#my tes mutuals will tell you to kill him though surely

[cuntstable]

wild card character bingo, skyrim cicero, because i can't decide if i should kill him again this playthrough

cicero skyrim….. is a character that exists..

my general take on him is that hes a silly guy. a funny little elf that learned how to kill. and thats it. i choose to pointedly ignore how he was for a time a tumblr sexyman and to me hes maybe The most sexless character in all of the elder scrolls. so i can keep my sanity. but anyway i usually keep him alive not because i particularily like him (and i salute my astrid stan mutuals who do kill him 🫡) but like i said hes just sort of a weird creature to me so in my mind i usually just like trap him under a glass and take him outside so he can fly away. and then when he shows up at the end of the darkbrotherhood questline im like damn i wish i had hit this thing with a rolled up newspaper till it died but oh well. so like in conclusion hes okay to me definitely one of the elder scrolls characters out there that exists 👍

[bokettochild]

Day 4 - Trust Fall

Went with the prompt 'taken hostage' for this one, and I'm quite pleased. I might follow it up from another prompt on the list, but I quite like how it ended.

Suffer :)

There are many people who hate the Hero of Warriors.

It was a well-known fact, and something that had haunted him since the ends of the war, but he couldn’t exactly blame the folks who did. After all, it was for lust of the hero that Cia had killed so many, and there were families all across Hyrule who had lost loved ones because the hero had refused the affections of one lonely, corrupted woman.

Zelda had tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but that changed nothing; people had still died because of Cia’s lust, and still more had died because of his own over-confidence. So, when he walked the streets of Castletown and the people who wanted to thank him faded to the background as a single soul would stand and spit insults loaded with venom more poisonous than a deku baba, he would take their words and let them speak, never once challenging them, even when his men would protest and beg for permission to reprimand his attacker. Zelda had pleaded for him to stop, claiming that he lowered the moral of the army by not carrying himself strongly and with honor, but how could he rob someone of their voice when he’d already robbed them of everything else?

There was one upside to it all though; when Warriors met Legend, there was nothing the younger hero could say that could truly hurt him. Legend would huff and complain and tease and jab, but his insults were a gentle nudge in comparison to the hearty shoves into boiling lava that he’d seen from his own people, and he welcomed the verbal sparring with the other hero. It was nice to be able to speak back without having guilt rise in his chest, and he enjoyed getting to tease and bother the veteran hero in return.

In that manner, an unlikely friendship had formed between a hero who hated soldiers and a soldier who hated being a hero.

He was close to all of the others of course; Sky, Wild and himself would spend hours discussing their worlds and the systems of knights and training and the like. Time and Wind, his boys and the pride of his heart, would mess around with him and it warmed him body and soul to offer them advice or comfort after a long day (and having the two of them cuddle up when they thought no one was looking was an extra warm bonus on multiple fronts).

Four was- well, there was no words for the relationship he shared with the smithy. It was a relationship of exchanged looks and mutual silence. One of two brothers who knew each other as well as if they’d actually been born to the same mother, and who could read the others actions as if they were reading their thoughts. It was them flopping over each other and Four climbing onto his shoulders to reach things, it was him throwing the smithy bodily up towards high places and leaning on the top of his head when he was drained or feeling playful.

Wild and Hyrule were his baby brothers, the chaotic ones who he was helping to bring up right, the boys who needed a guiding hand and a firm voice to push them and guide them, but who reveled in warm hugs and teasing or encouraging words.

And Twilight? Twilight was his sparring partner, his closest brother and the one he’d probably end up socking in the face one day. There was enough said on that front. Legend very nearly made the same rank, except...

Except Legend was, truth be told, as much a kid as the others and despite their verbal battles, he didn’t think he could actually ever hit the kid for real, no matter how often he cuffed the pink head or pushed the short vet over in jest, he didn’t think he could ever cause the younger hero harm. Yeah, yeah, so maybe it was the big brother and father in him that said he wouldn’t live with himself if he hurt the kid, but it was also the soldier and captain that saw a reflection of every cocky recruit he’d ever trained and a certain mask wearing child in the vet’s painfully rare smiles and much more common snarky comments.

And he just couldn’t bring himself to hurt a kid in the first place.

No matter how much of an ass they were being.

“Seriously though, how have you not died?” Legend was scoffing, but the vet’s arms were wrapped tight around himself as the kid rolled his eyes. “I mean, one bokoblin? How is that the first time an enemy has ever grabbed your scarf?”

Warriors would have laughed it off with a tease about the vet’s lack of leg protection, but he could see the worry shining in violet hues and feel the tender bruising that wrapped around his own neck. He hardly remembered the last battle, adrenalin and the concussion had seen to that, but legend had been weirdly snappish with him since, yet simultaneously clingy in a way that was painfully uncharacteristic of their salty veteran. “Most monsters are just dumb.” He’d shrugged off at last, but Legend hardly looked contented, picking at his tunic and scowling at his boots as if there was something more he wanted to complain about or say, but he lacked the words to say it.

Oh goddesses, the vet really was like Mask, wasn’t he? All bashful worry and fussing disguised as insults and annoyance, but underneath just a kid who desperately needed the assurance that the people around him weren’t seconds away from death.

“I’ll be fine, you grouchy little bumblebee.” He scoffed, tugging at one of the vet’s long ears, just as he did with Time when the now older hero was getting to wrapped up in his head. “We’re in my world anyway and the monsters here are dumber than rocks.” Usually he’d just say ‘dumb as rocks’ but they’d met a talus in Wild’s Hyrule and he couldn’t honestly think of that phrase the same way since.

“Black blood makes them smarter.” Legend huffed, batting his hands away with a scowl, nose wrinkling up in an almost adorable manner as he sidestepped a swipe at his hair. “And I just fixed that thing for you, I don’t want to have to do that again.”

So much like Time had been, did the vet see it? Just like his middle kid and it was messing with his brain in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. How upset would Sky be if he gathered Legend in amongst his boys as well? The Skyloftian wasn’t particularly possessive of his descendants and he might not mind sharing responsibility over the vet. He’d have to ask, but only once he was sure Legend was out of earshot, the kid was barely tolerant of Sky coddling him, and even then, usually only when he was sleepy or scared shitless.

“Are you listening, Captain? I’m not mending that scarf again this week, you ass.” Legend flicked his ears, irritation at being ignored coloring his face with a scowl that quickly faded into surprise as a blue heap of fabric settled over his head and shoulders. Of course, the surprise disappeared too once Legend’s face was covered with the tail end of the scarf, and he had to grab the back of the vet’s tunic to stop him from tumbling to the ground as he tripped over the rocky path.

“What the heck, Wars?!” The teen squeaked, fumbling with the fabric as the captain let a laugh rumble up through his chest into his throat.

“You keep fussing about the scarf, yeah? Well,” He reached out to tug the loose end down, chest thrumming with warmth as the pout on Legend’s face beneath the scarf and a fierce blush. “So how about you keep it safe for me, just for a bit.” He shifted the fabric again, arranging it to lay better around the veteran’s thin shoulders. “You can give it back after the next battle, yeah? Then you’ll know it’s not damaged.”

The pink-haired hero rolled his eyes at that comment, but Wars didn’t miss how the kid nestled in amidst the blue fabric with a soft hum.

Oh yeah, despite all the teasing, it was clear Legend liked the scarf as much as his other boys. He hoped Sun and Sky didn’t mind sharing too much, because there was no going back now.

“Dramatic arse.” Legend huffed, but despite the vet tugging the scarf up over his nose and mouth he still saw the grin the lay beneath.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear Time and Wind exchanging whispers while Twilight grumbled something exceedingly rude and fond all at once.

“Should we split up to find supplies then?” Sky asked, pointedly ignoring Twilight’s comment as he addressed the group as a whole, earning a thoughtful nod from Time.

“Probably best.” The man hummed out. “Groups of three, Hyrule and Wind, you’re with the vet, Four and Sky, you’re with Wars, Cub, Pup, I want you two with me, if something happens I want a responsible adult on every team, as well as someone who knows this Castletown well.”

Agreement thrummed over them as they split up, Wind catching his party members by their hands and pulling them off towards the tailor and apothecary shops so Legend could restock on thread and fabric and Hyrule could gather more healing supplies. Time’s group turned the opposite way, heading off into the main market square so Wild could restock on food stuffs and a new haversack for the traveler as Hyrule’s had had a hole worn in the corner that even Four doubted he could fix. Warriors himself led his team towards the fletchers and the forge, with the intent of buying more arrows and getting Four permission to repair a few of their weapons.

The chatter of the town was cheerier than usual, and to his surprise, not a single person spoke to him beyond the occasional inquiry about directions or an apology or insult after bumping into them. It was like he was invisible, or very nearly, and even those who made a point of calling out thanks or insults only waved cheerily to him as if he was just another passing soldier.

At the smithy, the Master Smithy, Gaepak, blinked in surprise for a good minute when Wars had approached to ask for use of the workroom. “Gen’ral? Is ‘at yew?”

He cocked a brow at the question. “Yes? Is there a problem?”

Gaepak boomed a nervous laugh, motioning to his own short neck with a faint flush on his face as his ears twitched lightly. “’Ard to tell you apart from yer men wit’out that scaaf of yers.” The man apologized, and the apprentice at the blacksmith’s side nodded nervously.

He couldn’t help back slip into a disarming smile (although he had to fight not to slip into their heavy accent as well when he spoke). “Quite alright, gentlemen. I’ve just let it out to one of-”

“Yer boys.” the smith nodded knowingly, earning a snigger from their own short-statured smithy and a light chuckle from Sky.

Warriors flushed slightly. Really, the people of Castletown knew him too well. “Yes, one of my boys.”

“An’ a moighty fine father ye are.” Gaepak drawled with a grin. “Use the forge ta yer ‘eart’s content.” The smith added, moving back to his own workstation with a cheery wink. “Jist moind ye clean it up when ya done.”

Four had shouted something of a reassurance before moving to the offered work station with shining hazel eyes and fingers already flitting over the available tools to familiarize himself with them. In the meantime, Sky had shot him a knowing smile, eyes twinkling as the captain had flushed softly.

Four was deep into his work and the two of them had already finished a lengthily talk and a trip to the fletchers when Wind and Hyrule had burst in, heavy breaths heaving through the two and a healthy flush over two sets of rounded cheeks as wild eyes had turned to the two adults.

“Wind, you can’t bust into a forge! Four shouted over the clang of metal. “It’s dang-”

“Legend was kidnapped.” Wind blurted out, voice strained and barely holding onto the collected and controlled report method Warriors had drilled into all of his soldiers during the war.   Four’s hammer froze mid-air as the three had whipped around to face the two younger heroes, both knights stiffening instinctively as all laughter left their faces.

“What happened.” Warriors demanded, stepping forwards, jaw set and eyes hard as he met the sailor’s wavering gaze.

The aura of peace faded in instants, and soldier met the eyes of soldier as Wind snapped a neat salute. Unnecessary, yes, but trained into the kid by the other soldiers and probably a comforting sort of habit to revert to in the moment (Warriors felt the same about standing at parade rest as he listened to the kid’s report). “We were just entering the apothecary when a couple of folks approached Legend outside the door. He waved us inside to do our business while they talked, and Hyrule and I did as he asked. We gathered the needed supplies- that doesn’t matter though- the point is, when we were at the counter ringing up-”

“There was shouting outside!” Hyrule interrupted, fingering the strap of his faded satchel. “We thought it was just Legend being Legend, you know how he is but-”

“But then there was something of a scuffle and some bangin-”

“- and when we finished at the counter, because the man wouldn’t hurry up and refused to let us leave ‘till we’d been rung up-”

“Legend was gone!” Wind exploded, eyes shining with near panic as they met his own.

