#redrims

[epiphainie]

i'm imagining buck going home after the tommy-is-bubbling-me shift and sitting on his couch for approximately six hours just looking at their text thread to see if he can catch tommy bubbling him again

[originalcrime]

call goes wrong wrong wrong and Buck with blood on his hands and he doesn’t know if it’s Eddie’s or Bobby’s or Hen’s or Chim’s or all of theirs. he only knows it isn’t his. he has to live knowing that it isn’t his. all this red and it’s not Buck bleeding

[senshibignaturals]

@fawntastic

icky rap

i ick on this track and then i squeak 

when the beat drops i turn into a freak

[salty-autistic-writer]

Buck can’t bake anymore.

He’s sick of it. Sick of lemon loaf waiting forever on the kitchen counter and of Baked Alaska melting in his fridge.

The sweet relief of the moment changed into bitter memories that feel like ash in his mouth now.

He can’t bake anymore. So he turned back to pasta, pancakes and omelette. Back to pans and spices and knives. He serves his meals at the firehouse, wiping his hands on his apron, nervously waiting for reactions. Because it seems to be good. But he can never be sure it’s good enough. 

Will I ever be good enough for someone to stay? 

“It’s really good, Buck,” Hen assures him. Chimney nods, his mouth full of lasagna. Bobby helps himself to a second serving already. Eddie licks sauce from the corner of his mouth, grins, and calls Buck a chef. “Is there something you’re not telling us?” He asks teasingly. “Were you offered a position at a 5-star restaurant?”

And Buck laughs dutifully. But inside, he still feels that ache that never quite goes away. It’s better now. But it’s still there. Not good enough. Not enough. Not enough for something that lasts forever. Not ...

“This smells delicious,” a new voice adds quietly behind him.

Buck’s head perks up. His breath hitches and his heart seems to stop for a whole beat before restarting at a more frantic pace. No. It can’t be. He can’t be here, right? Just … like that? Now?!

He slowly turns his head. And there he is. Tommy. He’s real.

He’s standing there, wearing his turnouts, wringing his hands, blue eyes flickering back and forth. And the first thing Buck feels is rage. Because … what the hell? Here? Now? Like this? 

His first instinct is to yell. But he's frozen. Can’t decide what to say. Or do. He’s frozen. And after the initial shock, he has time to take Tommy in. Really take him in.

He looks ... drained. More gaunt than Buck has ever seen him. His hair is tousled and his posture expresses exhaustion. His eyes are redrimmed and his skin is a little too pale to pass as normal. In fact, Tommy looks like he's been through hell. Buck doesn't know what to think or feel. He just stares and Tommy fidgets and everyone around them is too quiet, the moment stretching until the silence roars in Buck's ears.

“Hey Tommy,” Chimney finally says, after swallowing a mouth full of lasagna, smiling after sharing a glance with Hen. “Are you … okay?”

So they can all see it too, Buck thinks. They can all see the numbness of terror in Tommy’s eyes. The too-thin line of his mouth. The ghostly paleness of his skin. They can all see it. Something happened. What happened? Or ... Is it the breakup? That angry part of Buck hopes it's the breakup. Hopes Tommy had his share of suffering, longing, wondering, breaking ... But he somehow feels like it's something different.

Tommy clears his throat. “I … I’m sorry. My phone is broken. I didn't want to intrude. But I drove by and I thought ..."

“Sit,” Buck says. Quietly. But sternly.

Tommy blinks. “I …”

“Sit. And eat.” Buck points at the free seat on the table. And - of course, it’s Tommy’s old place, he realises then. Sometimes it sends a chill down his back to think about the fact that he basically took Tommy’s place at the 118 only for them to meet years later. It could have been such a romantic fact. A string of fate connecting them through the 118. But … well. Tommy dumping him cut into that string like a knife.

Tommy is still hesitating. Looks like a deer in the headlights, a second away from turning away and running. Again. Just like he ran after he decided to end the relationship. Coward , Buck can’t help to think. That’s the angry part of him, he knows. The part that wants to punch walls, shatter glass and scream in Tommy’s face.

“You look like you could use some food,” Bobby says calmly. “Regain some energy,” Hen adds, matter-of-factly.

“It’s really good lasagna. You don’t want to miss it,” Chimney chimes in. “Especially not after a long shift.”

“I think I just heard your stomach growl, man,” Eddie says, pointing his fork at Tommy.

“Okay,” Tommy says, finally, his shoulders sagging with the relief of the decision.

He sits. Buck loads a massive lasagna heap on a plate and puts it in front of Tommy. After a moment and another subtle glance between Buck and Tommy, everyone starts talking again. They do their best to be a distraction. To make it seem like this is a normal thing. As if nothing happened. And Tommy eats. He finishes his plate. Then eats some more. He makes some small talk, smiles a few times, nods and even laughs one time about something Eddie tells him. But.

But Buck sees what no one else sees. He sees behind the facade of facial expressions. And what he observes makes the worry nag at him with sharpening teeth. It’s the way the smile never reaches Tommy’s eyes. They remain distant. Clouded and numb. Something happened. Something bad. And of course, Tommy isn’t talking about it. But it was bad enough to have him come here. Just like that. So it has to be really bad.

Eventually, Tommy clears his throat and pushes his chair back. “Thank you for the food. It was really good. I should go home now.”

“I’m going to drive you,” Buck says. It’s a heartbeat decision. Almost surprising himself. But it’s the right thing to do. He can feel it.

Tommy looks startled. “You … you don’t have to.”

Buck sets his jaw. “I want to.”

“My truck …”

“You can pick it up tomorrow,” Buck says. “Not a problem.”

The others fell silent and are watching the conversation between them, not saying anything.

Tommy swallows, his discomfort clearly growing now that so many people are looking at him. He’s already pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Buck knows why. Of course, he does. He knows Tommy is fidgeting with something, trying to calm his nerves. Oh. He knows this man so well, doesn’t he? But apparently not well enough. Not well enough to be with him forever, like he imagined. The rage curls around Buck’s heart again. “Alright,” Tommy finally says, giving in.

For the tevan advent calendar day 21: Trauma / PTSD

(Continue reading: AO3)

[thetomorrowshow]

you could always stay this young

Or, 5 times that Ilphas saw Scott as a boy, and 1 time they saw him as far older than he is.

FEBUWHUMP 2025 DAY 2 - holding back tears

fandom: empires smp

TRUST AU BABEY!! cw: descriptions of injuries, perceived major character death, referenced torture

~

~1~

"Come in," comes the young, wavering voice on the other side of the door.

Ilphas carefully pushes open the door.

There he is.

Prince Scott is sitting behind a desk that seems far too large and mature for him, perching on the edge of the chair. His wings fit awkwardly behind him, and his hair (now cut short, far shorter than Ilphas has ever seen it) is tangled, as if he's been running his hands through it. The button of the high collar of his mourning vestments has been undone, and the cuffs are already trailing threads, a sure sign that the boy has been picking at them.

"The ceremony shall begin soon, my lord," Ilphas tells him, and Prince Scott bites his lip.

"How much longer until I must leave?" he asks quietly, and Ilphas represses a sad sigh.

The prince is not an adult yet, that much is clear.

Prince Scott had his coming-of-age ceremony yesterday, and although he's just reached eighty-two (technically old enough to come of age), he's still a child. He probably won't fully mature to adulthood for another ten years.

And now, forced into adulthood too early, the prince must be ordained king.

"They expect your presence within the hour."

His highness, as Ilphas suspects he's been doing all morning, buries his hands in his hair, staring unseeingly at his desk.

"I don't want to be king," he whispers, and Ilphas feels their heart clench.

The boy is only eighty-two. Queen Isidriel had always referred to him as the princeling, and as inappropriate as that may have been, it is a word that aptly describes the young lord.

And as they're thinking that, Prince Scott's shoulders begin to tremble, as if he is barely holding back tears.

Ilphas surreptitiously pushes the door shut, and finds themself wishing a moment later that they had shut it with themself on the other side. They find emotions difficult at the best of times, especially with one so young. Especially when most of what can be done to comfort children is far above their station.

"With permission, I shall lead you through the schedule of today," Ilphas says after a moment. The prince raises his eyes to meet theirs, redrimmed and exhausted.

"Do you recall the rehearsal that was held last night?"

His highness nods.

"Very good. In one hour, that will occur. Everything will follow according to that, though quite a bit longer."

Once the prince nods again, Ilphas continues.

"Once the crowning has been performed and adjourned, there is very little that will be expected of you for the day. All celebrations will be planned for two years in the future, to allow for the proper mourning period of your parents. You will be needed to sign papers and send out an official decree of kingship, and then there will be a small meal with the traditional breaking of bread. Then you will bid farewell to all those who witnessed the ceremony, before retiring to your quarters for the evening."

