SPOILER ALERT: This piece takes place after 5a/during 5b. I have not watched the trailer, nor will I. I therefore have no idea what is going to happen in 5b, or if what this fic suggests is remotely close to what is hinted at in the trailer—and I would like remain oblivious. *Looks at you with puppy eyes* So please don't mention anything from the trailer in the comments? It would mean a lot to me ❤ (And yes, I do realise I could've waited two days before posting this, but I wanted to give you guys a little something while you wait.)

Rated M, just to be safe.

Enjoy, my loves!

31. Lost in the middle of nowhere + 23. ‘Hey, at least the stars are beautiful tonight, right?’

He gets in his car, and he drives.

He has no destination in mind, nowhere but ‘away’. Away from Him. From feelings he can’t contain. From eons of neglect. From pain.

Far away.

He drives till there’s no more gas and ends up stranded where the streets have no name, in the moonlit desert.

The car shudders and comes to a halt. With ridiculously shaky hands, Lucifer brings a cigarette and a lighter to his lips, desperately needing the distraction. He flicks the lighter repeatedly, chaotically, but the fire won’t bite, and suddenly he’s hyperventilating, and both cig and lighter are sent flying through the brisk night air.

He roars into the dark void of the night. The thunderous sound resonating off the distant mountain walls startles him like an unexpected ghost. It sounds like him, but not like him. Not like Lucifer, Devil, fallen angel. It sounds like Samael, falling angel—screaming into the abyss as he plummets towards fire and brimstone, his fate and punishment, dealt by Dad.

Lucifer suddenly can’t get out of the car fast enough. He leans against the trunk, his chest heaving rapidly, his lungs fighting for air. He’d thought he was healing, that he was actually starting to put millennia of trauma behind him. And maybe he was. But then He waltzed down and ripped the wound right open.

Such a pestilent, tyrannous prick.

Lucifer needs a drink.

He finds a bottle of something strong and amber in the glove box and brings it back to the trunk. It’s only half-full, and he’d need at least five more bottles to just get tipsy, but it’ll have to do. He wasn’t looking to get shitfaced, anyway. He just wants to take his mind off things, to breathe. And right now, (now that his chance of having a smoke is lying somewhere in the sand) a couple of sips from a mildly exquisite whiskey and the ensuant burn in his throat are the best way to do that.

She finds him like that—because of course she finds him—sitting on the trunk of his car with the near-empty bottle in his hand and looking absolutely wrecked.

She’s tentative as she approaches him, afraid she’s not welcome, that he really did want to be alone. But as she gets close and he looks up at her, dark eyes glistening in the moonlight, she knows being alone is the last thing he needs.

Without a word, neither from her nor from him, she gets up on back of the car and scoots close to him, still keeping some air between them.

‘I thought you could use a friend,’ she says with a slight smile, exactly like she did all those years ago. Now, however, the last word isn’t an overwhelming, meaningful declaration, but a cosmic understatement, and Lucifer can’t help but snort.

Reaching over, Chloe grabs his hand and interlocks their fingers. ‘Also, I wasn’t gonna let my partner get lost in the middle of nowhere alone.’

‘I’m not lost,’ he objects, but his voice, hollow and lined with despair, betrays him. He may know the way back to LA, but he is definitely lost.

Sensing he doesn't want to talk about it, Chloe gestures towards the bottle still dangling from his fingers and asks for a sip. His lips tug up into the smallest of smirks as he hands over the bottle with a half-hearted ‘Be my guest’.

She leans her head back, eyes turning to the night sky as she takes a swig (just a nip; one of them still has to drive home at some point). It tastes like evening kisses. Occassionally, morning kisses too.

A cool breeze whirls around them, and Chloe snuggles closer to Lucifer. She does have a plaid in the car, and she will get it in a minute, but right now, she settles for stealing some body heat, hoping her seatmate doesn’t mind too much. She hands him back the bottle and snakes a hand under his layers, up his bare back. He sighs shakily, the taut muscles beneath Chloe’s hand loosening up. It tugs at something in her chest—the way he’s calmed by her touch alone.

Chloe looks up again, at the tiny, abundant jewels glimmering against the dark sky. ‘At least the stars are beautiful tonight, right?’