“Where were you exactly?” Wars demanded, mind already flitting across the list of people who were likely to have taken the vet. There weren’t many people the kid would have interacted with here, especially not alone, and saving the soldiers he’d accidentally embarrassed a couple of switches back (kid needed to wear some pants if he didn’t want to mistook for a girl) there wasn’t anyone he could really think of that would have cause to try anything. Sure, Legend’s winning personality might earn him a blow to the face from some of the rowdier townsfolk, but at worst he’d be left on the street on in an alley with a bruised face and a fractured rib or two, not taken away entirely.

As he considered, Four was already tidying up behind him only to have Gaepak wave them off with a worried look. “Moi boys will see to this ‘ere mess, don’t botha. Yew got a kid missin’ you go fetch ‘im, goodness knows Gen’ral that yew don’t need to be suff’rin’ that again.”

It was a bitter reminder, but he’d nodded his thanks all the same and grabbed ahold of Wind’s hand as he led the charge back into the street, Hyrule and Sky tagging along as Four made arrangements to come back later for the still cooling weapons before scampering out after them.

Searching Castletown’s streets would take hours, but after they’d run into one of his men, Bav, he’d filled the soldier in on the situation, and hardly had the words ‘my kid’ been out of his mouth before the other was nodding and agreeing to get the rest of the squadron to search the town. They’d found the others not long after, and the trio had dropped everything (even Wild’s slate for a hot second) to come rushing after them, their now two groups weaving in and out of alleyways and streets.

“Your wife?” A painfully familiar farm-wife had tutted. “First your poor daughter and now your poor wife. I’m sorry, luv, but I haven’t seen a thing.” Wind had crooked a smile at the groan Warriors had barely stifled as he led their group away, Sky and Hyrule both staring at the duo in confusion as they pressed further into the crowd.

Continued asking had brought up nothing, and after hours of trotting through the streets in a growing panic, Sky at his side and Hyrule nearly fluttering along with them, they’d finally been pulled aside by one of the soldiers and made to sit down in a guard-station long enough to drink some water and be caught up on the soldiers’ findings.

“Nothing yet, General Link, but we’ll keep looking. Until then, you should take a rest-” He’d moved to protest only to be cut off by a frown from one of his mates. “You’ll be run ragged by the time we hear word, and if the scamps intend harm of any sort, you’ll be in no state to help.”

He’d had to agree after that, but it hadn’t stopped him pacing while Sky held the other two close, rocking them softly and humming soft reassurances to the two smaller heroes that he’d bundled in his cape. The other four joined shortly after, Time demanding that Bav tell him what was happening and Twilight bundling over to grab Hyrule from Sky and curl up around him, the rancher’s nose buried in Hyrule’s curls as Four had settled between him and Sky, the smithies callused hands gently rubbing both their arms as he murmured soft reassurances to the others.

It was Wild that pulled him down to rest, flinty blue eyes sparking dangerously as the kid pulled him down to the ground and thrust something edible into his hands. Vaguely, he processed eating it, but his mind was too lost in spinning to take note if it was hot or cold or even what it tasted like.

When word finally came, it was with Bav’s face drawn and the entire guard having had to leave the post in wake of the nervous energy that flowed out from the exhausted heroes.

“Well?” He’d snapped to his feet, jostling Wild on accident as he did so and making the kid nearly toppled over with his sudden movement.

“An ultimatum, General.” Bav replied, clipped and carefully emotionless, even if there was pain in his eyes. “It’s addressed to General Impa, but-”

The note was snatched from waiting fingers before the other soldier had a chance to finish, and he was already breaking the seal as the man stepped back with a shake of his head and a murmured ‘poor man’.

The text that stared up at him stank, copper assaulting his senses as looping crimson script stared mockingly up at him. “General Impa,” The note read. “We have in our possession your branded puppet; the ‘hero’ of the war. We write to you now with a warning; should Hyrule and her queen not repay the debt owed to those fallen and forgotten, he will not be the first to pay the price.

“Repay that which is due, and release the prisoners who you hold unjustly under the claim of treachery. If this is done, your ‘hero’ will meet a kinder fate, and we may even allow you access to the corpse.”

The note was left unsigned, save a spattering of blood over where the signature ought to have been.

“A threat.” He choked, furrowing his brow and shaking his head. “It’s only a threat.”

“I wish, sir.” Bav’s eyes were downcast. “But they sent this as well.” A bundle, already unwrapped by the soldiers was offered to him. “But based on your description, that kid- I'm sorry, Sir.”

Trembling fingers tore aside the stained brown paper as he stared at the contents within.

A blood-soaked blue scarf stared back up at him.

[lchufflepuffcorn]

Teaching Sarcasm (Blue Beelte x Reader)

Author’s note: ahaha, hate the end tho... (You can find my masterlist here, check out my patreon maybe ?)

Words: 1435

Warning: None..? The gif is not mine it belongs to its owner/creator. 

Resume: Five times, Kaji Da didn't understand your sarcasm, and Jaime had to explain to him that it was a joking way. One time where Kaji Da responds to her in a sarcastic comment. 

1- During group night.

''Yeah, because I'm sooo scared!'' You responded jokingly at something Megan had said. The gang was hanging out, but you weren't frequently part of that gang, for you were not a young hero. And Jaime was glad about it. It was already hard to see his friends get hurt weekly. He didn't particularly want to see his newly acquired girlfriend the same way. Were you aware that he was a hero, well, he never did tell you explicitly, but you weren't dumb either. 

''Jaime Reyes, your mate, does not seem in a position of danger, why would they say such things if they are false?'' Jaimes groaned internally. 

Scarab, while being one with Jaimes, had yet to understand your frequent use of sarcasm. Six months it had been going on. ''They're joking'', he muttered under his breath. Superboy turned his head toward him with a frown, but Jaime only smiles in his direction, clenching his hand on yours for a second. You didn't ask him about it. He liked it that way. 

Preferred it, was more like it. You didn't ask questions, because the last time you did when he came back to your home all battered and a suspicious amount of blue retracting to his back, he snapped at you that it was too dangerous for you to know. You'd been angry at him for some time, maybe you still were right now, but you didn't ask any more questions after that night. And you didn't ask questions about that weird group of kids he was hanging around—all weirder than the others. For that to he was glad. 

2- Date night at your restaurant.

There was this small restaurant. A little outside of El Paso where Jaime had taken you for your first serious date, it had soon become 'your restaurant.' It was funny seeing as you had your table near a window, the waiter knew your names and your drinks by heart now. You reminded people of their grandparents in a way. 

''I have more important things to do...'' Jaime was saying. The conversation had led to the homework he still hadn't done for the next Monday. You rolled your eye. 

''Yes, because running around all night is way more important than your education!'' You responded in a smooth voice, putting honey on your toast. Maybe their honey was better than the one you had at home? 

He stared at you, his mouth full of eggs, incapable of defending himself. But before Jaimes could swallow, Sacrab interrupted his train of thought. 

''Jaime Reyes, your mate, resent anger, it seems like a trap.'' The poor boy nearly choked on his egg. He hissed once his throat was cleared. 

''It's not a trap, they're angry!'' He whispered yell at the voice in his head. You rolled your eyes, not asking who he was talking too, you already knew the answer, It's hard to explain...

3- Study time

''I'm telling you, Miss Keller wants us dead. Why else would she give us a million of pages to do before tomorrow.'' Whined Jaime, his head resting on your shoulders while you were actually doing the ten pages homework your teacher had given the week before. You'd agree it was a bit much, mainly because of his nightly shifts of whatever he didn't want to tell you, but doable if you did a little bit each night. You hummed in response. 

''Why did I have to take french, you are a sadist, you know that we could have taken Spanish, but noo, you wanted French.'' 

''You already speak Spanish at home, Jaime, that would have been too easy for you...'' you sigh, turning your page, pencil raised in the air like a missile waiting to be dropped. 

Jaime gave you a disconcerted look. ''So what? It would have been funnier!'' He crossed his arms across his chest and started pouting. He wasn't usually one to sulk, but he felt playful today, and he really didn't want to do his homework. 

He finally made his mother agree to you and him alone in his room (without entirely closing his door though) on the argument that it was calmer to study. And you were actually studying—what a loss. 

''Sure, et tes devoirs vont se faire tous seuls, Jaime?'' You responded, raising your eyebrows and gesturing at his book open before him. He frowned and pushed you lightly, playfully before retaking his pen. 

''Your mate doesn't seem angry, or having un this time, Jaime Reyes, why do they use this tone now?'' Asked Scarab in his head. 

Jaime groaned, wishing his school would have a course on how to become a telepath. 

''They're mocking me...'' he whispers.  

4- When you met someone you disliked. 

Jaime knew that you didn't like this one guy at school. Jacob, or Jerry... or was it Aaron? Anyway, there wasn't a particular reason why you didn't like him, you know those who just irritate you and breathe the same air as you do? That guy, whatever his name was, was that kind of person for you. He was also the kind of guy that liked talking to everyone. 

That was why you were currently sitting outside the school during lunchtime, facing Jaime, while Jacod/Jerry/Aaron/whatever was sitting on your right. 

''Did you guys heard about the last party?'' Asked the guy, he hadn't stopped talking since he sat down next to you, twenty minutes ago. ''Aight, Imma tell you.''

''Oh, please do, we're dying to know.'' You grumbled under your breath, your head resting in between your arms. 

The guy looked so insulted, gazing over to you than on him, just as Scarab spoke. 

''You mate does not feel intense excitement toward the tale, nor are they dying, why would they say such things?'' 

Jaime used the confusion on the boy's face to respond to both his questions and Scarab's. '' I think they're tired.'' 

5- That one fight

He arrived at your house, still dressed in his hero costume. And you had recognized him. He looked like a mashed potato and absolutely refused to talk to you. Thus bringing your rage to him. 

''So what, I'm too stupid for you to even tell me about this? You expect me to be fine with you getting killed? Do your parents even know? Did you even think about telling me?'' 

''I told you it would be dangerous if you knew...'' Jaime started to say, but you cut him off. 

''Oh, because while I didn't know, it wasn't as dangerous! For sure, I could still die or be captured and tortured, but yeah, sure, I was perfectly safe!'' You roared in a fake and dry laugh. 

Jaime had his face in his end by the end of your sentence. In his head, arguments for his silence were running around, and Scarab's voice was not helping anything. 

'Your mate has good points, Jaime Reyes, but I don't understand why they agree with you...' he was saying. The boy grunted. 

''I'm sorry, (Y/N). That I made you mad and felt unprotected... and that I didn't trust you'' You sighed. 

''Just'' you started, voice restrained as if something inside of you was hurting ''next time something that could get me killed happens in your life, tell m okay? So I'll know.'' 

6- Sassy Khaji

Jaime was listening to you talk excitedly about the oral presentation you had to do in French (he was your partner in that project because Heck no, he won't let Jimmy or whatever be it). The subject was free as long as it wasn't sexual or in another language than French. And because he participated in hero-ing work, he used Khaji Da's knowledge to bring up his first hero, which became one with the Scarab, Pharaon Kha-Ef-Re.  

Your group of mutual friends listening by one ear, because it wasn't to them, you were talking anyway, Jaime sighed. If life could be like that all the time, his would be very much less complicated. 

''As if you don't like the thrill, Jaime Reyes.'' Muttered Scarab in his head. Surprising Jaime with his tone of voice, which as suspiciously close to yours. 