"And tomorrow, the funeral," Prince Scott murmurs.

Ilphas nods. "Your days shall be busy, but do not feel anxious. You . . . you are not expected to know how to reign. The death of your father was not anticipated for at least five more centuries, and it is not unreasonable that you have not been adequately instructed."

They don't know how to say that this is absolutely unprecedented. Since the beginning of its life, Rivendell has never had a child ruler. His majesty King Andeloth had only ruled for ninety years, so while many of the palace staff were present for his mother's death and the transition of leadership (Ilphas included), King Andeloth had been five hundred years of age and had essentially already been ruling as the queen's health had declined.

A week ago, King Andeloth and Queen Isidriel had been in full health, as strong as they ever had been, with no threats to the throne and the only marring spot on their rule the death of their younger son three years past. Of course nobody had yet begun to train the prince, when his father would rule for many years to come and he would likely be joined by several siblings, all ready to share the weight of the kingdom should an unexpected death occur.

But five days ago, after a sudden, unknown illness (one of blackened flesh and pulsing red veins, one that the king and queen and many of their ship’s crew had contracted while crossing the ocean, one that had become so dangerous so quickly that the prince found himself quarantined in the summer home in the valley before his parents had even returned), the king and queen had died.

And now, five days after his parents' death, and one day after his coming-of-age, and one day before his parents' funeral, the prince must be crowned king, with no training and barely any preparation.

He's so young. The prince really is just a boy. Everyone knows it—the priest yesterday, while officially declaring his highness an adult, had looked uncomfortable with the words proceeding from his mouth. Those present had seemed unsure. Several elves had glanced around when the priest asked for objections (and objections of a non-serious nature are often brought up by the parents or close friends in a more casual ceremony, but other objections are not unheard of), as if asking for someone to say what they all knew.

But the need for a king was more important than tradition, and no one spoke out.

And as Ilphas examines the prince at his father's desk, they wonder if perhaps it was the wrong choice.

They do not voice such concerns, however. They only wait for the future king to speak.

Finally, his majesty sighs, pushes back the chair, and stands, almost seeming to tremble. "I suppose I have nothing to gain here," he says, casting a glance around the room. "Will I need to meet with anyone beforehand?"

Ilphas's eyes catch on his hair and his sleeves again, then they open the door and usher the prince out.

"There will be an attendant in the anteroom to fix your hair," they say. "And after that, do try not to touch it, or your sleeves."

The prince grimaces, but nods, and the two of them leave the room together.

And Ilphas offers up a silent prayer to Aeor that the boy will take his new role with grace.

~2~

Somehow, Ilphas lost the king.

They had contacted Rivendell to ensure that his majesty arrived safely, only to discover that his majesty had not arrived at all, nor had they requested his return.

And with a sinking feeling, they quickly realized that Lord Smajor had lied about where he was going.

He was gone, with no one the wiser as to his whereabouts.

Under other circumstances, Ilphas likely would have been demoted (or even released) for such a grave error. But as soon as they explain the situation, they can tell that the rest of the council does not blame them whatsoever, and they're fairly certain that Lord Smajor won't insist they step down when he was the one who went and got himself lost in the first place.

Maybe that isn't the correct attitude to have with the king, but he's simply too young.

In Ilphas's eyes, the king is still a boy. It's not even been thirty years since he was crowned, and less than twenty since the point that he likely would have become an adult in a normal situation, and Ilphas cannot see him as anything other than a boy king.

So when Lord Smajor makes contact and informs them that he will be returning after six days of nothing, Ilphas feels more annoyed than relieved. Does he believe that he can just come and go as he likes, sending the palace into a panic over nothing?

Which is quite the attitude that Ilphas brings to the dock when they go to meet his majesty later that afternoon.

The moment Lord Smajor steps off the boat, Ilphas knows something is wrong.

He's holding himself oddly, his shoulders rigid and unmoving, one arm around his waist. His steps are slow and careful, as if expecting to step on a needle at any time. Perhaps most obvious, however, is the simple clothing (certainly his own, though missing layers and embellishments), the sling that holds one of his wings close to his back, and the deep shadows under his eyes.

He looks oddly small, curled in on himself, and Ilphas feels all their irritation melt away as they realize that something very bad has happened to the boy.

Ilphas steps forward—to support the king, perhaps—and freezes when his majesty flinches away.

"We have anxiously awaited your return, my lord," Galidre says uncertainly, bowing.

Lord Smajor waves him off with a quick jerk of his hand. "I'm afraid," he says, and his voice is raspy, damaged— "that I must pay a visit to the infirmary. May we leave now?"

So Ilphas sits across from his majesty in the carriage and watches as the king sits on the edge of his seat and winces with every bump yet holds his head high.

When they arrive in the palace infirmary (and Lord Smajor walks from the carriage into the palace and down the long hall without support, despite his stride growing stiffer with every step), Ilphas quietly sends Galidre away to work on other business and closes the door, glancing around to ensure that the other beds are empty.

When all is done, they stand beside Lord Smajor as he gingerly sits on the bed closest to the door, and they nod to the lead healer (Velien) who approaches.

"Good afternoon, my lord," Velien says, bowing. "How may I assist you?"

Lord Smajor scrunches his eyes shut for a moment, sighs just the slightest bit. "I . . . I sustained a fall from a great height," the king says carefully. "I believe that I broke my wing in this fall."

A fall?

That certainly explains quite a few things—the late return (with a broken wing, he would have had to walk quite a way), the exhaustion, the way he holds himself as he walks—as if he's got several deep bruises that he doesn't wish to agitate.

A fall would make sense, and despite themself, Ilphas feels that irritation poke at them again. Lord Smajor knows how to fly, doesn't he? He's had wings for his entire life, after all. He hasn't fallen in decades.

Velien nods and tugs up xyr sleeves. "It will likely need to be set and immobilized," xe explains, circling around the bed to examine the wing. Lord Smajor's sunken eyes follow every move.

He goes utterly still as xe touches his wing, unwrapping the sling and stretching out the limb. Ilphas watches carefully—the lord doesn't much care for being touched (few elves do), but his face pales beyond its already overly pale complexion and he almost looks ready to bolt, lips trembling and fingers tightly gripping his tunic.

Velien clicks xyr tongue. "There likely is a break, though with your wings, your majesty, it is difficult to tell. I believe it is right here—"

Lord Smajor flinches forward with a noise of pain, and Velien raises xyr eyebrows.

"Yes, right there," xe says. "On a numerical scale from one to ten, how painful would you describe it?"

Lord Smajor takes a slow breath, in and out, and it hurts Ilphas's heart to see him in so much pain, but maybe he oughtn't sneak out like a child and get himself into situations such as this.

"Six, maybe? From the wing?" his majesty offers, looking to Ilphas as though they know the answer.

Velien nods. "All right, then. I believe it is an operation that can be performed while you are awake, but I would recommend imbibing a sleeping draught for our ease."

Again, despite no one touching him, the king flinches forward. "I—if I must," he stutters.

"Very well. Xolineh, would you mind retrieving a sleeping draught for his majesty?"

An elf sitting at a desk near the back of the infirmary nods, turning away to the wall of cupboards.

"Your majesty, if you would please remove your tunic."

Again, Lord Smajor looks to Ilphas.

Does he not wish to undress with others present? It is only themself, Velien, and three other elves in the room. And they will all (save Ilphas) be involved in the operation, so there isn't much point to privacy.

"I don't believe I can," Lord Smajor whispers, and though Ilphas is about to sigh and tell him to get it over with, it isn't an issue, something in the king's face gives them pause.

"My lord?" Ilphas asks after a confused moment. "Is something the matter?"

His majesty swallows. "I believe . . . I am injured in other places, and I . . . I do not think I can raise my arms that high."

Velien looks up sharply at Ilphas.

"Where else are you injured?" asks Ilphas, suddenly fearing the worst. He might have suffered internal damage—there is no one else with royal blood, the king is practically a boy himself so of course he's not had heirs of his own, he snuck out and nearly got himself killed in a childish mistake and how is Ilphas not supposed to be irritated with him while also terrified for the future of Rivendell?

This simply cannot happen again. There is far too much at stake for the only royalty in the empire to go about risking his life.

"My shoulders," the king says, and his voice still sounds so raw. "I have already received medical attention for other injuries."

Medical attention?

Other injuries?

Ilphas finds themself speechless. They can only stand there and watch as Velien takes a knife from xyr pocket and in one slow movement (and the king's flinch away cannot be written off as one of pain this time) slices through the tunic and pulls it down off of his arms.