In the middle of downing the last drops of whiskey, Lucifer absent-mindedly replies with a ‘Hm?’

‘Stars,’ Chloe repeats. ‘They’re beautiful.’

Hesitantly, almost reluctantly, Lucifer lets his eyes glide up. He’s quiet as he takes it in, the black canopy adorned with white, pearlescent specks. His gaze is somewhat distant, reminiscent. Wistful.

‘Lucifer,’ she breathes, not as a vocative, but as an eureka. She’s said his name so many times before, screamed it, whispered it, cried it—with passion and pain and everything in between—but now is the first time she says it actually knowing what it means. Or at least she’s pretty sure she does.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ she asks him with a whisper, more in awe than accusatory, and the soft, melancholic smile he gives her is answer enough. ‘You let there be light.’ It’s not a question this time, just an overwhelming realisation spoken out loud.

‘Well, technically,’ Lucifer corrects, glancing over at her, ‘it was Dad who created Light.’ His gaze turns upwards again, eyes suddenly twinkling with pride. ‘The almighty wanker was just too lazy to hang it up there himself.’

Stunned, Chloe stares at the sky with new reverence. It’s breath-taking, both the sight itself—diamonds and sparkling dust sprinkled across a sea of nothing—and the fact that Lucifer made that. He literally hung the stars in the sky.

The fact that he hasn’t mentioned this before, that he hasn’t boasted about it, hasn’t proudly told everyone he’s the artist behind the original Starry Night also says something.

Peering up at him from where her head is now resting against his shoulder, Chloe sees a look on his face she can only describe as ‘homesick’.

‘They remind you of your dad’s love for you,’ she realises, voice quiet.

Lucifer scoffs, but there’s no humour in it. Just pain. ‘What love?’

Chloe doesn’t blame him for doubting. With all the light God (apparently) gave Lucifer, He gave him a thousand times more darkness. (And she is going to talk to Him about that. Later. When she’s hugged the living shit out of His son). But Chloe can tell He, despite everything, does love Lucifer—and that Lucifer is using this resentment towards Him to avoid facing the fact that he, still, loathes himself just as much. If not more.

The thought makes Chloe sick, and she suddenly feels the need to tell him, ‘You’re worthy, you know?’

He looks down at her. A wet streak on his cheek catches the silvery light of the moon. ‘I do?’ The insecurity in his voice is a sharp jab in her chest. But again, she doesn’t blame him.

‘You are,’ she states again for emphasis, holding his gaze. ‘You’re worthy of love, and light.’ With her free hand, the one that isn’t stroking the small of his back beneath his shirt and jacket, she cups his face and swipes her thumb across his stubble. ‘You deserve it. You deserve happiness, more than any other person in this world.’

He doesn’t say anything in return, but he doesn’t have to. The smile he gives her in return, warming and breaking her heart at the same time, speaks for itself. Just to get her point across, she leans up and kisses him. It’s teary and tender, and it’s a promise. To always love him—both the light and the dark, and all the colours in between.

They lean their foreheads against each other’s when they break apart, eyes still closed.

After a long, needed moment, Chloe lets her hand drop from Lucifer’s cheek to his thigh.

‘So,’ she breathes, the pall from their prior conversation vanishing into the night with her light, playful tone, ‘constellations?’

He chuckles beside her, the sound low and warm in her ear. ‘Not what you humans make them out to be.’

She fights the urge to roll her eyes at his ‘you humans’, and asks, intrigued, ‘No Big Dipper?’

‘No.’ He clicks his tongue. 'But there is a Big Pecker somewhere.’

She glares at him. ‘You drew a dick in the sky?’

His lips spread into a proud grin. ‘And a pair of boobs, if you have a little imagination.’ He points to a distant spot above them. ‘Those seven points there, the brighter ones—they form a symbol in my mother tongue. A message for my dear twin.’

‘Oh?’ Lucifer rarely ever speaks of, much less in the celestial language. It’s another part of his past Chloe hasn’t learned much about. But hopefully, over time, she will.

‘Yes, it means… how would you say?’ He thinks for a second—or pretends to—and eventually concludes, ‘Cunt, I believe, would be the appropriate translation.’