Jaime took his phone as if he was receiving a call and walk a bit farther away from the group. 

''Are you sassy-ing me?'' He asks, his phone near his ear. 

''Your mate always feels better after talking like that...''

[anthropwashere]

she sang to me a language strange

Cleaned up a chunk of an old NaNo to share. You don’t need to have seen SSoM, you just need to know it gave us tactical werewolves and I lost my whole goddamn mind about that. Post-series chimera!Ed fic where Ed was captured by Creta and things only got worse for him from there.

Warnings: Body horror, gore, loss of identity/control, imprisonment, torture, death, cannibalism.

Word count: ~6k

=

Ed falls down.

Again.

He keeps doing that. Falling. It doesn't hurt. Or—it does, but not as much as he thinks it should.

He's cold. Numb from the shoulders and hips down. Shaking all over. He's so fucking cold.

Is he cold? 

He thinks he’s cold. Or he was. Or he was sick and shaking before this, and maybe he's still sick enough still to be shaking now. Shaking isn't trembling. Cold and fear are not mutually exclusive.

He doesn't know. It’s all grown so blurred.

There are some things that are certain, and final, and inescapable. Cold concrete floors roughened by deep claw marks that bite at his feet. Cold concrete walls marred by deep claw marks as high as he can reach. Higher than that, much higher. Higher than he can hope to reach on his hind legs—

—no.

His two legs. It's two legs. He's got two legs and he's always had two legs.

...Hasn't he? Always had two legs?

No. No, that's all wrong. It's wrong. He's wrong. He feels so wrong. What the fuck is wrong with him?

Half his life. He's gone more than half his life with just the one leg. The leg he was born with—

—the right one, yes, he's always had the right leg—

—and the left….

The left, he's not so sure.

No. No, he is sure. He's sure he's never had two legs—

No.

No, wait. He knows this.

He's mostly always had two legs, except when he didn't, and that was because Winry was—

No, shut up, don't think about her, idiot, don't, she's in danger, she's going to die, it'll be a mercy if all they do is kill her so don't even dare think about her—

His mechanic. 

Yeah. 

He didn’t have two legs when his mechanic was working on one of them. Working on it, because he's got automail. Had automail once, and gone now. He had an automail leg. 

He had automail elsewhere too, didn't he? Before? His arm. The right one? Wasn't it automail? 

Yeah. Yeah, that's right, he used to have two automail limbs, a long time ago now. He's only had the one—the one returned, the one still automail—for years now. He doesn't have an automail arm anymore because—

—no names, no names, don't give these fucks anything—

—because he got his right arm back.

Right? 

Right.

And—and he got his leg back too, which is why he doesn't have automail at all anymore—right?

No no no nononono, god, please, no, that's not right either. 

This leg. 

This leg. 

It's not his. This leg isn't his. He lost his leg—

(white space, white teeth, white grin, you beat me)

—a long time ago. That was a long time ago. He was a different man back then. Not a man, not yet. Just a boy who had to grow up too quickly. That was then. He's a man now, and he's got all his limbs again—

—except the leg.

This leg—

This isn't his leg. 

They cut this thing off some corpse, lashed it to his thigh, and made him walk on it even though it hurt so badly he blacked out—

But that was before. 

Before, when his thoughts were murkier, simpler, hungrier. When he was still more animal than monster. This is now, with him sprawled on the floor, and the guards who are barking at him to get up, and he's laughing at them because they're barking, and isn't that just so goddamn funny?

"Fuck you," he tells them, laughing despite laying naked and shaking on the cold, scarred, concrete floor, which is a mirror of him. 

Isn't it? 

It is. 

A mirror that doesn't reflect him as he was but reflects what they've done to him instead. He is cold, and scarred, which is only one letter off from scared, and he's been scared for so long. Alone for so long too, which is only two letters off from long, and he doesn't know how long he's been down here.

He remembers, belatedly, that most of the guards don't know more than a handful of Amestrian words, so these stony fucks probably don't know what he said. So he says it again, this time in a language they can understand. Their language. The language he used to think was beautiful. The language he used to delight in speaking. 

"Va te faire foutre," he says, laughing harder, laughing even as they hit him as they've hit him a thousand times before. But it's fine. It is. It's fine, because they only hit him on his arms and his legs—the leg that's always been his and the leg that isn't his but is still a sore, aching, screaming thing that's attached to him—and he can't feel anything where they hit him, except where he does.

The point was—

He had a point.

Really, he did. He was going somewhere with this.

The guards ignore him, his laughter and his resistance, and haul him to his feet—the foot that belongs to him and the foot that was forced upon him. A knife of fire lances from heel to groin as he tries to use the fucking leg they gave him and he screams again, and he's laughing even still. 

God.

God.

This won't ever end, will it? This is it. This is it. This is how it's going to be for the rest of his goddamn life, and he doesn't even have a say in how long that will be anymore, does he? It's just—

—this. 

Hard-handed guards and hard-eyed scientists and him, cold and scarred and scared and naked, naked but for the heavy chains that leave his wrists and throat and ankles—even the ankle that wasn't his originally—raw and bloodied. He's so tired of darkness, and loneliness, and the screams that ring down the cold concrete halls. He's tired of asking why and being hit for speaking out of turn and being hit for not answering their demands and—

—and—

—and he was going somewhere with this.

He's going somewhere now. Somewhere new. 

Oh, god. The guards are taking him somewhere new.

"Please," he whispers, or he shouts, or he only thinks it and that's why the guards don't say anything or hit him with their rough hands. They just keep dragging him along on his hind legs—his two legs—the legs that aren't his because he should only have the one he can feel things with and the other should be metal, but it's gone now, and he can only feel fire with the one they gave him. 

It doesn't make any sense. He can't make any sense of it. His brain is addled. Out of sorts. His brain keeps telling him to fall down and walk on all fours, because that's how it should be, shouldn't it? Shouldn't he walk on all fours?

He falls down again, clumsy and stumbling. His jaw blooms with fresh pain. There's blood in his mouth, hot and pus-bitter, dripping down his chin as he slurs, “S'il te plaît. Je n'en veux pas. Please. Arrêtez. Laissez-moi tranquille. Leave me alone. Stop. Arrêtez. S'il te plaît.”

The guards bark, and they hit him, and they haul him to his feet, and they drag him at last to a cavernous room dotted all over with harsh white lights that do little to chase away the dark gathered in the far-off corners. The lights are all clustered together, highlighting a circular pit in the floor covered with heavy crisscrossing metal beams. A new cage to put him in. A bigger one. Why?

He breathes deep and smells iron. 

Blood. 

Old blood, settling heavy and clotted on his tongue and in his nose. He gags, choking. The guards don't care. They just keep dragging him along—alone—to the pit. He fights them, but he's been fighting them the whole way here and has only managed to wear himself out for nothing. 

He fights for nothing. 

One of the guards lets him go long enough to open up a section in the cage, and the other guard pushes him in.

He falls down.

Again.

Farther than before, and before that, and before that too. 

It's a long way down.

He lands in a painful heap of his own limbs and something hard and sharp that crunches and breaks apart into pieces that dig deep into his ribs and spine and every inch of his cold, scarred skin. He snarls pain and it comes out too low, the pitch and the echo and the hum of it all wrong, wrong, wrong. An inhuman sound, rumbling in his chest and oozing out between his sharp teeth. He breathes in to make that sound again, louder and angrier so the guards above are sure to know how he feels about this latest development, but it's all harsh white lights above him so he can't even see if they're watching him and anyway the smell is so much stronger down here. 

He chokes again. He chokes on old, crusted blood; soft meats gone rotten, soft and shapeless; firm muscle gone rotten too, stiff and shrunken; old bones too.

That's what he's in. He's—

He's in—

Oh, god. 

Fuck, no, nonono, no—

This pit. This hole in a hole in a hole, darkness realized, is full of dead and broken and rotting things. He's covered in it. Covered in old gore, covered in old wolves and birds and bears who weren't any of those things, not really, not for real—

—this isn't real, it can't be real, it can't be happening, please, put him back, take him out, he's sorry, please stop, s'il te plaît—

—he's sinking to his elbows and knees—knee that was always his and the knee forced upon him—

—these were people, they were people like him, and they all used to be people and now they're dead and—

—and is he next?

Seriously? 

Seriously?

Is this all there is? Is this all it comes to? All this pain, this suffering, this madness? Is this all it amounts to? Why? Fuck. Fuck, please, he doesn't want this, he doesn't want to die, not here, not down here, he doesn't remember why it matters anymore, he doesn't remember what before was like, but he doesn't want to die. He just doesn't, okay? Please, please, not like this, let him out, let him go, oh god, s'il te plaît—

“Ta gueule.”

He flinches, sinking low into the offal, which sounds a lot like awful, but not in the language this strange new person that smells like him but not is speaking. She smells all wrong, sharp and ticking, like hot metal and ammonia, he knows this smell, it's what he's smelled like ever since that bitch—

"You talk too much," the voice of the person who does and doesn't smell like him says. Amestrian. She's speaking Amestrian at him. His language. 

He lifts his head from the gore and stares into the white-black dark until a person-shape becomes clear. It—

—she? 

Yes, definitely she. She smells like him but not like him too, and somehow by smell alone he knows that she is a she and that's older than him, and stronger too. He drops his gaze because half his mangled brain is screaming at him to show deference, but he drags his gaze back up again because fuck that, so he settles somewhere near her paws—

—fuck, no, fuck, her hands, her feet, pay attention—

—as a compromise.

"Amestrian?"

It takes him a moment—moments, minutes, something—to realize that was a question she wants an answer to. He swallows. Coughs. Swallows again. "Y-yeah. Ouais. Je suis un amestrien.”

She barks laughter at him, unimpressed. "Your accent is terrible," she says, which is funny, because terrible is spelled the same in both their languages but she says it like she's speaking Cretan. She rolls her Rs. She trills instead of growls. It makes her sound more human than she is.

He barks laughter too. "So's yours."

Her teeth are very long and very sharp when she bares them at him in a wide, flirtatious grin. "This is your first time here?"

She's speaking his language, so it's only courtesy he return the favor. Equivalent exchange. What a goddamn joke. “Ouais. Quel est cet endroit?”

"What does it look like?" She snorts irritably. "Non. Smell. What does it smell like?"

He sniffs again. Chokes again. "Mort."

"Oui. I will die, or you will die."

“P-pourquoi?”

She barks laughter again, bitter and weary. She sounds so, so tired. "Because they want it. It is a test." 

Her teeth grow longer and sharper still. He smells the beast swarm out of her; hears the pop and groan of her bones, the creak of her tendons, the growl in her throat and stomach. She's a wolf like he's a wolf, which is the same thing as saying neither of them are wolves at all, but neither are they the humans they used to be.

His teeth itch. He swallows again, pretending as hard as he can that he can't feel his own jaw shift and creak. “Quel test?”

She coughs disdain, pointing her snout to the bars high, high above their heads. "I don't know how to say in Amestrian. Le sifflet."

He frowns. Does he know that word? Did he? Did he ever? His head's full of white spaces and white grins on white faces; a thing that is a god he doesn't believe in but knows is there regardless. That place is long ago and far away and out of reach for far too long now. That place once filled his years with nightmares and grief. Now his nightmares are bleak and stifling in a way that makes him yearn for that place—darkness and gnawing cold, clawed concrete and biting metal shackles, his skin splitting open to let the monster they made him come out to play on command—

—or, that's what he's heard from others in the block his cell is in, at least, amid the growls and weeping of the other beasts that aren't beasts, not really. Forced to do the unspeakable. A test they passed, for all that they wished they hadn't—

"Oh," he says.