Oh, dear Aeor.

Ilphas turns away abruptly, pulls the curtains around the bed closed. They aren't even sure what they're looking at, but Lord Smajor's shoulders are covered in bruises and swollen and Ilphas suddenly feels as though maybe some privacy is warranted.

And when they look back, they see just how terrible the king's condition is.

It isn't just his shoulders that are bruised. At least half of his skin is painted purple or brown or yellow, bruises in various stages of healing, particularly dark and plentiful on his stomach. There are some healing cuts as well, cuts that look clean and taken care of, but amidst all the bruises Ilphas can't find it in themself to pay them much attention. Their mind instantly jumps back to internal damage, because those bruises on his majesty's stomach could be indicative of anything.

They look up to catch Velien's eye, see if xe has noticed the danger, and finds xem staring open-mouthed at the lord's back.

Ilphas steps around the king (whose eyes stare at nothing as his mouth moves silently) and looks at whatever it is that has the Head Healer so dismayed.

"Aeor above," whispers Ilphas.

This isn't from a fall.

The king's back is marred with bruises, just as the rest of his body, and lashes, crisscrossing his skin. The lashes, like the other cuts, are partially healed—someone had likely poured a healing potion over them—but still obviously painful judging by the way one has split open, blood dripping from it.

The lashes aren't just on his back, but on his wings as well—in featherless stripes that Ilphas had assumed had been lost in the fall but are clearly matching the marks on his back—and below where his shirt has pooled around his waist the lashes still reach, and Ilphas can barely hope that they don't go down further.

Then Ilphas's gaze catches on his swollen shoulders again, and from there travels down his arms (and that looks like finger-shaped bruises on his forearms) to his wrists, identically red and rubbed raw.

The king did not fall from the heavens.

And if he did, he somehow landed in hell.

"My lord—"

"Tree branches," King Smajor says quickly, turning his head just barely. "I fell in a forest—the branches cut me—"

"My lord," Velien says, voice trembling, "these are not from—"

"Leave us," Ilphas commands, and without another word (but with another glance at the king's back), xe parts the curtains and steps without.

It's quiet for a moment.

And Ilphas notices with a start that Lord Smajor's ribs are so starkly visible that they could count them, and that might explain how small he seems.

Ilphas is reminded of not long ago—half a century, maybe—of when the young lord had ingested a bad plate of food and been committed to the infirmary for a week. For months afterward, Ilphas had watched (without knowing what to do) as the prince had grown thinner and thinner, his face more and more skeletal, as he refused to eat, not trusting the food to be safe for consumption.

They don't remember what it was that helped him to recover, but within a couple of years, he began eating normally again, and Ilphas had breathed a sigh of relief and forgotten it.

His back whipped. His body beaten and starved. Hung by his wrists, possibly, chains dragging them up, putting intense weight on his shoulders and even dislocating them. His voice damaged and raspy, as if he's been screaming. . . .

"My lord," Ilphas says, coming back around to stand before the king. Lord Smajor doesn't look at him, eyes fixed on the floor. "I am afraid that a tree would not be capable of these injuries."

The king doesn't respond, still looking down like a guilty teenager.

He's so young.

Too young to be kidnapped and tortured.

"Who did this to you?"

Lord Smajor shakes his head.

"You've been missing for a week, my lord," Ilphas says. "You may feel . . . unwilling to speak of it, but you must tell someone."

He hasn't stopped shaking his head, his fingers wrapped in the remains of his tunic.

"If we are to bring the villain responsible to—"

"I cannot start a war," the king bursts out, looking up desperately.

Ilphas goes still.

A war?

If he had been kidnapped by a common criminal, identifying them would not be a war-starting issue, no matter the empire that they came from.

But the king's words now not only confirm that he was kidnapped and tortured by someone of another empire, but that it was a prominent member of said empire. Possibly a ruler, or at least approved of by a ruler.

Perhaps Lord Smajor hadn't lied when he'd told Ilphas he was leaving to return to Rivendell, but Ilphas is inclined to believe that he had. The advisors here had never requested his presence, and if he had intended to return directly to Rivendell, he simply would have leapt off the balcony and flown away.

But if someone at the dance had said something, perhaps threatening him or something dear to him if he refused to go with them. . . .

Dear Aeor. The king is hardly more than a child, he doesn't deserve to be kidnapped! He never ought to be placed in situations where he suffers torture, then cannot even persecute the perpetrator for fear of war.

"Is there anywhere else you are injured?" Ilphas asks after a long moment.

Lord Smajor looks away again. "My legs and feet have . . . similar wounds," he says reluctantly. "They should not need more than regular health potion admi—administration. I only need the wing and—and my shoulders examined, I believe."

Ilphas sighs. "There are some offenses that are worth starting a war, sire."

His majesty manages an exhausted, monosyllabic laugh. "There may be one soon enough. I would rather prepare to defend Rivendell from the demon than selfishly go out to war over something so small."

King Smajor has always been wise for his age. A king far more advanced would declare war without a second thought—in fact, if the king's own father had been in this position, Andeloth the Stern would doubtlessly have done so.

Lord Smajor, though essentially a child, has always elected to put the good of others first. When the king had insisted on cutting ties with the Grimlands, Ilphas had barely questioned it, assuming it to be more than a rash decision. And so far, the breaking of the alliance has been fairly beneficial, with the loss of one equaling the gain of four others.

So, though Ilphas disagrees with this decision to withhold the identities of his torturers, they choose to trust that the king knows what he's doing.

So they nod. "You would do well to stay away from trees if they injure you so," they say carefully.

His majesty grimaces. "Believe me, Ilphas, if I could avoid them, I would."

It's someone he interacts with regularly, then. Another ruler, more likely than not.

But Ilphas doesn't ask any more questions. They nod, and call Velien back in, then stand there while Lord Smajor drinks the sleeping draught (which takes him some time, as he seems to be quite upset by the idea despite agreeing to it), and once the king is asleep, Ilphas slips out and informs the rest of the council that his majesty will need ample time to rest in the coming days.

And in the coming days, they watch with pain in their heart as Lord Smajor refuses food again and again and stays up all night, his face growing gaunt and hands shaky, and they pray that someone will help the boy soon before he wastes away.

~3~

This time, everyone knows where his lordship went.

Everyone knows that most, if not all, of the rulers of the lands left this realm for the next. They went to the End, for what purposes Aeor only knows, in the middle of the night and without preparation or warning.

When the king of Rivendell returns that evening, he certainly looks worse for wear. Ilphas follows him all the way to the medical wing, watches on anxious as Velien checks his vitals and patches up some odd tears in his skin (“I fell into the Void,” Lord Smajor confesses, and Ilphas almost gasps at his utter disregard for his own safety). With instructions to keep an eye on how he feels, the king is quickly ushered into meeting after meeting after meeting, each set to discuss the demon and his return, and how they might face the war on the horizon.

He had planned for a war, and he had been right. Hardly more than a child as he is, Lord Smajor has always had impeccable instincts. This is just another example of his youthful wisdom.

His majesty seems distant all day, eyes as far away as the Void he’d fallen into. Which—how on earth does one fall into the Void? His majesty isn’t clumsy, it isn’t like he just . . . stumbled off the edge of the End.

The last time that Lord Smajor claimed to fall, Ilphas had seen through the lie within moments. This time, he doesn’t appear to be hiding anything—he just seems . . . off, as frustratingly vague as such a description is.

He’s tired, as well—it’s fairly obvious. After all, he likely didn’t sleep at all the night before, or not much. He’s been doing better as of late (which Ilphas suspects the Codfather has no small part in), but his majesty still hasn’t been getting as much sleep as he ought to be. Ilphas can’t tear him away from the meetings that last all night—and the meetings are so important that they wouldn’t dare try. Ambassadors from Mezelea, the Undergrove, the Ocean, and Crystal Cliffs all arrive at various points in the night, urgent to meet with the king, and with the looming war there is nothing that Ilphas can do to ensure that his majesty actually gets to close his eyes for a moment.

Then, close to noon the following day, Ilphas glances up and suddenly realizes that Lord Smajor’s face is bare.

How could they not have noticed before now? His majesty has been seen by so many over the past hours, so many who knew of his engagement and now, perhaps, carry the wrong impression of his lordship’s fidelity.

“I—my lord,” they say quickly, interrupting Galidre’s words on labor distribution. “A word?”

Lord Smajor nods to Galidre, who bows and sweeps out of the throne room, taking with him the present attendants. Once alone, Ilphas approaches the throne, keeping their eyes on the floor.