This time, Chloe doesn’t resist rolling her eyes—because nothing about that is ‘appropriate’. Maybe except for the fact that it was directed at Michael.

‘I know,’ he says, like he’s reading her mind. But he really isn’t, because he follows up with, ‘An insult to the temple of pleasure I value more than any other organ.’

Having met the guy, Chloe doesn’t disagree; Michael definitely lives up to more vile name-calling than ‘cunt’. (Also, she's pretty sure Lucifer is wrong about it being his favourite body part. She’s pretty sure the organ he values more than any other is his own Big Pecker, because she’s seen the way he looks at himself in the shower, and all the other places she finds him naked; the vain idiot is practically obsessed with his own meat. Not that she blames him.) But before she has the chance to tell him that, he says-

‘You have to forgive me. I was only a couple of thousand years old.’ There’s a glint in his eye, and Chloe can’t help but laugh, because it’s true what Linda said; he really is the oldest, most immature person in the world.

Chloe tells him as much.

He simply smirks in return. ‘I may be old, Detective, but I’m more vigorous in bed than any mortal man, old or young, and you know it.’

It only proves her point, about him being immature, and obsessed with his penis. But frankly, Chloe does know it, and for once, she feels like stroking his ego (among other things). So she grabs him by the hand, leads him into the car, onto plush leather, onto her, and as the stars twinkle and gleam above them, they put that vigour of his to good use.

[whatnameshallitake]

I could’ve loved you

//to everyone i could’ve loved, but didn’t//

The non-chronological personal project of mine, as was requested by @writingonesdreams

This was written for everyone I could’ve kept falling fallen in love with, but ultimately did not.

I’m only posting the first two people on the list! Sorry~ Maybe someday, I might post the rest? Lmao ive fallen in love too many times

The whole work is below the cut~ I hope you enjoy ;D

•

 I | “Home is learning to forget”

 •

 Whenever I’m with you, logic escapes me.

You make me wonder.

You make me believe.

You made me hope.

 ~

 I remember a boy of happiness.

 —A boy who rose together with the sun, who accompanied the winds on whispering joy into my eardrums.

 His words trembled with laughter and merriment that it made me believe in magic in the world.

 I remember the warmth in his eyes as he stared into mine, heat filling my cheeks with every passing second.

 I remember his hands as they held mine in a comforting grip— calloused slightly, with long fingers. They removed every worry and regret etched on my palms.

 Do you remember? You smiled at me.

 It made me believe in wonder.

 ~

 Hope is a powerful thing—

 ~

 You told me you wanted to be an astronaut.

 It seemed fitting that you would want to escape this place.

 It seemed fitting that someone as otherworldly as you would want to come home again.

 I could almost hear the call of the cosmos, of the sun exclaiming, ‘My child, you belong here’

 After all, you were a child of the sun. The sea of people could never compare to the sea of stars. You didn’t need to be held abound by gravity.

 I could almost understand your heed to the universe.

 It called out to you, I know.

 But I could never understand why you couldn’t be home here.

  ~

 Once upon a time, you told me a secret.

 ‘I see the stars. I feel the sun. I hear the cosmos.’

 I know. I know enough. I know you.

 ‘I wouldn’t mind not coming back home

—if it meant coming back to you’

 I know the universe. I kno— What?

 ~

 In this small space of eternity that only held two people—

 You and Me

 —I understood two things:

 One, the familiar presence of your heat was overwhelming.

 In this infinite space between us, your warmth reached out to me. Your hand reached out to me and your laugh left me speechless when it finally reached me through the endless, empty, nothing, space between us.

 The sun probably granted you the flames to burn, but I didn’t mind much. I was happily ablaze, standing next to your dancing fire. It didn’t matter that I would burn, I wasn’t afraid of fire. I wasn’t afraid of you.

 I was afraid of losing you.

 Two, the familiar presence of your heat was overwhelming.

 In this infinite space between us, the emptiness stretched out until you were beyond reach. The cold suddenly struck me.

 It was suffocating.

 I didn’t realize how much I was accustomed to your warmth that I forgot you brought it with you.

 You brought with you the heat.