"You understand?"

“Non. Ouais. Ouais. Je comprends ce test.”

She nods her long, long snout. "It is a test, yes. One of us will die. They make us kill."

“Comment?”

"I said. Le sifflet."

He shakes his head, grinds his teeth that refuse to stay flat and human. “Je ne comprends pas.”

She sighs. "You understand soon. This is my, mm. Fourth time. Second time, it did not work. I stayed here. Third time it worked, so I killed. But still I am here. They leave me here because it did not work once. Now here we are, you and I. My fourth time. Maybe it works again? Maybe I kill you too. Maybe you kill me instead. Maybe that's better. I don't know. I'm tired. My life is finished, over. It is finished. I am just this now. This beast that they made of me. I am what they made me, and I know this is not what I want and that I cannot fix this. So, now I want to die. This is what I know."

She hasn't changed all the way yet. If she had, she wouldn't be speaking. She wouldn't be capable of speech, if she'd changed completely. That's how it is for him, anyway. He swallows again, and in Amestrian says, "I don't want to kill you."

She barks laughter again, harsh and hoarse. "What you want does not matter. What I want does not matter. It is only what they want that matters." She nods again at the ring of harsh white lights above them, a halo, an array that they have been made the focal point of, an array that will act upon them soon.

He tastes blood on his tongue, slick across teeth that are too long, too sharp. Cutting his gums, his lips. His jaw aches. His head pounds. He doesn't know what to do with his fingers, sunk deep into the ripped open remains of someone else's rib cage, in the soft and reeking scraps of lung tissue left to rot down here in the dark.

No.

Not fingers.

He doesn't have proper fingers anymore—

—not ever?

Maybe he used to have fingers but right now he's got paws, stiff and braced to hold his growing, shifting, creaking weight. Claws digging deeper into the rotten meat, drawing out a muskier reek. Maggots squirm between the rough pads where he should have—once had—fingertips and palms. It should disgust him. His empty, empty stomach growls instead. He growls too.

"Who were you?" The she who is not a wolf or a woman asks in the same thick accent as the guards and scientists and alchemists of this hellhole. How did he ever think it was a pretty thing to listen to? 

She stands on all fours, hunchbacked and half-made. Half-undone. Fur spills down her back, frames her gaunt face, hides her hanging breasts in shadow. Not fur. A mane? No, a mane is fur too. What's the word? What's the word? He has it too, the same long fur tickling his ears that are still too round and dull and hairless—

Hair. That's the word he's looking for.

She has hair, the same as him because they're people, or they used to be—human. They both used to be human. She's blonde too, matted with old blood. Old kills. She's killed others. She told him she had. She's the one responsible for the mess he's standing on all fours in.

"I asked a question," she growls. "Your name. What was it? Who were you, before this? Who were you, when you were still a man?"

“Qu'importe?” He yowls, yells, yelps—some word with a strong yeh sort of sound to the start of it. His voice drops low and cracks high; it should be a ridiculous, goofy sound he made, but the base of his spine has just wriggled its way out of his skin and he's busy trying to figure out how much that hurt to care. Compared to old hurts, what's something so small as a tail? 

The hunched, gargoyle thing that used to be a person just like he used to be a person says, "My name was Renée Poirier. I was a soldier. I served my country. I was proud. Now I am a beast. Now I am tired. I give my name to you. It is yours to keep. I think I will die here, I think you will kill me—"

“NO!”

Her ears, long and straight, flick back in surprise. "No?"

"I won't! Je ne vais pas!"

Laughter drips from between her fangs. "You say this, as if there is still a choice. Tell me, Amestrian, what was your name?"

He really hates how she keeps asking that in the past tense, like she's so sure he's got no attachments left to the man he was before he was made a chimera. How can she be so sure? He hasn't been sure of anything since he was dragged down into this place. He hasn't been sure of anything since….

He doesn't know how long he's been down here. He doesn't even have the small certainty of time left to him, anymore. Time has become so strange, so distant, down here in the dark. 

Hair that is fur bristles and itches down his cold, scarred skin. He'll be warm again soon.

He swallows. May as well indulge her, right? "Edward. Elric-Rockbell."

She hums, or she whines, or she growls. Whatever it is, it's a pleased sound. She is made content by the gift of his name. “Enchantée.”

If she's going to speak her language then he doesn't see why he shouldn't speak his own too, at least while he's still capable of it. Control is a slippery, squirming thing. He can't keep a grip on it no matter how hard he squeezes. "I'm not gonna kill you. I wouldn't. I'd never. I'm not that kind of—"

"Kind of what? Man?" She barks again, a bright shock of sound that echoes off the clawed and bloodied concrete. His ears ring. “Tu n'es pas un homme, Monsieur Elric-Rockbell. You are not. You are a beast, and they make beasts do whatever they want."

Scathing. Matter-of-fact. This isn't madness speaking. There is no fervor, no fear. She knows. "H-how?"

"Five times they will bring you here. Five times they will, mm. Make you mad. Insane. Five times you will kill." She rolls her broad shoulders, dismissive. "Or maybe you are lucky? Maybe it will not work even once on you. Maybe I kill you instead, and it will be the next beast they bring here that will kill me."

Fuck. What the hell is she talking about? How can she be so—flippant? About murder? Like it's a coin toss, something left entirely out of their paws—

—fuck—

—hands. Out of their hands. It can't be out of their hands.

Can it?

He shakes his head, feeling off balance by a face grown too long in the snout. "No—"

"This is the way it is." She says it like an apology. Like she's honestly sorry that she might kill him. "Ah, do you hear?"

He does. Heavy boot stomping above and around the ring of harsh light, low voices speaking Cretan. They rattle on to each other, abominably clinical. They should be talking about simple life forms in tiny petri dishes, not people.

Ready to record, one says. 

Keep a close eye on the male's left hindquarter, another says.

Bet you a smoke he won't do anything, a third says.

Sure he will. He'll do what any Amestrian dog's good for—roll over!

The lot of them cackle amongst themselves. They sound like any group of coworkers, cracking jokes to kill a little time. They sound bored, and normal, and completely disparate from the cold gray hell Ed's life has been whittled down to. 

There's a whine building in his throat the longer he listens, cutting itself open on his long, strong fangs. He understands. His mind, brain, soul, and body are all tangled up and aching and distorted—he's certain he wouldn't recognize himself in a mirror if they put him in front of one—but he understands.

Proceed with the test, a voice high above says.

“S'il te plaît,” he begs the guards high above and out of sight. There's no answer. Of course there isn't. When have they ever listened to him? When has there every been one worthwhile fucking thing any of them have ever—

A scream of noise pierces the air; high and shrill and terrible. It mutilates his train of thought and cuts him as deeply as a scalpel even as he falls down again to cover his ears with bloody paws. His scream joins the noise, is wrenched out of him by the noise, matches neatly with the noise octaves lower, and then lower still as the change is drawn out of him fully. His meager control is shredded, torn from him. He slides away from and out of and behind himself. The scrap of self called Ed is set aside, shelved, buried by new agony and a fresh swell of frothing, burning hate and hunger that are one and the same and he must act, he must move, he must bite, he's so hungry, he's cornered, the she is an enemy and the she must DIE—

"Ah," the she sighs, laying down to bare her neck to his fangs. "Merci."

Merci, he thinks, is one letter and one language away from mercy, and that means something, it used to mean something, it should mean something to him still—

But that is the last clear thought the thing that was once Ed has for a long, long time.

=

Ed wakes up.

He's been squeezed back down into the human-adjacent shape the bio-alchemists designed for him, clumsy and long-limbed and familiar in the same uneasy way of déjà vu. He's been returned to his cage, weighed down once again by unnecessary shackles. Cold metal bruises his shoulder, his ribs, his hip, his knee. Cold metal numbs his fingers, all ten of them. The five he's always had and the five he gave up for his brother that his brother then gave back. Cold metal numbs his toes too, all ten of them. The five that have always been his and the five that are reluctantly his now. Cold metal gnaws his wrists, his ankles, his throat. Cold metal bars of a cold metal cage that is his only because he's spent so long locked up inside it that it's the closest thing to refuge he has in this place. This cage is his miserable oasis. They so very rarely do anything to him when he's locked up inside it. There's nothing and no one here now. Only him. 

Only him and his own whirring, blurring, inside-out screaming thoughts to bite him.

Her name was Renée Poirier. She had been a Cretan. She had been a soldier. She had been a person. They'd taken her humanity from her, but she had still been at least that much.

And now she's nothing. Nothing but past tense.

He breathes too deeply. His stomach hurts, churns, burns. He rolls onto his hands and knees, and the left one screams protest when he puts too much weight on it. He gasps pain, and the gasp becomes a gag that has him lunging for the bars so he can aim his sick out onto the clawed concrete. Red and pink slippery mush splatters loudly, a mess of steaming gore. He remembers the way it had tasted going down—

—hot and raw and fresh—

—and retches again.

He's shaking when he finally stops. The bars swim before his eyes so he shuts them, presses his forehead to the cold metal, groans relief. He's burning up. He's been burning up. 

He sinks down, curling up as much as his chains allow. His skin is hot and dry, itching terribly, flaking all over with blood that isn't his. He's still shaking. He was cold, wasn't he? Before? Whenever that was, however long ago that was, before they'd thrown him down into a pit full of dead and mutilated chimera, where she'd been left to die—

He bares his teeth and high, hoarse laughter leaks out of him. Left to die? No, no. She was deemed a failure, left wanting, left to wait, murdered by him. He killed her. He tore out her throat with his teeth and then he ate her—

His gorge rises again; stomach cramping, breath choking. He slaps his paws—

—hands, goddamn it, he's got hands—

—over his mouth. There's nothing left. He really will get sick if he forces himself to puke any more. Just—

—breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Spittle dribbles against his hand. Tears drip off his nose. He holds back whatever awful sound is pressing urgently against his clenched teeth, convinced it would be a howl.

He killed her.

They made him do it.

The made him—

—fucking—

—kill her. They made him kill her. They made him eat her—

He remembers, is the thing.

He remembers.

He went fucking—

—rabid? Insane? Who the fuck knows what. They blew a goddamn whistle and the last scrap of his humanity fled for the hills with its tail between its legs. His brain handed the reins of his body over to the thing that they'd made of him, just like that. Just like she said would happen. 

But why does he remember it? Why does he have to remember the tension and spasm of her throat between his teeth? Why does he have to remember the hot spurt of her blood, her last choking breath—

He killed her, he ate her, he killed her, he ate her, he killed her, he ate her—

Over and over and over again, the truth of what he's done runs ragged circles through his head. Two irrefutable facts he can't hide from. He's got the smell of her half-digested meat curdling a foot from his snout—

—nose, fuck—

—and her blood smeared all over his skin. His mouth hurts behind the tight press of his hands. They made him kill her and he has no idea how they did it. The she said—

—no, goddamn it—

—Renée said that they would make him do this again.

Five times.

She said they'd make him do—

—that—

—five times. 

He killed her because of that whistle—

—le sifflet, and isn't he pleased to have learned something new down in this hell—

—and if what she said is true they're going to drag him down into that pit four more times. They're going to make him kill four more people. 

Or, if her jilted Amestrian conjecture is anything to go by, there's a chance that whistle won't set him off and he'll end up the same way as Renée Poirier. The next time he hears that fucking whistle some other poor fucker could be the one to go rabid and kill and eat him instead.