“Your veil,” they say imploringly, clasping their hands in front of them. “My lord—”

“The betrothal is postponed,” Lord Smajor says. “I . . . I should make an announcement. It will continue once the emergency is dealt with.”

Ilphas does not argue, though they very much wish to do so.

Is it wise? Is it wise to end a betrothal, right as the war begins, when alliances and bonds must be made stronger than ever?

“But—”

“My word on this is final,” his majesty says sharply.

So Ilphas bites their tongue and leaves, letting the others re-enter, ready to send out his majesty’s (foolish) announcement of postponement as soon as it comes.

When that’s done, they finally manage to get Lord Smajor to shut himself in his chambers and rest. There’s nothing more that is so pressing it demands his immediate attention, for the moment. He needs to sleep.

If he can manage it.

And Ilphas needs to sleep as well. They clean up their desk with heavy arms, ensuring that the proper papers are in the right places and everything will be relatively easy to locate come the following day, then prepares to leave for their own chambers.

A commotion that echoes up the stairs distracts them as they lock the door to their office, though, and Ilphas allows themself a moment to sigh deeply before heading off down the staircase.

It’s—

It’s the Codfather, though his face is—

Oh, my.

Ilphas has to reassure themself several times that it was not the palace guards who injured the Codfather so, but the trip to the End that so many rulers had embarked upon, only the previous day. That still doesn’t stop them from calling out angrily as the guards stand uncertainly in a semi-circle around the Codfather, preventing him from moving any further into the palace (which he clearly has been trying to do, judging by the anger in his eyes).

“Leave him,” Ilphas calls, nodding sharply to the guards, who looked back in confusion. “A resident of the palace, treated with such disrespect?”

“But—the betrothal. . . .” one of the guards starts uncertainly.

“Postponed, not ended,” Ilphas says icily. “Let him through.”

So they part, and the Codfather, after a moment’s hesitation, nods self-assuredly and strides right past them. “That’s right! You can’t stop me from seeing Scott.”

Internally, Ilphas cringes at the familiarity. Externally, they are emotionless. “His majesty is in his quarters,” they say stiffly to the Codfather.

Though, really, his majesty oughtn’t be disturbed right now. He ought to be resting, not distracted by his youthful little love affair.

There isn’t really anything Ilphas can do about that, though. They’d be better off sleeping now so they can deal with whatever this situation is in the morning.

Aeor help them. They’re going to need it.

~4~

Ilphas hesitates before knocking.

They don't wish to be the one to say this.

But they do knock, and they hear a stuffy "Come in" from the other side.

They push open the door, and there he is at his desk.

He looks devastated already. Must they bring him this news?

Lord Smajor is dressed in black, a simple black robe with a black cloak thrown over the back of his chair. His hair is unbrushed, tangled as if he's been running his hands through it, and the cuffs of his stiff sleeves are trailing threads.

It's a sight so similar to years ago, after the death of the boy prince's parents, that Ilphas can't help but purse their lips and restrain a sad sigh.

"Hello, Ilphas," the king says without looking up, bloodshot eyes fixed on the desk. "How might I be of service on this fine . . . fine day?"

Oh, Aeor.

His lordship isn't in a good state at all.

Which isn't something that Ilphas feels they can blame him for.

Instead of saying what they'd come for, Ilphas steps forward, closes the door behind themself.

"Is there anything I can do, my lord?" they ask gently.

His majesty chews on his bottom lip, squinting his eyes shut.

After a long moment, he sighs.

"I don't want to do this," he whispers.

Ilphas waits.

His majesty sighs again. "My apologies," he says, rubbing his face, before opening his eyes and meeting Ilphas's gaze. "I have been working on the emergency refugee support plan. I should have it finished by tomorrow. My apologies for missing the deadline."

Lord Smajor returns to his work, and, just as they had been those years ago, Ilphas is struck by how unfitting the large desk covered in papers seems to be.

"That is not what I am here to discuss," Ilphas says.

His majesty frowns, glances back up. "What?"

Ilphas truly does not want to bring this up.

The king is only a boy, after all. Too young to experience such heartbreak. Too young to have to lead a war amidst it.

Ilphas steps closer to the desk. "The councils of the court have decided," they say reluctantly. "Your betrothal holds true."

For a moment, Lord Smajor only stares at Ilphas.

Then he blinks rapidly, tears suddenly sparkling on his clumped eyelashes.

"The mourning period will be extended by six months," Ilphas continues. "And you will be expected to adjust your clothing to be as those—"

"I know."

Ilphas falls silent, just watches as the king buries his face in his hands.

They hadn't initially approved of Lord Smajor's betrothal to the Codfather. Their alliance thus far had been short, and their friendship even shorter. The Codfather was hotheaded, rash, and made decisions based on personal opinion rather than measured benefit.

But it had become apparent immediately that his majesty was head-over-heels in love with the Codfather.

It was clear in the way that he spoke about his betrothed, the way he allowed—and even sought out—physical contact from the man, the way he went out of his way to make sure the Codfather had all the comforts that he could.

So Ilphas stopped voicing their objections, and simply let the love blossom. The king was young, after all. He'd lost some of his childhood to sudden responsibility, and though it appeared that a war was soon to start, Ilphas let the king be young.

And perhaps, if this whole ordeal with the Codfather worked out, they wouldn't be out of line for suggesting to the king that he get started on some heirs.

The need for an heir had become even more urgent as Lord Smajor began preparing for this unknown war, which would apparently be waged against the Grimlands and Mythland (though he refused to speak of why, and Ilphas began to have suspicions about the possible perpetrators of the king's recent captivity).

Then, once the demon was released, the war plans (and the wise premonitions of Lord Smajor) all made sense, and Ilphas began to feel quite anxious for an heir.

Not that they anticipated his majesty to perish, but one never knew what would happen. And Ilphas began to wonder if it was perhaps more of the king's divine insight that led to the unexpected betrothal than true love—he had been planning for the war for quite some time, after all. Perhaps the betrothal was part of that planning, beginning the one year process as soon as possible so that he might provide an heir once it was finished.

And now, mere weeks later.

The Codfather is dead, and King Smajor is devastated.

He has a mourning period of a year, and after that he oughtn't rush into anything for propriety's sake, and then another year's worth of betrothal period. . . .

Well. Ilphas isn't exactly hopeful for a bastard child, but perhaps it would be something to think about.

"I don't want to do this," the king whispers again, bringing Ilphas back to the conversation at hand.

How much more can a king so young experience without breaking?

The death of his entire family, forced to rule as a child, suffering torture, the death of his betrothed not long into their betrothal, a war. . . .

"You are not alone," Ilphas says, hoping vaguely that they are not overstepping their station. "I cannot imagine how you feel, sire. However, we are all here to . . . share the burden. If you need . . . anything, do not hesitate to make it known."

His majesty nods slightly, then, with a slight gesture of his hand, dismisses Ilphas.

With a bow, they depart, leaving Lord Smajor in the privacy of his office.

And soon enough, the king emerges, head held high and veil pinned in place.

Perhaps it is only Ilphas who sees it, but the red in his eyes makes the blue shine in ways it hasn't in decades.

~5~

Ilphas can do nothing but watch.

They stand there as Lord fWhip utters vile things and confirms their theories of who might have taken the king captive those months ago.

Yet they stand there and silently urge the king to not rise to the disgusting bait.

And when the light goes dark and the tent flies off and the world is bathed in red (and Ilphas is cast to the ground, the wind blowing ferociously), Ilphas can only watch.

They pick themself up and watch as Lord Smajor fights for his life, as ice bursts from him uncontrollably—and Ilphas had suspected, ever since one week ago when they saw the ice left wherever the king touched, that they might have a legend come to life on their hands.

Did Aeor have to choose the boy?

Then, the unthinkable.

Lord Smajor fails.

He fails, and the demon throws him aside (like he isn't royalty, like he isn't the demon's own brother, like he isn't anything) and declares his reign.

Ilphas will not stand for that. They know for a fact that the elves of Rivendell would rather die than allow such an evil creature rule them.

Ilphas needs to rally the troops (which isn't their job, they aren't the general, they aren't anywhere close to being the leader), but they can only stand there and stare at the crumpled body of their king.

And then that blue hair shifts just the slightest bit, and Lord Smajor lifts his head (for a moment Ilphas has hope, maybe this was part of the plan) to make eye contact with Ilphas.

Ilphas can't restrain the horror that leaps up within them.

The king's face is washed in blood and smeared in grey dirt, his expression twisted in pain, grain-like black grit sticking into a gash on his cheek. His hair is tangled; his mourning clothes are torn and dusty.

But Ilphas meets those surprisingly clear (clear, understanding, pained and despairing and terribly sad but clear) eyes.