 ~

 this cold is unsettling where are you i need you

 i miss you

—you told me i could be your home

 ~

 Things you brought with you, on your voyage across the sea of stars:

 the wonder

the warmth

the joy

the light

the magic

 Things you forgot:

me

 ~

 Dusk settled and our long day ended.

 You were a child of the sun. You rose with him every morning.

 You left me to the cold night as it did.

 I rose with the moon in mourning.

 Maybe that was why the glamour of the dark was lost on me.

 I didn’t see the appeal of the moon and the stars.

—They weren’t you.

 And as shadows crept and settled against the eternal void you left within me, I learned how to forget the light you provided.

 I learned how to forget the warmth, and the wonder.

 I learned how to forget the joy and magic that you gave me.

 ~

 I now know one thing, from this empty space—

 Me

 —you left behind:

 The cold can’t embrace me like you did.

 ~

 —It’s hopeless.

 ~

 I could’ve loved you,

but I wasn’t the home you returned to.

 ~

 You, sun child.

 You, I know.

 I don’t need logic nor belief.

 I understand enough.

 You were the first of many

 ~

 I remember a boy of happiness.

 —The boy who rose together with the sun.

 I never could forget him.

 ~

 “welcome home...”

—the wind did not whisper back

 •

 II | “The day I left the Ghost of You”

 •

 The one left in rubble is not to be pitied

—he is to be respected and revered.

 ~

 It wasn’t as cold as I remembered.

 It wasn’t as broken as I thought.

 It wasn’t as empty as I’ve known.

 It wasn’t as lonely as it looked.

 ~

 Static noise only reached my ears even when the sea of people chatted away.

 I didn’t look to see the heavy words that floated around the atmosphere in a deceptively calm manner.

 All I could hear was the tap, tap, tap of my feet.

 My feet carried me to my place.

 My feet carried me to many places, and I’ve learned to know when and where I was needed.

 And right now, it seemed as if the universe needed me to drown in the sea of people.

 ‘Is it sure it needs me here?’

 I did not gain a reply; not that I expected any.

 The sea of people continued to spew out nonsense. At least, to me it was.

 The return of the tap, tap, tap accompanied me as I was led to a child.

 Curious.

 ~

 What makes a human mature?

 Is it to reach a certain age? To experience a certain event? To know certain information? To meet certain people?

 I don’t know.

 I don’t think I ever will

 ~

 I was still stuck in this barren wasteland.

 A handful of faceless people bump into me as I continue down the icy path.

 It was down a slope, into a new set of shadows that I’ve never encountered before.

 It really shouldn’t have surprised me; I had absolutely zero experience with the dark when I entered the empty space between.

 But now, as the path led on, it was quickly becoming second nature to walk this road.

 It has become familiar to the point of normalcy.

 Now that was dangerous.

 And for what?

 “You arrived earlier than expected.”

 I don’t really know.

 The universe led me to this boy, and I am but a servant to it’s whims.

 “Care for a match?”

 And the game began.

 ~

 Once I regained my bearings,

 Once I regained my logic,

 I became infatuated with problems.

 I quickly fell into the methodical process of solving, and thinking, and the systematical way of the numbers.

 “Your magic is useless here”

—silence

 ~

 You’ve lost the innocence of youth.

 It is evident in every empty smile you bear, with every haunting stare you send me.

 You have dead eyes.

 Then, I suppose you are…

 ~

 Chess is a favourite of mine.

 I’ve come to adore the thrill of the challenge it offers— every opponent with different techniques and strategies.

 It was easy to revel in the rush of things, to jump from one contingency plan to another.

 Device a strategy, watch it crumble, revise it.

 At least I had something to fall back on when everything else stumbled.

 I didn’t need to hope.

 I already knew.

 ~

 I remember thinking why the universe led me to you.

 I didn’t receive an answer.

 I remember you asking if I regret doing this to you.

 I d—

 ~

 Ah...

 Your face is annoying.

 Your voice is annoying.

 Your smile is annoying.

 You’re annoying.

  But I still listened to your idiotic nonsense.

 The shit that flow out of your mouth is astounding. Do you expect me to believe that you kiss your mother with that mouth?