Laughter seeps out between his fingers despite his best efforts, high and barking and brittle, so he gives up trying to stop it and covers his ears instead so he won't have to hear himself howl. 

He doesn't understand. What's the point? What is the fucking point of this? Is this all that's left to him? A fucking coin toss he's got no say in? 

He thought—

—he used to think—

—that he could endure this. All of this. Anything these fucks could think to throw at him. He'd wait it out. Ride it out. Grit his teeth and hold steady—

—hold strong—

—through the very worst they could throw at him. Once he accepted that escape was impossible he thought he could survive long enough for the cavalry to come charging in to save the day. 

Surely, they're out there now, looking for him. Surely everyone from the Fuhrer down to the newest private assigned out West knows he's missing and is doing their utmost to track him down. What's the point of fame if it can't be put to good use when you've been squirreled away as a goddamn test subject? If he was still high profile enough for Creta to sink their teeth into a decade after he quit the military, then surely Amestris' brass will care enough to hunt him down again. If Creta wanted to catch him so badly, surely Amestris will want him back?

He's certain his friends in the military would raise merry hell to find him. Tear the West region part, and Milos too, track down his last sighting and trace the Cretan railways as far as south as they've taken him. It will take time to find him, but they will. Of that much he's certain. He's sure of it, and of course someone will have sent a message to Xing by now. Al will tear Creta's mountain ranges down to gravel in order to find him, and Mei would sense the ugly tangle of horror and pain the qi here must be, and together they're guaranteed to find him, and then—

—he killed her he ate her he killed her he ate her he killed her he ate her—

—and then.

And then he'll have to look them all in the eye and tell them exactly what he's done.

He's shaking again. Did he ever stop? His hand is still over his mouth. He can't tell if he's bitten himself again; if he'll see a smear of inhuman, iridescent blood and saliva on his paw—

—palm, fuck, why it so hard to remember that?

His other hand is pressed to his side, fingers sunk into the divots between his ribs. His softness sapped away in the mysterious amount of time he's been down here; all that's left is a thing of stringy muscle and too-dense bone. He's off-balance any time he tries to stand up because his brain can't figure out how many legs he's got, and isn't that just so goddamn funny?

He remembers a riddle from a story he read as a kid, in the hard year after their failed attempt at human transmutation.

(white space, white face, congratulations, you've won, what a fucking joke)

The hero of the story approached a sphinx—

—a chimera in her own right, a woman's head on a lion's body, and he wonders if he could figure out how to do the same and laughter peals out of him—

The hero of the story approached a sphinx, right, and she told him he had to answer her riddle correctly, otherwise she'd kill him right there where he stood—

—he killed her he ate her he killed her he ate her he killed her he ate her, they're going to make him do it again and there is nothing he can do to stop it—

—well, no, there's one avenue left to him. He could do what Renée Poirier did. He could lay down in the gore of that round pit, bare his throat and beg mercy, merci—

—no.

No, he can't. He can't. 

He wants to see his family again, and his friends too. He wants to see the sun, the stars, green grass waving in a stiff wind. He wants to see wheat fields and mountains and cobblestone streets, the half-constructed branch of Central's National Library that Mustang keeps threatening to name after him. He wants leather bound books and chalk dust, freshly made coffee and cheap perfume and coal smoke. He wants bookstores and greasy hole in the wall diners, cats sleeping in windows, rickety iron chairs outside corner cafes, summer storms, the harm-hued interior of a passenger car, his own bed, jazz music on the radio, an Amestrian newspaper without a single bad thing printed in it. He wants a thousand little things beyond these cold concrete walls and biting steel bars and red meat tearing, dripping, tasting so fresh, so good—

—fuck—

—the sphinx.

The sphinx.

The sphinx asked, "What is the creature that walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?" And he knows what the riddle's answer is, he remembers it, but he also knows now that the story was wrong. It isn't man. Or, well, it can be, but that's only one side of the coin because here he is. 

He's living proof that chimera can answer the riddle just as well.

They're going to make him kill someone else. Renée Poirier warned him, before he—

—killed her ate her killed her ate her killed her ate her—

It's just a matter of time, and he can't. He can't.

He doesn't want to.

Please.

Someone. Anyone. Help him, please.

He can't stop this on his own. He can't stop himself. He can't.

He's going to kill someone, or he'll be killed, and he'll never see another sunrise. He'll never hug Winry again, or hold his kids, or make another trip out to Xing. He's never going to see Al or Emperor Fancypants or Lan Fan or Mei, or even circle back out to Resembool to take the kids to see Granny again. That old goat really is going to outlive him, and isn't that just the funniest goddamn thing?

Ed buries his head in his good shoulder and tries to do anything but think.

[staliasjeronica]

Riverdale 3.16 Thoughts *Spoilers*

- TBH Hermione does have a point. After what happened to Midge in Carrie… you go for this musical? But whatever Cheryl wanted it and she’s going to get it because THAT’S MY FUCKING BABY OKAY

- THE OPENING IS KEVIN AND A SOLO THIS IS ALL I EVER NEEDED! Also why does his voice/this remind me of Winn from Supergirl???

- Why does the girl in the background look just like Midge??? That’s—

- What the fuck is that choreography tho sksksksks

- MY GIRL VERONICA ❤️❤️❤️ She’s so sad about her and Reggie breaking up catch me CRYING

- ARCHOSIE AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW BITCHHHHHHH

- I hate to admit that that tiny bughead peck was kinda c*te

- “Why did I hit him?” bitch… who? Also Reggie wondering why he’s a creep I’m—what? he’s changed wtf I don’t see how he’s a creep/why he was a douchebag but alright

- SWANGS ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ ALSO I PAUSED AND ARCHIE LOOKS LIKE FRED IM CRYING

- “Are all of you this miserable?” well… yeah… they can never be kids because your bitch ass husband’s plot is being dragged on that it’s boring now so like… yeah… and now they’re being manipulated by a stupid ass tree so ummm

- “She was a real mess after her breakup with Toni” no 😭😭 but love that they literally broke them up just to base the musical around it like… seriously? lol alright at least I know they get back together because they’re the top and only few healthiest couples on the show so

- TONI AND THE POISONS.

- First off… Reggie shoving Fangs and calling him a geek…? Okay… BUT HIM SHOVING SWEET PEA INTO CHERYL BITCH!!!! Cher calling my boy a pervert I’m sad I want them to be boss ass bitch friends like that’s all I need!!

- OMG JORDAN’S VOICE “WHAT DID I EVER DO TO THEM?” literally just choke me bye

- Betty I get that you automatically hate his choice for making Evelyn co-director but uhhhh he directed the last one with Fangs so your sentence is plain wrong lol

- Poor baby Fangs, the trauma of Midge he never got to really address because last time he was accused of her murder and then almost killed himself so like he never had time to mourn I’m—lmao did Kevin just say no to that or like was he being like “no bitch we’re going to talk about Midge fuck your trauma”

- SP’s pettiness love it. “STRAIGHT” reggie neither you or Archie are straight but cool

- LET CHERYL SAY FUCK 2K19

- This is why they were all lying down? That’s… weird but okay. ALSO I hate agreeing with Betty that this entire thing was to recruit people into the farm :( it’s weird because mostly what Betty does is annoying but this season she’s been mostly okay.

- MY CHONI HEART JUST GOT SHOT

- BITCH SKSKSKS “ARE WE GONNA HAVE A PROBLEM?”

- SKSKSK WHAT WAS THE REASON FOR THAT HAIR WHIP SOUND EFFECT

- “SHUT UP TONI” MY—CHERYL JUST PUSHED HER NO

- Evelyn… leave SP’s solo alone :( he deserves this. HE’S LITERALLY A LEAD TOO

- Betty, one of the main’s in the play, is telling Evelyn this musical is for recruitment. Then why tf are you in it Betty

- FP being dismissive of Jughead and how much he cares about the trailer? Smells fishy… 

- Poor Veronica. like yeah her dad is a cunt but like it’s her parents… my poor baby

- So what if he knows? He’s doing illegal shit, it doesn’t fucking matter??? He’s such a whiny pissbaby

- SP BEING ALL CUTE AND SHIT. LMAO “YOU NEED A JELLO-O SHOT” SKSKS WE NEED MORE CUTE HAPPY SP PLEASE AND THANKS

- Veggie… is hot… I love them and want them back together :(

- oH NO SP SAW ARCHOSIE MY BOY IS SO SAD

- TONI AND THE POISONS YESSSSS

- whO THE FUCK IS SITTING IN THE TUB ALICE WAS ALMOST DROWNED IN

- VEGGIE. VERONICA LOOKS SO GOOD UGH I LOVE THEM. Stop with the “Endgame” not only because ew but because she’s said that to Archie and that may be… triggering.

- Did Evelyn just give Kevin a spiked brownie…

- Evelyn you sneaky bitch… I know this is what brings Kangs together but I didn’t want it like this!!!

- FANGS… wow an actual line that provides insight into his life? Mmhm

- That almost smile Fangs gave… was cute… but I’m not here for this recruitment.

- SP IS A PETTY BITCH SKSKSKS like that’s bad but like… shit I can’t wait for SP to rage and save his best friend from a stupid ass cult

- “That is what we in the theater call a breakthrough” um I assume you’ve never been in theater but also I don’t think that’s correct…

- ALSO ALL THIS BERONICA IS SO SWEET I MISS THEM. Still, though, Betty needs to apologize for all of the shit she’s done and said to Veronica

- “He’s a real class act, that Sweet Pea…” girl he has every right to be upset though. I mean he shouldn’t have outed your relationship. Also, the definition of “class act” is a person or thing displaying impressive and stylish excellence so like is that supposed to be an insult…?

- Reggie is so good ughhhhh 😻😻

- Evelyn go away you shady bitch. Also what’s the point of getting mad at Toni for wearing red? lol

- DEAD GIRL WALKING BITCHH I LOVE THIS. OH MY GOD PEACHES? THIS IS THE SCENE? SHE JUST CAME ONTO PEACHES. NOW SWEET PEA. THIS IS THE SCENE. Also Jordan’s voice… choke me! ALSO I love how he’s down with it though? Like I’m guessing this isn’t him and Toni’s first thing… but why are they doing this threesome on the stage lmaooooo

- SKSKKSKS PEACHES AND PEA (MMHM why does that sound nice… she beat him up nooo) LOOK AT EACH OTHER LIKE “THIS BITCH MADE US UNDRESS AND THEN LEAVES” like thank GOD because Choni but still

- NO ONE CAN TELL ME DIFFERENTLY, SP LIKES TO BE BOSSED AROUND. HE’S A SUBMISSIVE. The way Toni pointed and he just followed? He loves being bossed around bye my story Unholy is correct thank you and goodbye

- GOTTA ADMIT THE “can I borrow your camera?” WAS CUTE OKAY

- OH THIS IS WHERE KANGS GETS LIKE MARRIED LMAO I’ve wanted Kangs (less than Swangs yeah but whatever) BUT NOT LIKE THIS. ALSO DREW’S VOICE FUCK MEEEEE. the kiss 😭❤️ aLSO WOULDN’T IT BE EASIER TO TAKE A VIDEO BETTY LOL

- Archie practicing his moves looks so weird when it’s not on a punching bag or anything like—

- Archosie uwu THIS DUET FUCK ME UPPPPP THIS IS SO CUTE. JOSIE’S ABS FUCKKKK 

- Did Betty seriously think that her taking that picture would work??? Should’ve taken a video but mmhm

- How did Toni get in. I feel like Cheryl would have immediately taken her key. BUT ALSO THE HEATHER’S REFERENCE. AND CHONI. UGH CHERYL’S ABOUT TO CRY STOP STOP STOP!!! Literally this scene proves that Choni is the HEALTHIEST couple on this show like they ACTUALLY took time to talk through their shit (kinda, not the full thing but the start of it at least)

- Did… Jughead just call the Ghoulies/Serpents tonsils??????????