The king nods, only slightly.

Oh.

His meaning is obvious. Though willing to fight to the last elf, Ilphas knows with a certainty that such a battle would be fruitless.

Lord Smajor knows so as well.

It is the king's final wish that they surrender, that no unnecessary lives are lost, that the people is not entirely destroyed.

And the king is nothing if not selfless.

So Ilphas blinks back the wetness in their eyes, and nods in return.

The final moment of eye contact that they share with the boy king is long, an eternity of understanding.

Then Ilphas turns away, commands that weapons be lowered, calls for surrender.

And when Xornoth speaks—

"This is your king, and he is dead."

They can do nothing but watch (a tear slips down their cheek) as the boy is killed.

They see the way he doesn't even move with the obvious snap of his wing, he doesn't make a single noise of pain, and they're fairly certain that his soul has departed before he's even thrown from the cliff.

He was so young.

He was only a hundred and nine, expected to save this world and banish the demon in the midst of so much grief and pain.

He was set up for failure from the beginning. How could anyone have expected him to succeed?

Ilphas doesn't dash to the edge of the cliff to try to glimpse the young king's body. They instead kneel in that place, the place where his majesty had first stood his ground, the dirt swept about by his footprints.

There, on the stony ground, is his crown.

Not the one of legend, that had fallen with him, but Lord Smajor's crown, the one of gold with white crystals that had been forged for his crowning. The one that the king had let fall to the ground before the battle began, his shaking hands placing the crown of antlers upon his head.

Ilphas picks up the crown, wipes away a few specks of dirt with their gloved thumb.

The last king of Rivendell, fallen.

And he was only a boy.

~+1~

Ilphas doesn't expect his majesty to be awake, but when they push open the door to the infirmary, he isn't in bed.

He's sitting by the window, staring out into the darkness of night, alone but for the soft noises of an owl somewhere in the distance.

It's been a full day since the king returned. Since he appeared from seemingly nowhere, the also-dead Codfather at his side, and wielded a shining sword against the demon, binding him in an ancient ritual that has likely not been seen on this earth in thousands of years.

Ilphas knows that there will be many songs and stories of the final duel. They had once scoffed at the tales of Alinar's prowess, his larger-than-life stature, his being of fire and command of the heavens.

Now, however, they feel their skepticism drifting apart. After all, Lord Smajor had seemed to literally be engulfed in brilliant white fire as he fought, in some moments seeming as the ancient king himself, miniscule glimmers of change every millisecond.

The moment that Lord Smajor had collapsed to the ground, it was as if the fire went out. The heavenly light illuminating him faded, and everyone had stood still for a long moment—then King Joel of Mezelea had moved forward, gathering Lord Smajor into his arms and carrying him away toward the palace.

Ilphas had followed not far behind, had helped lay out the unconscious king on a bed in the infirmary, had carefully unlaced and removed his worn leather boots and set them on the floor, before allowing a healer to examine him.

The healer hadn't found anything wrong, and eventually Lord Pix of Pixandria had shown up, saying something about magic and ancient bindings and promising that Lord Smajor would wake by the morning.

His majesty had actually woken some time before the morning, and Ilphas saw him not long before dawn, joining the effort of helping the wounded and collecting the bodies.

Somehow, in the darkness of the night, he had still seemed to slightly shine.

Ilphas had been called away from the clean-up as soon as the sun broke over the horizon, to join the council in making decisions about the once-invading armies of the Grimlands. Count fWhip had surrendered immediately after the fall of Xornoth (a little strange, in Ilphas's opinion, seeing as his forces were surely far greater than the ragtag rebellion King Joel had managed to put together), and was now hurriedly departing, leaving it up to the king's council to decide whether to help them or hinder them in their flight.

Discussions of such matters took half the day, and then Ilphas was quickly pulled into another meeting about sending aid to the Codlands (from what they'd heard, though, the Ocean Queen had it well under control), and it's taken until night again to find Lord Smajor and properly speak with him.

He had helped for a good part of the morning, Ilphas was told, in organizing the wounded and setting up extra makeshift infirmaries. Most of the beds had been dragged out under his direction, onto the lawn of the palace so that they might be of easier access for the wounded. It was only when he almost collpased that the healers ushered him back to the nearly-empty-of-furniture infirmary, claiming the last remaining bed as his and commanding him to stay there.

And, as expected (seeing as the infirmary is little more than the king's bedroom at the moment), Lord Smajor is there alone.

He stares out the window, the moon illuminating lines in his face and turning his hair almost silvery.

He looks old. Far older than Ilphas has ever seen him, and far too old to be here, dealing with matters such as the restart of the world.

His left arm is resting on the arm of the chair, not in a sling or missing entirely, as the rumors would have one believe.

Without turning his gaze from the window, Lord Smajor sighs. "Hello, Ilphas," he says, something somber (something ancient) in his tone. "Apologies for not seeking you out earlier. How might I be of service?"

Ilphas doesn't respond, standing by the door, and after a moment, his majesty turns his eyes toward them, his stare piercing and bright. "Have a seat," the king says, nodding toward an extra chair at the side of the room.

Their instinct is to kneel. How can they sit?

Ilphas pulls it over to set it across from the king, then sits there with him.

Lord Smajor smiles, the turn of his lips strained, but Ilphas can't help but feel relieved.

The king has returned.

Once dead, he's here.

He isn't without mark of his apparent death, of course. What had been a gash on his cheek the last time Ilphas saw him (and what a terrible time that was) is now a light brown scar, sure to fade within the year—and there's a pink mark on his chin from the demon kicking him, also likely to fade—and there's a weight to his brow, formed of emotional and physical stress, if Ilphas had to guess.

He's here, though, thin and exhausted but here, and frost curls around his fingertips for a moment then recedes and Ilphas knows at once that his majesty is truly Aeor's Chosen.

"The army of the Grimlands has fled," Ilphas says, realizing that the king has been waiting for him to speak, "and we have a host mobilizing to cast them from the far reaches of the land. Is there anything else you believe should be done?"

The king shrugs. "I have been living in the woods for a month," he says drily. "I'm not sure that I'm aware of our needs."

Living in the woods? In what woods?

Surely wherever the Codfather had been hiding. After all, they had appeared together at the funeral, hadn't they? Perhaps the Codfather had rescued Lord Smajor from his fall, had brought him to a secret location to heal and wait for the moment to return.

Why that moment was the king’s own funeral, Ilphas will never know—though the timing could not have been any later. Only a few minutes more, and the demon would have been crowned king.

Four days after the king's fall (and that's what already elves are calling the cliff, King's Fall), the first day after the armies had returned to Rivendell, Ilphas had hid a dagger in their robe and vowed that if they ever had the opportunity, they would drive it through the heart of Xornoth.

Just a month ago, they had almost wished for Lord Smajor to beget bastard children during his mourning period, as inappropriate as that would be—but they had decided that losing the last remnant of the royal line would be far preferable to allowing the prince-turned-demon to rule.

"Is there anything I ought to be made aware of?" his majesty gently prods, and Ilphas realizes that they've been lost in thought, staring at the king.

"Apologies, sire," they say. "I believe not. Is there anything I may do for you?"

They want to ask how he survived. How he fell, beaten and broken, from the cliff to the rushing river and still survived. They want to ask how long he's known that he was Aeor's Champion. How he managed to return. How he succeeded this time, following such disastrous failure.

But none of those are proper. If the king wishes to explain, he will explain.

He isn't a child, after all.

Lord Smajor turns his gaze back toward the window. "I can no longer use my left arm," he says after a moment. "It was bound to the crystal in the ritual."

So some of the rumors were true, at least. His majesty has essentially lost a limb.

The king is forever changed. Not just because he lost use of his arm, nor because he is Aeor's Chosen.

But war brings grief, and grief takes its toll, and his majesty has had far more than his fair share of grief in his life.

He will never be the same. He will always bear the weight of this war and its consequences. Although the Codfather may yet live, Lord Smajor will never forget how his supposed death felt. He will always remember his own failure.

But Ilphas feels confident that he knows how to move forward. He isn't a child, after all.

There are, however, some things that they can help with.

“Will the betrothal with the Codfather go forward?”

“Yes,” the king says, without hesitation. “As quickly as possible.”

Ilphas nods. “I would advise a week before beginning it again,” they say, and this is exactly what they want. One of his majesty's problems that they can help with. “Time to settle, to ensure that your betrothal wear still serves its purpose. The next item—the church will certainly need construction, however—”

“Ilphas,” the king interrupts quietly, a bit of a smile playing on his lips.

Ilphas pauses, meets his eyes. “Yes, sire?”