 Hah. Disgusting.

 But still...

 Just finish your turn, it’s your move anyway.

 ~

 One day, the cosmos came to harvest a seed that I planted.

 I faintly remember the magic that used to keep it alive.

 The universe killed it, sadly.

 But never mind.

 A stronger, more vicious seed was cultivated to prevent it from happening again.

 This one had thorns now.

 ~

 An evil intention made itself known within the walls of my mind.

 I fell to the temptation of hatred.

 ~

 One plus one is two, as the mathematicians would say.

 Therefore, one thing led to another.

 From across this massive chessboard, the stares increased in duration.

 We played with the pieces, picked it up and put them away.

 That day, I found another thing to play with.

 ~

 You are but a shell of a child— so beaten and bruised.

 I was to be the new one you toyed with, as was penned by the threads of life.

 The tables have turned now

 ~

 Sometimes, on the rare occasion that I catch you peacefully asleep, I memorize every plane and lilting line that make up your face.

 You look so blissful that I can almost forget the feeling of emptiness your eyes hold.

 I can almost forget the pain and loneliness your exhales carry on into the dark.

 I can almost forget the weightless footsteps you impart upon this barren wasteland.

 I can almost forget that you’ve lost yourself in the eternal void in between.

 I can almost forget that you’re nothing but a gh—

 ~

 this is a dangerous game we’re playing.

 ‘i wasn’t aware that this was a game’

 we need to stop before i—

 ‘shush, no need to fret. i’m here’

 ~

 You fingertips draw small circles on the dip of my back.

 In the middle of this small piece of silence, an epiphany comes to me.

 ‘Your hands don’t feel like nothing, no more’

 I push down my dread and pretend to be unconscious

 ~

 It all fucking makes sense now.

 ~

 dear diary,

 today i found out what a villain must feel like all the time.

 it starts out with the thought of, “this will satisfy you”

 pushes you with the thought of, “you’ve already come this far”

 and it ends with, “what have i done”

 ...

 do you notice what’s different? what’s wrong?

 it never ends with a, “sorry, i’m so sorry”

 ~

 Your annoying face is now too sickeningly happy.

 Your annoying voice turned so sickeningly sweet.

 Your annoying smile became too sickeningly bright.

 And as your sweaty hands grab my cold ones,

As your poisonous lips touch mine,

As your tired mind race against mine—

 My thoughts are silenced with the mere weight your mouth places against my own.

 I close my eyes to avoid yours.

 ~

 You’re so sickeningly in love with me that it hurts.

 ~

 Deep in the shadows, you laid your heart bare to me.

 It was broken and dark, one that I really did not expect to belong to someone as young as you.

 But then, it did make sense. How could your eyes be so dark if it had not yet seen the light?

 No, only a battered and bruised and lost soul could condemn the path that led me to you with such sad shadows.

 Suddenly, all of the regret and pain and sadness and hate and hurt and—

 It all made sense now.

 Ah.

 This is annoying.

 But still, I listened.

 “This...”

 The words flowed out of your mouth easily enough, but why did the wind still strain to carry them? For a split-second, I wondered how such words felt so heavy.

 “I give this to you.”

 My throat dropped to the stone cold floor.

 “What?”

 I barely noticed my traitorous tongue move on its own accord. In my mind’s eye, I was still frozen in shock by what my ears have just picked up.

 “I love you.”

 Ah.

 “I love you so fucking much.”

 The slowed speed of the wind which carried the weight of your statements finally made sense. It was so heavy, it managed to break whatever was left of me.

 So fucking heavy that it made me wonder again.

 “Thank you.”

 nonoNoNonONoNonOnoNONON—

 I left.

 I stood up and raced up the dark path that’s become so familiar in the terrifyingly short amount of time.

 I left so quickly, hastily, I didn’t even notice the wilting flowers along the road.

 I failed to notice the tears that started to flow down your face.

 I didn’t notice pieces of your heart that lay there,

 broken, unmoving, silent,

 tragic—

 .

 Those were the pieces that I played with.

 ~

 I’m sorry. I’m so s—

 ~

 Although you were a child, you’ve seen a lot of dark things. Dark things that completely shrouded your life beneath the shadows.