- “… the longing for what they’ve lost” *Swosie looks at one another KNOWING this bitch did this on purpose* COLE SINGING OMFG this really irks me that Bughead has actually been kinda cute on this episode? CHONI BITCH YES. NEVERMIND BUGHEAD GO AWAY I JUST WANT MY TWO QUEENS

- Also if this doesn’t include Swosie… why were they given the sheets and shit from Kevin and whatnot? This is evil. But this proves that Bughead COULD be cute and healthy if they weren’t these annoying little shit heads that they are now like let them be kids and normal and not shitty people… it’s not that hard.

- Betty… I was about to say that you telling him to not let his emotions get the best of him was actually a good idea but then you suggested burning down his fucking trailer. I get it, you’re a Blossom, but chill the fuck out. You ALMOST had a good idea and weren’t being stupid… but now you ruined it.

- Boo fucking hoo your wife tried to kill you Hiram

- So now that even Hiram says that there’s no family anymore… can he let her and Archie (bc come on that all can’t go away with some words and a handshake/mutual agreement) the fuck go? ALSO POOR VERONICA

- OH THIS IS THE SONG EVERYONE WAS PRAISING LAST NIGHT. CAMI IS SUCH A GREAT ACTOR WE LOVE AND STAN A QUEEN!!!

- First of all… SP saying hi to Evelyn… not sure how I feel about that. SECOND OF ALL FANGS IS THE CUTEST BYE

- THE BLOT THING IS SO CUTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

- Bughead really get off to violence and shit huh… that’s… weird. But sure.

- why is Betty wearing the crown sweater it looks so weird idk why and Jughead looks so out of place lol

- SWEET PEA GETTING INTO IT IN THE BACK SHITTTTTTT

- Oh this cult clap is creepy… why… that’s so weird stop. Also it’s not like other people to not join in on the clapping but alright

[i-am-the-gay-shit]

My only Sun - Chapter 11 ‘Hunter & Prey’

3 chapters in one day;) We get to learn a bit about the Taylor family and how Clare became a Huntress~!!

Click this link to be directed to the full story

She walked through the graveyard silently. Her footsteps barely made a sound. Any normal person wouldn’t hear her, but she knew better. She wasn’t dealing with normal people.

“Clare…”

His voice was soft as he stepped out of the shadows. She studied the taller man and could see why her brother like him. Brian was a very handsome man with such a sweet, and quiet demeanor. Very opposite of her big brother. “You’re not alone.” She comments, eyeing the shadows. Not surprised when she sees the other familiar man walk out. “Freddie.” “Clare. Pleasure to see you.” Freddie smiles warmly, but Clare doesn’t seem happy.

“I can’t say the feeling is mutual… Maybe under different circumstances. But this…” Clare trails off, thinking of the potential danger her brother may face. Freddie frowns.

“I understand… You must be awfully worried. So let us not waste anymore time. Allow us to explain…” He gestures for Clare to have a seat, but she shakes her head. Freddie casts a look to Brian before sighing softly.

“Where to begin…” Freddie started off at the beginning. Telling her about Paul and his own life. Trying to ignore Brian’s gaze as he talks about Jim… He explains how he found Brian, what they had done, and why they are on the run.  He tells her about the bond her brother shares with Brian and her eyes widen. Nodding slowly as she looks at Brian. She listens carefully and drinks the information in eagerly. Her eyes narrowing as Freddie goes in about the previous night. Paul finding them and threatening Roger…

“And that’s why… He’s in danger. And-” “-And it’s my fault…” Brian cuts Freddie off. His gaze cast down, too guilty to look into Clare’s eyes. He can feel her staring at him, but he doesn’t feel any anger… Instead, her emotions are relatively neutral…

“... He really likes you. It’s kind of annoying how much he talks about you… and now it makes sense. You two were meant to be.” Clare speaks softly. “And there is nothing I can do to stop that… Grandpa was really right about him...” She sighs.

Brian looks up at her, but now she’s looking away. A small frown on her lips.

“...Clare. Your family… Are they hunters? Or…?” Brian starts to ask.

“... My parents aren’t hunters...” She says simply. Freddie grows curious.

“How did you end up becoming a Hunter? Surely your parents don’t know this?” Freddie questions and Clare looks over, smiling softly.

--

Outside London, England. 1961

12 years ago

Roger had always hated going to his grandparents. It was out in the middle of nowhere with absolutely nothing to do. But for some reason his sister loved to go. She would bounce up and down the entire car ride and run out of the car when they pulled up to the old house. Their grandparents would greet her with warm smiles and hugs, but as soon as his grandfather ever looked at him, he would just frown and study him.

Clare even noticed how off put the older man was to her big brother, but she always just brushed it off. Her brother always had an attitude and an unwelcoming aura around him. She didn't get along with her brother, mostly because he didn't want anything to do with her and Clare couldn’t understand why her brother was so mean to her…

But she felt bad. Everyone in the family treated Roger a bit differently. They were always scolding him for the smallest things, while she barely ever got in trouble. It wasn’t fair, and she thought she would be in a foul mood too if she was treated like that all the time… Though she did see him happy a few times. Mostly when he was listening to music. That’s when he was nice to her and he would sit her down to tell her about a new record he had gotten. And Clare cherished those moments with her brother…

“It’s such a nice day today, why don’t you take your sister out for a walk, Roger.” It wasn’t a question. Their grandmother looked to Roger and motioned for him to get up and turn the radio off. Clare watched her brother glare over at her slightly before rolling his eyes and doing what he was told. Grabbing his jacket before angrily walking around her.

“Come on.” He muttered, not trying to hide his annoyance. Clare hurried after him, not wanting to make his mood any worse.

They walked in the cool, autumn air. He was in front of her like always. Not talking or anything. When they were alone like this, it always made Clare uncomfortable. She knew her brother didn't hate her, but… it was always so awkward and he was always in a pissy mood.

“Jeez. It’s bloody freezing out. ‘Go on. It’s a nice day’, she said…” She hears her brother grumble, making her smile slightly.

“What are you smiling at?” Roger huffs, looking back at her. She giggles now, making him arch an eyebrow. “What?” He asks, turning to her completely. For some reason her smile just grows wider and she starts laughing. Her brother looking at her like she’s insane.

“You’re bloody weird…” Roger can’t help but crack a small smile. Clare lights up at this.

“I’m weird? At least I’m not moody.” She hums.

“Excuse me?” Roger walks toward her, thought he’s not mad. No. There’s a smile on his face as he gets closer and starts to reach for her. She quickly bolts the other way and Roger sprints after her. Both of them laughing as Roger scoops her up easily. “What did you say about me?!” He laughs as he tickles her, making her wiggle and laugh in his arms.

They slowly calmed down as he sat her back on the ground carefully. Clare was still giggling softly as she looked up at her brother with a wide grin.

“I like when we play like this…” She confesses. Roger’s smile disappears as he looks down.

“...yeah… I do too.” He admits, gently patting her head. “Excuse me…” Roger looks up quickly, meeting two unnaturally black eyes of a strange man only a few feet away from them. He instantly pulled his sister behind him, sensing something off about the strange man.

“....can I help you?” Roger asks, trying to sound as intimidating as a 12 year old boy could. Slightly back away. Holding Clare’s wrist tightly.

“I was wondering if you could give me directions… you see… I’m lost.” The man smirks, walking toward the two kids. Roger’s hand tightens on Clare’s wrist, but Clare doesn’t voice her discomfort.

“I can get my grandfather. He’d be more than happy to help you on your way.” Roger prays the fear in his voice isn’t clear. He backs away more.

The man just smirks before lunging at the two. Before Clare could process anything, she felt Roger push her before being tackled by the monster.

Clare never felt fear like this. Staring into those swirling red eyes while the creature smiled at her with a sharp grin before looking down at her brother, now pinned under him. She didn't know what to do. Monsters don’t exist… No… Monster didn't exist… But now, one had her brother… And it growled and snarled as it’s teeth sank into her brothers skin.

Her stomach turned as her brother screamed in unimaginable pain. He was kicking and struggling under the power and force of the monster. But there was nothing she could do. She was frozen in fear. And she knew soon it would be her turn…

But all of a sudden the monster unlatched from her brother’s now gushing neck and screeched in its own pain. And that’s when she saw that something had hit it in the shoulder. Whipping her head over, she was shocked to see her grandfather standing there with a very unusual weapon positioned up and pointing at the creature. The monster moved like a blur, but her grandfather didn't flinch at all. Instead he shot directly in the beats face, making it stumble back in pain. This gave him enough time to reload his weapon and hit the scary man down to the ground before firing in it’s head again.

Clare honestly couldn’t register anything that just happened after that. It was all a blur... from her grandmother rushing Roger to the hospital, to her grandfather building a large fire and burning the creatures body.

“Grandpa…?” She asks softly, as she watched the fire dance. “What… what was that?” The older man glanced down at her and sighed.

“That was a monster.” He says simply.

“Why did you tell grandma it was a wild dog that attacked Rog?” She wonders. The older man sighs again, fully looking at his 8 years old granddaughter.

“You really want to know?” He asks and her eyes light up as nods eagerly.

And with that, he sat the girl down and explained to her the supernatural forces of the world. Demons existed, but humans could defend themselves. She learned her grandfather was a Vampire Hunter, but after his wife gave birth to their first child, he retired. Not wanting to endanger his family.

But then Roger was born. His first grandchild. Who was visited by a demon the very night he was born. Clare listened with wide eyes. How her grandfather had killed one of those beasts in the hospital.

“It was an omen.” He said. “I knew from that first moment that boy would get himself mixed into things greater than himself… And he has. He might not be aware of it, but Roger has a knack of attracting all sorts of creatures to him.” “How do you know…?” Clares wonders.

“A good hunter can always sense the supernatural.” He smiles down at her.

“Can you teach me?” She asks with a big smile, shocking the man.

“Te-teach you?! Are you crazy?! It’s a dangerous and serious thing!” He exclaims.

“... and if what you say is true, then Roger will need someone to help him in the future! Who better than his sister??” She smiles. Her grandfather stares down at her. Shocked at the maturity she was showing.

“Clare… The things I would teach you-” “Aren’t fit for a girl? Dangerous? I don’t care! I want to protect my big brother!” She huffs, crossing her arms.

“....Very well. Clare Taylor. I will teach you how to be Vampire Huntress… and you will protect your brother when I no longer can.”

--

Present Day, Cemetery - London, England

1973

“So your grandfather was a hunter…” Freddie says out loud, Clare nods.

“Yes.”

“...A dog attack? Wouldn’t Roger remember being attacked by a man and all that…?” Brian asked, a bit confused. She sighs.

“You would think. But it was so traumatizing that his brain repressed the memory of it. He doesn’t remember anything about it… And memories are so delicate anyway, so from telling Roger it was a dog, when he does try to think about that day, he can now only imagine a dog. And thanks to that, Roger absolutely hates dogs…” She sighs softly. Explaining the psychology process.

“So Roger doesn’t know anything about….?” Freddie wonders, twirling his finger in the air. Clare shakes her head.