“I thought there was nothing I should be made aware of,” he says, and Ilphas once again sees it—the spark of something wise, something ancient in his ice-blue eyes.

“Of course,” says Ilphas, ashamed at their mistake. The king needs rest. “I will—”

“Ilphas.”

“Yes?”

His majesty looks at them for a long moment, and Ilphas refuses to believe that's something fond in his look—

“Go rest,” his majesty says, then, “that's a command. Sleep, at least until morning.”

Ilphas will not argue against the king.

So they stand, and bow—deeper than normal, they haven't bowed so deeply since King Andeloth—and depart, feeling the king's eyes on them all the way out of the infirmary.

Then, just as his majesty commanded, they go to their quarters and rest.

[b1mbodoll]

pairings: seok matthew x f! reader

warnings: drugs + stepcest + impact play + impact play + creampies

thinking abt getting high for the first time with stepbro! matthew :( sitting on his lap and shotgunning a blunt. he releases puff after puff of smoke into ur mouth til ur eyes r redrimmed and ur grinding your lil cunt over his fat cock.

he switches positions n lays u on ur tummy, splaying a hand over ur back while he aligns his length with ur hole. when be pushes in you begin to whimper, the stretch making you tear up as you sniffle.

your stepbrother takes his time fucking you, lazily thrusting into your tight cunt. the weed makes you extremely responsive to his touches and he tortures you because of it, rubs your clit and slaps it every now n then to make you squeal. “feels so good, thank you matty,” you sigh, losing yourself in the waves of pleasure.

“fuck, thank you, sis.” his words are strained as he nears his release, “thank you f’r lettin’ me fuck this pretty pussy, don’t think i’ll ever be able to stop.” your hole squeezes him tight when he says this, your eyes rolling into the back of your head at the thought of him fucking you whenever he pleases.

all you can do is lay there and take it, soft cries of “uh- uh- uh-” escaping you as he lays himself over your, wrapping an arm around your throat, choking you with his bicep as he pounds you into the mattress.

his orgasm hits him hard, gritting his teeth while his cum fills your womb to the brim, making you cry out for your stepbrother <3

[film-in-my-soul]

Cannon divergence- Buck/Eddie??

I hope you liked this one!

.⋆｡°✩ Eddie becomes a paramedic instead of a firefighter but his and Buck's paths still cross. ✩°｡⋆.

The worst part, Buck thinks, laying on the sidewalk struggling to breathe, is that he's not even on the clock. At least when the universe decides to hand him his ass on a silver platter, he's getting paid for it (if he ignores Abby, and Taylor, and Ali...). Still, it could be worse; Bobby can't get mad at him for getting sideswiped by a car pulling a kid out of the road.

Side on fire and wind still knocked out of him, Buck makes the choice to stay on his back. It's a decision based upon years of training and the fact he thinks he'll lose his breakfast if he tires getting upright. The people in his periphery are making a scene, calling for help, but none of them are actively checking on him, and he's too focused on breathing to hear what they're saying or care. 

Just when Buck thinks of closing his eyes and passing out until an ambulance arrives, a small hand lands clumsily on his non-screaming shoulder, and his attention is forced to shift, eyes sliding unbidden to the side.

A tear-stained face, messy honey-brown curls, skewed glasses. It's the kid Buck had seen tipping sideways into the busy street, his crutches catching in a half-hidden crack in the pavement, sending him topping over. Buck does his best to smile around his grimace.

"Hey buddy," he hopes there's no blood on his teeth. He hopes he's not bleeding at all.

"I'm sorry," the kid says, light eyes wet and redrimmed, his bottom lip trembling hard. He's patting Buck like a cat that needs to be soothed. It twists up Buck's heart, and he wishes he could sit up to comfort him, show that, really, this isn't the worst he's been put through the wringer, but he can't. Buck does try to shrug, though, and bolstered by the need to not be the reason the boy cries even harder, he manages a better grin.

"Hey, don't be. It's not your fault-"

"Chris!" Much louder than the crowd still hanging around the edges, a voice breaks over the murmurs, and Buck feels the kid's (Chris's, he's sure) hand squeeze him hard.

"Daddy!" Chris calls back, and Buck watches from his position on the ground as, at first, a shadow falls over both him and the boy, and then a man comes into view, kneeling over Buck, but whose every bit of focus is on Chris.

"Christ, Mijo, what the hel- what happened?"

"Dad, you gotta help him. He got hurt pulling me away from the car. You gotta-"

They're talking over each other, and Buck feels as in the middle as he is, but the awkwardness is quickly swiped away when Chris's father tips his head down, blocking out the midday sun, and Buck is hit full force by how beautiful the man is. Soft brown eyes edged with the tease of crow's feet and smile lines, thick dark brows to match his swept-back hair, and the promise of stubble at the edge of his jaw. Buck is struck with an immediate attraction so powerful it rivals the impact from the Tesla that he's pretty sure sped away from the scene.

"-ir, sir, can you hear me?"

Buck blinks back into the moment, nods, and immediately regrets it.

"Oh shit, don't do that, okay, you need to keep yourself still until the paramedics arrive."

"No, I-" Buck swallows, trying to clear his suddenly tight through, "I know. Firefighter." He'd point to himself, but Chris is still clinging to his undamaged arm, and the idea of shifting just to make it clear he's not delirious is both daunting and directly in opposition to his claim of knowing better.

The man smiles, and it's devastating how it brightens every corner of his face.

"Good to know. Someone's called 9-1-1, so I'm going to make sure you're alright until the ambulance gets here. I'm a paramedic." He tacks on the last bit like an afterthought, like he should make it clear that the gently probing hand suddenly on Buck's flank isn't for nefarious purposes.

"You sure you're not an angel?" It slips out, easy like breathing still isn't, and Buck can't find it in himself to be cowed at having said it.

The man, whose gaze had slid down to watch as his fingers worked, snaps his eyes back to Buck's face, expression wide with surprise, and Buck hears a soft giggle from Chris.

"Uh, no," he says, a satisfying splash of color coming onto his cheeks, "Just Eddie the paramedic."

Eddie. It fits. Buck likes it. He also likes how Eddie's clearly trying to tuck his bashful smile away and get back to the task of ensuring that Buck isn't bleeding internally.

"Coulda fooled me," Buck can't help himself, rewarded again by Chris's laughter, finally done with crying, it seems, and Eddie's soft chuckle and headshake. He flusters easily, and Buck can't help imagining pushing his luck just to see how much he can get the rosy color to spread over his tan complexion.

He doesn't get the chance, and before Eddie can reply, the sound of the ambulance is there, and then two paramedics descend upon them, one going to squat beside Eddie.

"Diaz, thought you were off duty today."

Eddie rolls his eyes, and Buck wants to comment that, really, are civil servants ever off duty? But then the other paramedic waves a penlight in his eyes and starts asking him questions, carefully dislodging Chris from his place by Buck's shoulder so she can get a collar around Buck's neck.

When they leave and return with the stretcher, Eddie helps load Buck on, and Chris fists his hand in Buck's shirt when they try to wheel him toward the flashing vehicle.

"Chris, we have to let them take Buck to the hospital," Eddie says, coming around to his son's side. Buck smiles, something twinging in his chest that has nothing to do with being jostled forward. He opens his mouth to assure Chris he'll be okay, that as long as Chris is fine, it's all good, but Chris beats him to it as he turns his face up to his father and asks, "But can't we go with him?"

The request floors Buck, and it seems to leave Eddie equally stumped. Chris uses the opportunity to continue.

"It's my fault he's hurt. I want to make sure he gets to the hospital okay."

Something flashes in Eddie's eyes, something that implies a story underlining Chris's words. If he could, Buck would wheel himself into the ambulance and away from what probably needs to be a private conversation. He can't, though, so he sits silent, trying to communicate to Eddie with his eyes that, really, they've already done enough, Chris with his getting Buck's help and Eddie putting up Buck's brazen flirting.

The female paramedic at the head of the stretcher, amused and unhelpfully, adds, "We've got the room."

Between that and Chris's blatantly pleading pout, Buck watches Eddie sigh and momentarily hang his head before he looks back to Buck, smiling small and crooked.

"Only if you don't mind the company. It would... it would mean a lot to him."

Buck wonders if he plays his cards right; he might be able to get that 'him' to become 'us.' He smiles.

"The more the merrier."

Ficlet Bingo! (Still Squares Left!)