 You didn’t even get to see the light again— even after your eyes stopped being so dead and started to fill up with joy at the mere sight of me I—

 I took it from you.

 ~

 I’m so so—

 ~

 What takes a human to mature?

 I may never know.

 I’ve forgotten how it was like to be human.

 ~

 I’m s—

 ~

 I never did go back to you;

 After I left...

 I heard that you died, but ghosts can’t really die a second time.

 ~

 I’m so sor—

 ~

 Years and years and years passed

—it’s only been days.

 You won the game.

 Checkmate.

 You won before it even started.

 You didn’t even have to do anything, I—

 Ah.

 I see.

 ...

 it took me a while to realize,

 no one really won,

 we both lost something the day i left.

 ~

 I’m—

 ~

 My feet carried me to places where I was needed.

 To this day, I’m still puzzled how I left you.

 You needed me, didn’t you?

 ~

 I’m so sorr—

 ~

 A child drowned in the middle of the sea.

 The sea of ghosts that whispered,

 “You

 You are dirty

 and You

 are worth nothing”

 He had no choice but to listen.

 Unknowingly, he became a ghost himself.

 ~

 I could’ve loved you,

but I didn’t want to lie.

 ~

 Yes, the universe led me to you.

 But I was the one who placed you second.

 And to your question

  My answer is,

 ...

..

.

 I don’t regret it.

 —but why does it hurt so much?

 ~

 Yes, it was nothing I ever imagined it would be.

 But I still left.

 ~

 I’m so sorry.

[theclaravoyant]

AN ~ get ready for some FS hurt/comfort/fluff y’all. for @simmppaa, who prompted me along these lines. I hope you like it!

-

Where-ever this arrow lands; bury me there. - The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood, by Howard Pyle.

After the Framework, Fitz is struggling to shake it off, so Fitz and Jemma go to visit his mother in Glasgow. There they reconnect with Fitz's true past, his true self... and his future.

Read on AO3 (~2300wd)

-

wherever this arrow lands

Jemma burst into the room and was already rifling through those belongings they hadn’t moved off-base yet, searching for a good jacket, when she realised there was someone else in the room. She jumped.

“Fitz?”

He looked up sluggishly from the tablet he was reading. “Mm?”

“You’re done early.” Frowning, Jemma approached the bed. “Is everything okay?”

Fitz sighed, the ache suddenly clear through his whole body. He lowered the tablet and raked a hand over his face.

“I couldn’t do it, Jemma,” he confessed. “I couldn’t walk into the lab. I just – it’s like, every time I think of picking something up, making something, all I can think of is him. What he made. What he did with it. With my hands. All my work is – is – is –“

Shaking, he clenched a fist as the word eluded him. He was not sure there was a word for this, even if he could find it. Jemma seemed to understand, though, and she crawled across the bed to his side and eased his fist open so that he was holding her hand instead.

“Have you been in here alone all day?” she asked.

Fitz shrugged, but avoided her eyes.

“Mack’s off duty, of course,” he explained. “I ran into Daisy in the kitchen – I can hardly look at her. There’s no way I’m going anywhere near May. The things I said to her. About Bahrain. Twisting it on her like that.”

Jemma squeezed his hand, and he sighed again.

“I know,” he assured her, “I know it wasn’t me. But it’s still in my memories, my hands, my voice. My brain has enough trouble sorting out what’s real and what’s not. I’ll be fine, I just need some time. I’ll just catch up on some reading and paperwork. It’s fine, Jemma. Go back to work, please.”

Jemma scoffed.

“Absolutely not.”

Fitz frowned.

“You just came in here to get a jacket. There’s no reason to cut your day short.”

“There most certainly is.” She cuddled closer to him, defiant, and he wrapped an arm around her with an uneasy smile, still lost in unpleasant thoughts. He picked the tablet back up with one hand, and pretended to read the article he had open on it, but Jemma could see that his eyes were not moving.

“Fitz,” she prompted. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

He was silent for a long moment, the weight of all possible answers heavy on his expression, his posture, his soul.