“Nope. He doesn’t know about anything supernatural. Though he’s dated a Hunter before…” She thinks back with distaste. Brian feels jealousy run through him. “He was an ass. I was happy when they broke up…”

“I’m happy they broke up too…” Brian hisses under his breath.

“Heh, your grandfather was right. Roger sure knows how to attract people from the supernatural world. Being attacked, dating a hunter and being a soulmate to a vampire…” Freddie laughs softly, shaking his head. “You definitely got someone to keep you on your toes, Brian.” Clare laughs softly.

But her smile fades and eyes turn ice cold as she takes her crossbow and lifts it quickly. Pointing right between Freddie and Brian.

“Don’t Move.”

*Gasp* I wonder what could happen next? Is there a deaky in the future? Maybe? Maybe not~? We shall see~~ Till next time<3

[prettyyoungtragedy]

You and I, Just the two of us - Chapter 1

You and I, just the two of us - (AU!)

James (Bucky) x reader,  – Steve x reader (Later in fic)

Summary: The reader is reeling from a life changing event, a year later can she finally move on? Or will the past come tumbling down like an avalanche…

 A/N: Sooo I decided to do an AU! Its my first time writing one, I am rather excited so I sinceeeerely hope you all drop me some feedback, because I god damn love writing!!

 Word Count: 3361

 Warnings: Nothing I can think of…

1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10

 “Y/N!” a voice called from behind you, you slowed down your pace and hopped slightly from foot to foot trying to keep up your body temperature in icy New York cold, it was your best friend Natasha. She never jogged with you in the mornings, so you were quite surprised to see her in workout attire jogging towards you.

“Hey Nat,” you respond giving her a quick hug,

“Thought I’d join you today,” she smiled, taking a spot to you right as you both began to jog down the pathway,

“You hate jogging,” you pointed out, you knew Nat was only here because of what day it was, and she wanted to make sure you were okay.

“I mean I don’t hate it, I just prefer less strenuous forms of exercise” Natasha replied, stretching her arms as she jogged in her bright pink parka and black tights.

You just shrugged and then fell into a comfortable jogging rhythm. Jogging had always cleared your mind, it was sort of comforting, especially in the crisp cool morning air.

Natasha made small conversation as you continued your run, you could see she was hankering to ask you if you were okay, but she was avoiding the topic entirely and after the run, she suggested you go for breakfast.

Once seated at a table in the warm bistro, you listen quietly to Natasha babble on about her fiancé Bruce and his upcoming event which both of you should attend, but your mind was only paying half attention to what she was saying.

“Y/N? are you listening?” She says snapping her manicured fingers in front of your face,

“Oh, shit sorry, what were you saying,” you say apologetically, snapping out of your thoughts

Natasha sighed, “I’m sorry, I have to ask but are you okay Y/N?”

“I’m fine Nat,” you respond, taking a sip of your latte in front of you nonchalantly,

“Are you sure, because I know today was supposed to be your,” she started but you cut her off

“Nat, I really don’t want to think about it okay, I said I’m fine”, you said, almost annoyed with her, but you stopped yourself. There was no point in getting irritated with her, she was only trying to make sure you were okay.

You both were quiet for a moment, then Nat broke the silence, “You should come over for dinner tonight,” she suggested “Bruce is making his famous lasagna,” she grinned, knowing how much you loved spending time with Bruce as you were both in similar fields at work but also because he was one of the easiest people to get along with, and his lasagna was truly great.

“I was actually thinking of staying in tonight, it’s been such a long week at work, Tony has me working overtime on this new eco project,” you said, knowing trying to get out of this invite was futile because Natasha was one of the most insistent people you knew.  

“Oh, shut up, you’re coming, you don’t even have to bring anything.”  She retorted, and you knew that was that, you were going.

You were appreciative of Natasha being so demanding sometimes, the two of you had been friends since high school. She was the frivolous carefree charismatic student body president type at Rutgers and graduated to become a magazine editor for the New Yorker and you in your quiet reserved way, had graduated from Rutgers university as one of the foremost scientists in nuclear physics and landed a job at Stark industries, one of the leaders in clean energy. You were an odd pair, but you had always been there for each other through thick and thin.

“So should we do some shopping on this fine Saturday morning?”  Nat asked you, as you both finished up breakfast,

“Ugh, Nat, please don’t make me go shopping with you,” You groaned, you loved her but she had a genuine shopaholic problem.

“Oh, come on! We haven’t spent any time together lately!” She whined, “You’re always stuck in that lab of yours,”

“I have some work to take care of,” You chuckled as you see her pull an annoyed face,

“I call bullshit!” She snorted, “But fine, I’ll just go shopping with Wanda.”

You roll your eyes at her, Wanda was a mutual friend, but she was an upper east side princess. Which sort of annoyed you, she loved the glamourous life and Natasha and she got along famously, you though, not so much.

“Have fun with that,” You replied, gathering up your things, “I am going home to have a hot shower and enjoy the rest of my Saturday with my work,”

“But I’ll see you tonight, right?” Nat said pointedly,

“Yes, Natasha Romanoff, I will be at your place for dinner at 7 o’clock.” You said dryly.

With a satisfied nod from her, you and Natasha exchange goodbyes and you step out of the toasty bistro and into the icy morning air. As you walk down the block towards your apartment, you were suddenly almost bowled by a tall muscular guy, wearing a navy-blue parka. His face almost covered by the ski mask he wore, but beneath his cap all you saw were his dazzling blue eyes.

“Hey!” you exclaimed as he brushed passed you not even stopping to see if you were okay, “Thanks asshole!” you call after him picking up your belongings you had dropped on the floor and, flipping him off as he marched away in front of you.  

You contemplated going after the guy and giving him a piece of your mind, but you didn’t have the energy today to deal with any drama. So instead you hurriedly walked back to your apartment, ready to get out of the now sleeting weather, as soon as you reach your apartment door you feel your heart sinking again. It was all well and good that you spent almost 20 hours of your day at the lab but coming home always flooded you with memories of him, you hated yourself for not moving out of this apartment and moving on, but your heart was still aching for him. Luke Charles had broken you heart and pretty much ripped your soul out of you when he left you for another woman 365 days ago, you were engaged, and today would have been the day of your wedding.

As you walk into the dark apartment, you gaze around at the remnants of your old relationship. You didn’t have the heart to get rid of all the stuff in it, all the stuff you had gotten together. You had turned all the pictures around but not taken them off the wall, you couldn’t bring yourself to close that chapter of your life. Because he had not given you closure, he left you in the middle of the night with just a text saying he needed to get out, it was too much for him and he had met someone else he loved and wanted to build a life with. You hadn’t seen him since then, no contact, nothing.

Your friends were there for you and had tried to get you to move out, and move on but your heart was still firmly attached to this place, and to Luke. Even after what he had done, you couldn’t believe he, the soft natured, loving generous person that he was could abandon you after four years of being together.

You sighed and flipped the lights on, casting a warm glow across the cream and brown living room. you walk into the kitchen and immediately pour yourself a glass of wine, you needed it, because just this morning before your run you had found the invite to your wedding in a box you thought you had hidden away at the back of your cupboard, and that was now sending you into a grief spiral again.

Suddenly your phone rang on the counter, the chiming of the ringtone echoing through the kitchen. Grabbing it off the counter, you see the screen light up in bold letters, James Buchanan Barnes.

You groaned, knowing that this was a phone call you were avidly avoiding today of all days. James had been your friend since university, he and Natasha dated for a while before they spilt, less amicably that you would have liked but you adored James, so it was only natural that you remained friends with him even though him and Natasha split. They had tried to reconcile a few times but failed miserably so just opted to be tolerant acquaintances for your sake.

James had been the angriest then Luke left you, he vowed if he had to ever see him again he would kill him, and you genuinely believed him, because he was a built like a brick shithouse.

“Hello James,” you answer, anticipating his worried voice over the receiver,

“Y/N, hey!” his husky cheery voice sounded through the phone, hearing his voice cheered you up a little. He had been a source of comfort through this period in your life, trying his utmost to keep you happy and healthy.

“What’s up?” you ask,

“Are you home?” he replied,

“Yeah, I just got home, I am assuming you are on your way here?” You said, taking a sip of the cold wine,

“Yes, I am walking up the stairs as we speak,” he chuckled, “See you in two seconds,” then he hung up,

Sure enough, a minute later you hear the front door open and James walked in, “Y/N?” he called out,

“In the kitchen,” you responded, taking out a beer from the fridge already knowing he was going to ask for one,

James walked into the kitchen, pulling of his black parka, gloves and scarf.  “God damn, its cold out there” he said tossing his items of clothing on the counter, and coming over to give you a hug.

“Hey buddy,” he says softly giving you a peck on the cheek, “You doin’ okay?”

You gave him a small smile, “As well as I will ever be I guess,” was your timid response,

James nodded sympathetically, and took the beer you offered him, he wasn’t going to dwell on the subject, so he distracted you, “Oh hey, did I tell you I bumped into that Wanda girl a bar the other day,”

You both took a seat at the kitchen table, “No, no you did not tell me that,”

He whistles, “That girl is a piece of work, she is all kinds of bat shit crazy.” He says, grinning devilishly,

“Ugh, James please don’t tell me you are sleeping with her, because my delicate constitution cannot handle that level of gross right now.” You respond, making a disgusted face at him.

James laughed gleefully, “Well, yes and no, I fucked her… once” he paused “Okay maybe twice,”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you groaned facepalming yourself, “Of all the women in the upper east side, throwing themselves at you, you just HAD to sleep with her!”

James laughed again, “Wait that’s not even the kicker, she now genuinely believes I want to be in a relationship with her,”

You sighed loudly, knowing that this whole situation was going to end up royally screwing you all over because he wasn’t wrong, Wanda was bat shit fucking crazy.

“So, I have been avoiding her calls and texts like the plague, but man that girl is relentless. Any ideas on how I can escape her, you know her pretty well?” He continued,

“ugh, my god you are disgusting.” Was your only response, “You’re on your own there pal, she doesn’t like me.”

“Ah come on, don’t leave me out in the cold like that, help a guy out.” He bargained, chuckling

You chuckled with him, shaking your head.

James had a way of making every situation so lighthearted and fun, you loved having him around for that reason. It was so easy being yourself around him, he never pressed you with questions about your feelings or how you were or pestered you to move out and on, he just simply wanted you to be happy. And that was the only kind of friend you needed right now.

“So, what are our plans for the day?” he asks you, sipping his beer.

You loved how he just invited himself into your plans for the day without asking, “Well, I have some work to do, and then Nat invited me for dinner. Bruce is making lasagna,” you replied,

“Oooh, I want to come for Bruce’s lasagna,” James said, faking excitement  

“No, what are you up to James?” you say narrowing  your eyes at him,

“Oh, come on, I want to see Nat and  you know I love Bruce, and all his nerdy glory,” James laughed at his own comment,

“You’re the worst, but fine come if you want to but don’t get mad when you don’t get what you want,” you replied, polishing off the wine in your glass,

“it’s a Saturday, why are you working?” he asked genuinely perplexed by this, changing the topic,

“Because,” you say standing up, “Unlike some of us who have rich daddy’s who pay for our lifestyle, I have to work to earn a living” and walking to the living room,

James snorted, “Hey, I can’t help it if I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth,” he followed you to the living room, “I’ll pay your rent this month if you skip work today and just hang out with me,”

You scoffed at him, and sat down at your desk opening your laptop. You already had 42 emails to answer. “Come on, Y/N!” James whined, “Leave your sciencey stuff for a day, lets go to Rockefeller Center and see all the Christmas lights!”