[ants-personal]

plauged with the idea of a benson being closer to age to randy 22 or 23 and he is trying still to get randy to DO something so he tries goading randy into hitting him and of course randy doesnt he doesnt want to benson shoving him back calling him any insult he can think of making fun ofal the things hea ashamed of escalating as he punches randy makes him bleed as they stumble benson landing on top trying to get anything from randy besides the blood and watery eyes the panting at somepoint it becomes more about benson betating and punishing himself than it ever did about randy who eventually sits up as benson throws himself off him holding back sobs as he repeatedly apologizes to randy and all randy does is call bensons named voice rough till benson stops and stares at him hands shaky and knuckles bloodied tears atreaming out of his redrimmed eyes

Randy wetting his busted lips hands flexing as he slightly shakes his head eyes wet with a small smile telling benson its okay taling slow tentative steps towards him and benson for once looks like he doesnt know what to do eyes darting like hes looking for whatever trick randy is playing mind racing but unable to focus on them for long as and once randys close enough he slowly reaches out benson flinching back heart pounding but randys brusied face still looking at him with sympathy hand hanging between them and the dam benson had spent so much time trying to build crumples breaking down in sobs and harsh breathing he can only choke out another apology as he lets randy pull him into a tight embrace burying his face into randys shirt

[kalopsicanna]

last angel in kyoto

is this how it would end?

no.

she wouldn't make a liar out of him.

pt 2!

pt 1 , pt 3

he's blessed. he has to be by some measure. surely, this can't be purely luck.

she's not gone.

not yet.

his eyes count the tiles on the ceiling, the only thing he can do since coming into the hospital.

he's too anxious to take a breather outside (or even step out for even a second) and he's too in it to talk to Shoko who had managed to catch the very last train to Kyoto.

“you did good, Gojo. you saved her with your quick thinking” she’d told him but he didn't buy it.

if he had only acted fast enough. no. if only he hadn't left her alone. he was always following her around anyway, why didn't he just follow her then?

he tiredly runs a hand through his tousled hair and lets out a sigh. it’s no use dwelling on it anyway. she was in the hospital still.

“coffee?” shoko offers. she's holding a cup that she most likely got from the cafeteria.

his throat is begging, screaming for hydration but he can't bring himself to take it from her.

her hand drops and she plops onto the seat beside him.

“i’m worried too, you know?” she starts, taking a sip herself.

he doesn't even spare her a glance. the blood on his hands is dried now, a mess of red. he's sure his face doesn't look any better.

“why don't you go and clean up a bit?” she suggests. “it’s 4 am. she's still in surgery but you look a mess right now”

he shakes his head, the most she's gotten out of him in all the hours they've been there.

“you need some rest too, you know? it’s no good if she wakes up but you're a sleep-deprived zombie”

‘if’.

the word looms over him. repeating itself over and over in his head like a broken record. he wants to cry but no tears spring up.

“Suguru will be here at first light” Shoko continues. “we’ll be right here if anything happens. you just go get some rest”

a nurse comes into the hallway and his eyes follow her, hoping that, just maybe, she might have some news about Utahime.

his shoulders sag though when she walks past him like she hadn't even seen him.

“please” Shoko adds and then he finally looks at her.

her eyes are redrimmed, just like his he's sure and her makeup is gone. she'd been crying too.

“okay”

the trip back to Utahime’s is a long one. by chance, he gets a cab and the driver can't even hide his blatant stares through the rearview mirror. he doesn't blame him though. anybody seeing him must surely think he's some kind of lunatic, walking around with blood all over him.

her apartment isn’t any better either. there are no piercing eyes, yes but it’s all so ‘her’ that it’s a bit too much at the moment.

he takes a shower anyway. the dried blood had started to disgust him.

he watches as the now reddish water goes into the drain. his fingers deftly work the shampoo into his hair.

her shampoo.

her scent. a mix of berries and vanilla that reminded him of their last group trip to okinawa. they hadn't been together then but even Geto, the ever-loving idiot had caught on to just how much he liked her and had teased him relentlessly about it.

he doesn't even realize he's crying again until his face starts to feel heated.

~

the beeping noise is constant and annoying.

this is what stirs her from her sleep.

the lights are bright too and she winces when she opens her eyes. her head is throbbing and so is her abdomen but it’s a bearable pain. she must be on painkillers now.

she sees a slight movement from the corner of her vision and her eyes dart to it in a panic.

it’s just Gojo. she relaxes when she sees him.

he's asleep, sitting on a stool but his head is resting on the edge of the bed. he looks peaceful.

she takes in his features. his eyes look a bit sunken in and there's a slight frown on his lips. her mood drops a bit, that she's the reason he's even this way.

his frown deepens when a few stray hairs brush against his eyelashes and he twitches in his sleep. she reaches tentatively to brush his hair away but when she's just a fraction away from him, he suddenly grabs her roughly, startling her.

“f*ck you scared me!” she exclaims, placing a hand on her palpitating chest.

the incessant beeping that's now erratic is proof of just how much he had frightened her.

“you're awake,” he simply says, a hint of an unnamed emotion in his voice.

“yeah well-”

the rest of what she has to say dies on her lips when he engulfs her in a hug. it’s tight and warm and although the pain in her abdomen gets a bit worse, she doesn't mind. not when he's wrapped around her like this.

“you missed me huh?” she tries to tease him but her throat feels parched and the dehydration hits her.

he can tell because he frantically reaches for the jug on the bedside and fills up a cup for her.

when she's had her fill, she smiles at him. he doesn't smile back but instead, he looks at her in amazement. like she'd just told him she was a fire-breathing unicorn.

he pulls her into another hug shortly after, like he really can't believe that she's real. she's awake.

“how-”

“don't” he cuts her off.

don't? don't speak? is that what he meant?

“you-”

“don't do that again” he completes. “try to be a hero. please don't. i can’t-”

this time, it’s a sob that racks out of him.

“i’m sorry” she whispers, hands caressing his back.

“please” he begs once more and she nods.

“i won’t”

they stay that way for a few minutes. she lets him cry it all out. it must’ve been hard for him, seeing her bleed out that way. he really did try his best. she believes he did. and she lets him know again.

“you did so good, Satoru. so, so good” she coos into his ear. “thank you for saving me”

Shoko, who had gone to pick up some late breakfast and meet up with Geto at the station, and the aforementioned man find them that way when they return.

they're the ones who let the nurses know the update.

[fawntastic]

@horsecoded

had a dream i found a tape labelled “sex tape” and when i played it in a vcr it was just two fully clothed guys beating the shit out of each other with metal bats

[f1-disaster-bi]

By the time Max had sent George away, Lando had disappeared into the back of the diner.

He wasn't in the kitchen so Max headed straight for storage room. He pushed the door open with a bang, not caring if the owner would give him shit for it later because Lando came first. Lando always came first with Max, and if he hadn't wanted to check on him so desperately, Max would have decked George for having the nerve to show back up here.

When he spotted Lando, Max almost walked back out there to run down the street and give George the black eye he deserved because the younger man looked devastated. He looked worse than when he out that George had had a girlfriend of two years while flirting with and leading Lando on.

Max really didn't understand where George got off on hurting Lando like this. He had broke his heart and then to have the nerve to come back here and rub his success and marriage, to someone he had met only months ago, in their faces, and the heartbreak was written all over Lando’s face.

His eyes were redrimmed and he was desperately swiping at his cheeks with his hands as he tried to hide behind the self of condiments.

"Lando...", Max whispered, not even hesitating before pulling Lando into a tight hug.

"Fuck him", Lando got out shakily against Max’s shoulder, "Fuck him for doing this to me. Fuck him for being right"

"Lando, there is nothing that he said that's true. He's just a fucking asshole who never deserved the time of day from you", Max replied fiercely, pulling back so he could take Lando’s face in his hands, "You're a badass, and he can't take that from you"

"But he's right", Lando whispered, looking away from Max, "He said when he thinks of me, he thinks of me here. In this shitty job and uniform, as if that's all I'll ever be and it is. Who am I kidding Max? This is all I am. I'm the guy making cupcakes at 3am and running between two jobs to keep a shitty apartment that isn't even legally mine. I'm a frickin' joke"

Max could feel nothing but anger bubbling inside him for George because Lando was one of the strongest people he knew. He was the person that picked Max up when he lost everything. The one that gave Max a home when he was close to sleeping on the streets, and George had completely destroyed his self-esteem with one shitty comment.

"You are so much more than that", Max insisted, pulling Lando's gaze back to him, "If I ever see that smug prick and his shitty art again, I'll burn it down because he did this just to hurt you. He showed ho here because you turned him down and he wants to make you feel small for having morals when he has none. He doesn't get to win"

Lando didn't say anything. He just sniffled softly as Max brushed away a tear with his thumb.