“I’ve been thinking about seeing Mum,” he offered, in the end. “I haven’t seen her since before the Pod. I didn’t realise it’d been that long. I really miss her, that’s all – especially after, you know. And as it turns out, I can’t get much done around here anyway. So why not go?”

“Well?” Jemma prodded. “Why not?”

He hadn’t come up with a way to put words to that answer yet, it seemed, but in the silence Jemma felt her own reasoning come to bear. It was the same reason, she imagined, why she had not visited her own parents in as long. So much had happened to them, they could never explain it. Their families could never understand – and nor should they, really. It was the life they had signed up for, after all. Being the Shield. Taking the hits. Suffering, so that the people they love did not have to suffer. And they were in too deep now; they had lost so much, in so many unexplainable ways, they could never quite go back to pretending it was all heroic missions and zany experiments. Their parents would always see the ghosts of what they were not saying, and not knowing how to deal with that was a daunting thing.

“I think we should,” Jemma assured Fitz. “Let’s take some time off, and go visit. It doesn’t have to be like it was before. She knows we can’t tell her everything. I’m sure she’d just love to see your face again and know that you’re okay. Maybe that will be enough.”

“I’d love to see her,” Fitz breathed. “And I think it might even help me feel… normal again. If I go to my real home, see my real life… You know?”

“I think so too,” Jemma agreed. She flashed him a brave smile – it took courage to reach out; a particular kind of courage that she struggled with as much as he did. Together, they pushed through it, and found their flights, and had their leave signed off by Coulson with a proud, almost nostalgic look in his eyes. Home was such a dreamlike concept here, he thought, and yet here these two were, their feet always finding their way back to the path toward it. They walked tall and proud and happy, relatively, but he imagined even if they’d been wounded soldiers, limping down the road and hanging onto each other for dear life, they’d always have that grounding thought of home, of each other, an invisible strength that pulled them on toward hope.

And it was hope that Fitz felt, at long last, as they broke through the cloud layer. In his lap, he held one of Jemma’s hands, and he looked out the window, watching the slowly shifting, whirling clouds and their meringue-like peaks, glinting in the bright sun. He wondered if this was how she felt, like a weight was lifting off her chest, when she saw the sunrise.

As if she could read his mind, she smiled.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she posited. This time, rather than being lost for words, he simply didn’t feel the need to answer her. Instead, he felt like maybe, for once, the cosmos was whispering you’re going to be alright.

-

Still, seeing his mother for the first time in so many years – and such formative years they had been, too – was a tearful affair. She had of course been updated on his progress since the Pod, and Fitz had given her the odd phone call since then, but to finally see her boy in the flesh, so much more of a man than he had been - older, stronger, more mature, and so physically different too – was enough to reduce her to tears within seconds of opening the door. Fitz faired a little better, but only because he hid his face with a hug. He locked his arms around his mother, squeezing tightly, and counted the heartbeats as he felt the world shift back into place and steady beneath him.

“It’s good to see you, Mum,” he whispered.

She hugged him, and cried.

-

After an emotional reunion, tea and cake were of course in order, and things settled down somewhat. Fitz and Jemma recounted what details they could about the Pod and the recovery and what had gone on since then, making their way in leaps and jumps through the story of how they’d finally gotten together. That way, at least, they knew it would have a happy ending. Despite all that they’d had to leave out, Fitz’s mother clapped when they announced the end of the story, and beamed, and hurried out of her seat.

“You disappear, and come back with this!” she cried. “Leopold! Why didn’t you warn me? I have a gift for you! I could’ve brought it out of the bloody storeroom…”

She trailed off, muttering to herself as she shoved open a reluctant door leading off the lounge room, and began digging through years of various acquired stuff. Fitz perked up at this, and trailed his mother to the doorway, looking in after her. It was a bedroom, somewhere under all that – his old bedroom. Now, it was full of extra furniture, an ironing board, some sheets and things thrown haphazardly, but also smaller ornaments and photographs dotted around the flat surfaces, on shelves and desks. Somewhere under bags of clothes for goodwill there was a bed, and behind a stepladder he himself had repaired a handful of times, was a bookshelf that still held the literature of his childhood. He knelt before it, searching through the books and telling himself it was the dust that pricked at his eyes and caused the lump in his throat.

“What’s this?”