“It’s the middle of the morning,” you retort, scrolling through your emails as he continued to shoot ideas at you,

“Lets go to 5th avenue then, I’ll take you to Bergdorfs and buy you …leggings?” he said, still trying to get you to budge.

“Really? Leggings?” you laughed mockingly looking up at him, as he leaned against your work desk.

“Okay, whatever you want,” James said pleadingly, giving you puppy dog eyes,

“Alright, well then I want to go to the Museum of Natural History,” you said gleefully knowing he would never agree to it.

You saw his face fall for a second then to your amazement he agreed, “Okay, lets go to the Museum of Natural History”,

You and James spent the rest of the day at the Museum of Natural History, he was bored senseless but he entertained your talk on space and time and history for hours on end. By late afternoon you had ended up in the planetarium, laying on the viewing deck looking up at the model of the constellations before you,

“Beautiful isn’t it,” you said softly

“Yeah,” was his equally soft reply, but he wasn’t looking at the constellations before you.

After almost an hour of comfortable silence between the two of you, you turned to him, “We should probably get going, if we are going to make it to Natasha’s by 7,” you say getting up,

James agreed, and the two of you made your way out of the museum. James’ town car was waiting outside for the two of you as soon as you stepped out of the museum.

“So should we go straight there?” He asked, opening the car door for you

“I suppose, but ugh I didn’t bring anything,” you groaned, remembering that Natasha was the kind of person to invite you for dinner and then complain If you dint at least bring her some bourgeoisie bottle of champagne or something,

“I already took care of that,” James said, motioning for you to get into the car, “Artur stopped by the house and picked up a bottle of Dom for her,”  

You smiled at him, even after all this time, James still knew Natasha so well, “Alright then I guess let’s head straight there.”

When you arrived at the Manhattan townhouse that Bruce and Natasha shared, you were feeling somewhat glum. The house next door, was the one Luke and you were going to move into soon after your wedding, this neighborhood haunted you sometimes, all the future plans that were made, now clung to it like a dark cloud.

James seemed to notice the change in your demeanor, “Hey, you okay?” he asked, putting his arm around your shoulder,

“Yeah,” you sighed, “Just all this, brings back memories I guess,”

“Ah, you’ll be alright,” He assured you with a grin, “Let’s go drink all of Natasha’s good alcohol,” he said ringing the bell excitedly.

Natasha opened the door enthusiastically, “Yay! You’re here,” she exclaims, then pauses when she sees James,

“Hey, Bucky…” She says, her facial expression changing slightly, as if her excitement diminished a little.

“Hello Tash,” he said softly giving her a warm smile, and a peck on the cheek.

Natasha was the only person either than his mom to call James by his second name, Buchanan or rather Bucky for short, she was the only other person he would let call him Bucky.

Nat led the way inside, thanking James for the bottle of champagne profusely as it was her favorite. She bagan animatedly talking about her day to you as she led you to the kitchen where Bruce was preparing dinner.

“Darling,” she called out to him, “Y/N and Bucky are here,”

Bruce emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishcloth, “Hey Y/N, James,” he said coming over to exchange greetings with a warm smile,

Bruce was always the softest kindest person you had ever met, him and Natasha were opposites but worked so well together.

“I am so ready for that lasagna” you say, accepting the glass of champagne Nat handed to you, the food smelled heavenly.

“It tastes amazing,” Nat chimed in, handing James a glass of champagne as well, it was kind of her dinner party tradition to only serve champagne, it was weird, but you weren’t complaining as you sipped on the crisp beverage.

“Shall we sit?” James asks, motioning to the dining room,

“How’s work?” Bruce asks you, as you all take a seat at the dining room table,

“Ah it’s good, Starks got me working on nanomolecular energy development, its quite a big project for our department,” you replied. Bruce worked for Stark industries as well, just a different division.

“That’s great to hear, seems the idea is to run on clean energy by the end of the year,” Bruce began but Nat interrupted him,

“Come on guys, no shop talk!” she chided,

You couldn’t help but laugh, Natasha had no idea what half of the stuff you and Bruce spoke about, meant.

It felt good to be with your friends that evening, as it went on, Nat and James shared stories of recent events in their lives and Bruce adding a few comments here and there. You just enjoyed listening to it all, taking your mind of the stained memory of what today meant.

“Thanks for a great evening, Nat” you said, hiccupping drunkenly, as Bruce let you and James out well past midnight, “Ugh I love the two of you,” you exclaimed throwing your arms around both simultaneously.

Nat was a little too incoherently drunk at this point to even respond properly, so she just hugged you tighter.

“And we love you too,” Bruce replied, smiling and returning your affection, “you’ll get her home safe, right?” he says to James behind you,

He nodded, “Yes sir,”

You stumbled next to James as he led you to his town car, and sat you in the backseat beside him.

You lean tiredly against his chest, “James,” you mumbled,

“Yes Y/N?”

“Thank you for today,” you slur,

“Of course, anything for you,” he replied gently, kissing the top of your head,

“It still makes me sad,” you sighed sadly, pulling him closer to you in an embrace,

“I know it does, sweetheart” James replied in a kind voice,

“James?”

“Yes, Y/N?”

“Do you love me?” you asked drunkenly, James knew you probably wouldn’t remember this in the morning when he answered,

“I do, very much so,” he replied tenderly,

You sighed, seemingly content in his embrace, “I love you too James, you make my days better”

He smiled at your confession, knowing it meant more to him than it did to you.

xxx

Hope you guys enjoy it!

[imeugene]

I saw that poster on the store wall and immediately knew it was you.

I wished I could say I dwelled on it more but maybe I’ve grown a bit too apathetic or cold, I don’t really know if there’s a difference. I saw that poster on the store wall and immediately knew it was you. 

I was ready to go home after a day of work that night. It was late. On a weekday I remember cause it was only my coworker and I. We did our usual dad jokes of “Sorry I have to see you tomorrow”, I guess a way to joke about our general displeasure with our jobs. It’s far from perfect but it’s what we have to do and it’s not entirely bad. I saw you in the parking lot in front of the store laying face down. I figured you were another drunk and came over to reprimand you. There’s been a lot of heat from the local government about the vagrancy problem as if we were the ones that cause it. I remember going to a board meeting for our store and one representative had a moral objection to what our store does, little does he know so do we. “But this is America” we tell ourselves, something a neighborhood consisting of mostly immigrants know exactly the meaning of, to justify our fall from moral outrightness, our fall is owning a liquor store. A legal drug dealer as some have put it. 

You were laying in a pool of blood. That’s when I knew something was wrong. First I thought you might have fell on your face but it seemed much more serious than that. My coworker came over to see and it was obvious that you were a target. He told me to go home and not speak of it. He knew the ways of the neighborhood but I told him we should at least call the ambulance. He said that this is not a situation for us to get involved with and he quickly brushed me towards my car and immediately left. I was parked and saw people walk by, quickly looking at you and immediately looking away. It was not a situation they wanted to get involved with either. I waited a bit hoping someone else would intervene but the same look away happened. I don’t blame them. You’re a local drunkard who messed with the wrong folks. These are hard working people with friends and families all over the neighborhood. It’s either their people or you and they chose their people and nothing wrong with that. There is no room for ideals here. The neighborhood can be cruel sometimes and they’re all very well aware of that. 

I came out and told you I was going to call the ambulance. You were very incoherent but you seem truly against that. You seem to gesture you were ok but your face was covered in blood and you were unable to move right. I called the emergency services and told them our location. There were a lot of “I don’t know” thrown around in that conversation on my end, one part because I didn’t, other part cause I’m here to make sure you have the best chance of survival, that’s it, nothing else. They asked if I thought you were attacked and I didn’t know how to answer that. I knew you were but I didn’t want to get involved in this either. I said to them it was a possibility but that I didn’t know. I figured thats the best I can do. So we waited.

During that wait I knew those kids were the ones that did this to you. You seemed extra choked up when they walked by and they did so twice. Very slowly, very deliberately. I gave them a quick glance just to assess to situation but I knew it was dangerous to look too long. I remembered what an old gangbanger once said. A guy who looked like he could play linebacker for the Redskins, covered in tattoos, claimed to do 2000 push ups a day, which is probably more fable than truth but he looked the part. Real street guy, real street mind. He told us the scariest out here were the kids who felt they had nothing to lose and the street to gain. I’ve heard a story about him backing down from shrimped armed kids because of that. Now those same type of kids are lurking behind me, their glares just piercing right through me. I didn’t have to look to know that. In my stomach I knew it was them and after what seemed like a long five minutes, they hit the corner into darkness of the alley and left. Maybe.

I’m most ashamed of what came next but I reprimanded you. “Te esta mi tienda de papa”, I think that’s Spanish for “This is my father’s store”. If there is one thing Spanish and Asians mutually understand is the importance and respect of family. It’s in our blood and culture. I wanted you to know how much I hated all this right now. I called you stupid. I called you a problem for bringing this in front of my father’s store. You laying there beaten to pulp, I just yelled at you. I was so mad that you put me in this situation. In this parking lot where numerous others have been killed before. During the late night, just me and you, alone with every figment of my imagination working against me. I was mad that I was in the stronghold of one of the most notorious gangs in the US, infamous for their cruelty. A place supposedly where one of their high shotcallers calls home, lurking somewhere in the neighborhood, maybe one of our customers too. I wish I could say I comforted you during these hard moments but I didn’t. I just hope now that me being there was enough. I was being selfish. You cried a bit. I don’t know if it was because of me or from before but I noticed you silently pouting away. I took a single photo. I know why. Not to immortalize this situation in anyway like it’s memorabilia to my life experiences or anything like that but sometimes life is hard and I don’t think people believe me and that chips away at me too. I deleted it since then. 

A lady came by. She was about to walk away too but in last minute judgement of good heartednessm she turned around and asked what happened. I told her situation and the little I knew. She began to ask you questions about the ordeal in you guy’s native tongue. She used the word “gangas” extra silently and your body almost jerked in reaction. You denied it, blamed it on being a drunk, I knew from the little Spanish I spoke. Maybe they were lurking in the shadow still and you were scared, I would be too. She didn’t press on. I think she knew too. The ambulance came and I quickly slid away and headed home before they could ask anything more out of me. 

A few months later I come into the store and I notice the poster. It was you, your head bashed in but surgically fixed the best it can be. It’s obvious they took a part of your skull out to save you, probably some internal bleeding and pressure from what TV taught me. It didn’t say whether you were dead or alive. From what I can tell, it’s probably a better fate to be not alive cause a good portion of your head is missing and I can’t imagine that not causing some trouble. Your eyes looking in different directions, they felt dead, catatonic. Never to see the world the way it is ever again, maybe in your story that’s better. They wanted to know if anyone knew you. If you had any family. Everyone denied knowing anything, it’s just the way it is. If I was there I’d just say the same line, I have family here too. It’s terrible the picture to reference you was one where you looked like that. Even in the news they put at least some flattering photo or at least a mugshot where you could look tough but I imagine they didn’t have too much too work with here. Not the first one I saw but at least Bacardi’s poster had him looking peacefully dead. A combination of Winter and malnutrition was probably what got him though. I don’t know whats worse. Quick moment of tear or the slow decay that I saw Bacardi go through.

Were your last moments one with some young guy yelling at you, telling you that you were stupid and a problem, something I’m sure you didn’t want to hear. If so I do apologize. I don’t blame any of the people who left you on the street that night and the fear in the denial you had when that lady whispered that word to you, you understood that fear too. I was just scared too. The lady was kind and gentle. I’m glad she was there.