"You have a budding cupcake business, and you're kicking ass at it. You don't need George", Max reassured him, "Hell, you probably don't even need me because you're that good at what you do, Lando, so don't let him ruin this"

[hedgiwithapen]

Prompt: that Old Guard!Cisco thing you've talked about :)

Cisco wakes up, aching. For a moment, he's relieved. Dr. Wells being the Reverse Flash, the Trap being fake all along, it was all just a really awful nightmare. He makes a mental note to avoid burritos after 1 am for the foreseeable future.

Except that his shirt still has a bloodstain over his heart. And he isn't slumped over his desk or his couch, but the hard floor of the subbasement. Above and behind him, the trap looms like a cage. Cisco swallows. 

"Oh, no," he says, quiet. It still echoes. 

Dr. Wells killed him. Dr. Wells confessed to murdering Nora Allen, to being the Reverse Flash, and then he killed him. But somehow he's still alive.

Not for long, Cisco thinks bitterly. He's no speedster. The minute Wells--Thawne, he said his name was Thawne--learns that he fucked up the murder somehow, he'll just kill Cisco again.

Unless... Maybe, if he doesn't realize Cisco's a threat. If he changes his shirt, claims he doesn't remember anything... Faking Amnesia's gotta be the dumbest trick in the book, but he's a little short on pages at the moment. He's already going to die, probably. 

Cisco bites his lip, then stands, wobbling, and goes to get his laptop. He'll find a way to leave a message, just in case. Not for Caitlin-- Wells probably already killed her.

Cisco staggers at the thought, the sudden grief. He swallows hard. He has to play this exactly right.

He can hear Wells talking, his voice echoing down the curved corridor. 

"Barry, I'm sorry. There was nothing I could do, he was too fast..."

Cisco took a breath, and a step. 

"Cisco!" Barry yelped, running for him. Cisco held back the flinch at the lightning, letting Barry hug him. He was damp, the suit was soaked. "Oh my god, I was--I thought you were--Dr. Wells said--"

Dr Wells sat in his wheelchair, his eyes redrimmed. From crying, not evil lightning, Cisco notes. Fake crying, probably. He stares at Cisco. Cisco stares back. 

Caitlin rushes into the hug. "Cisco, how did you get away?"

"Uh," Cisco says, trying to piece together an answer that'll fit with whatever story Wells was spinning. 

"I really don't--I hit my head pretty hard. It's all kind of a blur. Can I sit down?" Before he finishes, there's a chair under him.

"I'm so sorry," Barry says, earnest. "I should have been there to save you. There was a tidal wave, and--Joe's in the hospital, but--Dr. Wells said--Caitlin said..."

"The Reverse Flash kidnapped you both," Caitlin interrupts. "Dr. Wells thought you were dead, I thought...."

"Yeah," Cisco says. " I... really don't remember--I came in here to see if there was anything to find Mardon and... then I was in the hallway. I../"

"I'm just glad you're alive," Caitlin says. "Let me make sure you don't have any internal bleeding, or--a TBI--well, you must, if you don't remember--but--" She cuts herself off, going to find her flashlight and kit.

"Cisco," Wells says, urgency in his voice. Cisco makes himself smile and not shudder back. "I'm...I can't tell you how good it is to see you."

"Yeah," says Cisco. "I'm glad you're alright, too."

"Here," Caitlin says. "Barry, can you get him to the medbay for me?"

Cisco blinks twice, feeling the sheets beneath him. "Fast," he says. He looks around. " So. Uh."

"Cisco," Caitlin says, looking at Barry. " You really don't--do you remember why you wanted me to..." she lowers her voice. " distract Dr. Wells? Before he got taken?"

"Oh," Cisco says, looking around. Barry's hovering anxiously. Wells isn't here yet, which is either good or extremely bad.  "Uh. Yes. I think I'm a metahuman."

"Oh," says Caitlin. "That's... it?"

"Pretty much," Cisco says.

"What can you do?" Barry asks. 

"Mmmmm, you might wanna sit down. Wait. FIRST you might want to get Iris, and Joe and Eddie, and maybe my family if you can and get them very far away and not tell anyone where, ok?"

*

The dreams start that night. Cisco's barely asleep on Joe's couch, the rest of them all piled into the house for the sake of numbers. Eobard Thawne's body lies somewhere in the pipeline, left after being sure. Both Eddie and Joe's gun's worth of bullets sure. He dreams of a woman in the water, drowning, and wakes with a hand over his heart. 

He doesn't speak of it the next morning.

None of them want to leave, not even to go get coffee, but some how the world goes on. Barry stopped the tidal wave but there's still so much fallout from that, and the fight through the streets.  Cisco stays on the couch while Iris sits in the kitchen, writing her article for a noon deadline, even though she was up half the night with it already. 

When the front door splinters, Cisco braces.

"Hey, kid." A woman with short cropped hair says. " Need you to come with me."

"Uh.. no," Cisco says. Somehow dying twice in a day has made him braver.  

The woman looks over her shoulder. A handsome guy with a beard extends a hand. "You're one of us. For your safety..."

"No, thanks," Cisco says, inching a hand for his phone. He needs Barry to get here before Iris hears and yells and gets her very-much-not-immortal-neck snapped, or whatever. "I'm good."

"You died yesterday," says the Woman.

"Yup," Cisco says, still going for his phone, until the guy with the beard spots his hand.  "And yet!"

"People will notice."

"They definitely did."

"All the more reason to hide. This City isn't safe for you. There's rumors about a lab..."

"Which I work for," Cisco interrupts, then wishes he hadn't when he sees the murderous look in the guy's eyes. "Doing totally normal things. Like make  stuff that can stop giant lightning storms that almost took out the police station. tech stuff. Very cool. Can you leave?"

"You're going to end up in a cage if you stay."

"I mean, maybe, but seeing as how everyone I'm friends with is already on whatever shady science and evil government wish list, I think I'm good here."

"...explain." The woman sits. "I'm Andy."

"And we're sitting. Cool," says Cisco. "Feeling a little outnumbered here. can I phone a friend? Also a metahuman, great guy."

"No."

"Well, it's his house," Cisco says, poking the beacon button. "Look, I hope you're here to be concerned and not kidnap me, because really, I'm fine. And the last time someone tried to kidnap one of my friends it didn't go great. it was a whole thing like, a month ago? So really, I'm in good hands here."

"A month ago," the guy repeats. "I'm Joe, by the way."

"Oh, that's going to be confusing."

"That wouldn't have been an army base, would it? Blown up entirely?" Andy asks.

"It was a team effort," Cisco shrugs.  A flash of gold lightning breaks one of the intact windows in a roar. 

"Hey Flash," Cisco says. "Got company! Probably fine."

"Explain," Andy says. "From the beginning."

"Well he's the fastest man alive, and fifteen years ago....Look, this might take a while."

"We have time."

[fawntastic]

@horsecoded

unfortunately the awful little freak everyone hates has saved the world so now we all have to try to be nice

[naviculariis]

"Her palms stung as they scraped along the cement block she'd been tossed upon, naught more than a rag doll that belonged to a petulant child. Swallowing the bile that rose with a tidal wave of anger and anguish, Ayame turned over, watching as Garp sat up. Her lip had been split, she realized; the sting barely registering. The iron tang of blood filled her mouth, her senses, as she stared down the man who could have put a stop to all of this. Strongest marine, ha! Don't make her laugh. All she sees before her is a blind old man who's too weak to stand up for his own flesh and blood.

If he had been a Fujihara, they would have cut his head off by now and sent him to the depths to be eaten by the Island Maker.

As Garp's gaze finally landed upon the woman who had been beaten down, bloodied, shoved to the side on the very podium where her execution was supposed to take place, he was struck with the violent hatred that settled within her green gaze. It made his heart stutter to a stop for a moment as he stared at her, and she stared back- not lifting her face fully but rather staring up at him through dark lashes. Her eyes were bloodshot, redrimmed with tears she simply refused to shed. Her lip was bleeding; her grey and black hair a wild, frizzy mess.

And yet, in that moment, she looked like that painting he'd seen once upon a time in a Celestial Dragon's manor. Something about a Fallen Angel..."

Ayame being a beloved Empress who had begged and pleaded for Garp to stop Marineford only to be shoved aside and kicked while she was still cuffed, realizing that her fate was already sealed & Garp would not step and stop this tragedy 🤝 The Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanel.

[littlespoonevan]

was thinking about how much it would destroy me (and buck) if the baby had a birthmark over his eyes like buck...i think it would be too much for me ciara

...................anon why would you sAY this omg 😭😭😭😭😭 the way it would make him hesitate, just a little bit, just for a second bc in all the hypothetical scenarios in his head he never imagined the baby looking like him. and then his redrimmed eyes as he forces a smile and hands him over to kameron askdjfhs D E A T H