It was Jemma’s voice; she had come to kneel beside him. She looked over the titles he had taken out; from Dear Zoo and Curious George, to The Wind in the Willows. In between, there was the Magic School Bus series, some of the Famous Five, and Hairy Maclary from Donaldson’s Dairy – Jemma snorted at that.

“We need a photo of that one for Daisy,” she whispered, and grinned back at Fitz, already pulling her phone out of her pocket to take the shot. Fitz, however, was distracted, by one of the larger, hard-cover books that remained in the back of the shelf. He drew it out slowly, running his hand over the cover with reverence. All his books were a little ratty – and if he remembered correctly, most of them had always been that way – but he remembered this one more than all the others. He remembered how he’d been the one to tear the top of the spine. How he’d got so upset one day that he’d thrown it or something, and crinkled one of the corners – hardcovers weren’t supposed to do that. He even remembered the illustration; the very specific style of drawing, that he had not realised until now, had stuck in his mind.

“Fitz?” Jemma prompted.

“I’m fine, Jemma,” he assured her, and opened the book slowly. He turned through the pages, drinking in their familiarity moreso than the story itself.

“What are you two up to over there?” his mother wondered, giving up her search for a while to check on them. She saw what Fitz was looking at, and crooned.

“Ah,” she reminisced. “The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood. That was your favourite book as a kid, you know. You’d go months at a time without letting me read anything else before bed. And it did you good, too. I couldn’t be more proud of you, Leo. And Jemma – I’m so glad my boy fell in love with such a lovely woman, and was lucky enough to have you love him back. I hope I’m not being too presumptuous with this but, if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you something.”

She held out an open ring box, and inside was a silver ring with a square diamond at its centre, in a simple but elegant setting. It had tarnished a little with age, but still gleamed with promise.

“My ring’s long gone, and good riddance to it,” Fitz’s mother explained, “but Fitz, this belonged to your Nan. She and Grandpa Henry had a long and happy marriage, and that’s what I wish for you two. That’s all I wish.”

It was Jemma who had to blink back tears this time. She remembered not-Fitz suggesting his intent to propose, and while she could do without thinking about the specific circumstances of it, she had nursed that image all this time: the gleaming promise, under all their struggles, to which they would always return.

“Jemma?” Fitz checked, a slight frown creasing his brow. She almost laughed. Of course, he didn’t know she knew.

“You mentioned it,” she said. “You were…talking in your sleep.”

“Oh.” Fitz let his eyes fall down to the ring, which he had taken from his mother. Jemma’s roundabout way of explaining it suggested that asleep meant in there, but that wasn’t why she was crying. It was love, she was in love, and the pain had been that she hadn’t been able to say it when she had been asked.

“…Well,” Fitz continued. “Since I’ve already blown the surprise, apparently –“

He dropped down to one knee, and Jemma couldn’t help it; she still gasped, and let her hands fly to her mouth, and she grinned so broadly her cheeks hurt despite her tears.

“Jemma Anne Simmons. You know I’m not as good with words as I once was, but… I hope by now you also know that I love you more than words can say, anyway. And I know you love me too. And I know that now is probably a bad time, but if we wait for the right time, we’ll be waiting the rest of our lives. I don’t want to wait anymore, Jemma. I don’t want to wait ever again. And I know I can’t always be with you, and I know that all this is just a symbol, but it’s a symbol that I want to share with you. So… will you marry me?”

It had taken so much effort not to interrupt him, that Jemma had to wait a few seconds until after he was done, before she finally reacted.

“Yes. Of course I will, you wonderful, wonderful man.”

He stood, and caught her as she leapt into his arms and they kissed and embraced until, laughing, they finally unfolded from each other.

“Oh, darn!” Evelyn cried, waving her phone in frustration. “I just got this bloody thing working. Get back to kissing.”

She waved at them insistently, and blushing a little, they obligingly posed with their necks outstretched and their lips on each others’ for a photogenic, if not particularly comfortable kiss. Then, at last, Fitz slid the ring onto Jemma’s finger, and they posed with that too, for a few shots.

“Now this,” Fitz murmured into Jemma’s hair, “is the photo to send to Daisy.”