#that the very moment etched itself into my soul i never recovered from it at all. like-- i cry easily yea. thats a fact

[aria0fgold]

Remembering the days when I was such a fast reader I can read at least several stories in a single month cuz I loved reading so much and wouldn't put the story down once I started reading but then the Fire Nation™️ (The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller) attacked and I've never been the same since... I'm such a slow reader now cuz of it.

[uh-oh-howd-i-get-here]

After All This Time (Bucky x Fem!Reader) Part 4

It's short, but I cried writing it. I've hit a bit of a writers block, but I think I've got that sorted out. I just needed to take a thinking shower and I got it. This will be my longest series and I'm trying to eek it out a bit, but I'm still new at this, so please have patience.

Summary: The real world is a scary place, even more so when you’re alone. You live alone in a apartment filed with the figurative ghosts of your memories. You’ve both changed since you last met your fiancé, but can love mend the gap after all this time.

Pairing: Bucky x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Talk of torture, death, triggers. Mentions of humiliation. Sadness, depression, self-loathing. ANGST. Fluff comes next time I think.

Word Count: 2,066 Shorter than usual, but I think I make up for it in feels.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A knock at the door startles Y/N out of her thoughts. She hadn’t really left the apartment for anything other than her job, which was only two days a week. Despite having almost completely shutting down, the house was clean.

Y/N opened the door and gaped at the person on the other side.

“Steve? What are you doing here?”

Steve just smiled. “May I come in?”

She opened the door wider so Steve could walk through, then shut the door gently. She turned around and watched Steve walk to the couch on the opposite wall and take a seat. She opted to perch on the arm of the wingback.

“To what do I owe this visit?”

Steve laughed quietly, amused with her. “I could say I just wanted to visit an old friend,” he smiled.

Y/N smiled but it fell as soon as it came. “But that isn’t the case is it?”

Steve sighed and she could see the same wear and tear in his eyes that every soldier carried around. He looked older, despite looking only in his 30’s. She supposed war does that to people though.

“I’m here to apologize for Bucky. He was out of line. I could hardly believe that he did what he did. I had hoped that if I gave him time, he would come here and do it himself.”

“You don’t need to apologize for him. I get it. I really do, and to a certain degree, he was right. But I have my own reasons for being here.”

Steve just nodded. “Has Sam told you about him?”

She let out a harsh laugh. “He didn’t need to. I was there. I know full well what he went through.”

“I wish I knew-,” he paused. “I wish I knew how to help. To ease his burden.”

“We all have our crosses to carry, some heavier than others. What we, and hundreds of others, went through was a horrific experience that isn’t easily put into words. He seems better though, right?”

Steve nodded, looking for words, “He isn’t the same.”

“None of us are,” she whispered. “That’s not the point of it though. If you’re trying to get the old Bucky back then you’re beating a dead horse. Help him become who he is now. Someone with more baggage than any person should ever carry. Don’t try to change him.”

“I’ll work on that. Speaking of people who have changed, are you ok? Sam says you haven’t been down to the VA in a while. He’s getting worried.”

Y/N shrugged and looked away. She wasn’t ok, but if she told that to Steve, he would do everything in his power to help her and she didn’t want his kind of help.

She put on a small smile. “If we’re going to talk about people changing, I think we should talk about you. What happened to scrawny Steve? You were my height the last I saw you and now you’re a buff giant.”

He laughed. “I’ve a lot to catch you up on.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Steve. Before you leave, I’ve got something that I was hoping you’d give to Jam- Bucky.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Y/N handed him a letter. The writing on the outside just said ‘Bucky’.

“I’ll get this to him.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a knock on Bucky’s door, then Steve walked in. Bucky looked at Steve with a look of sadness and self-loathing.

“What’d she say?” he whispered.

“That there was no reason to apologize.”

Bucky huffed. “Bullshit. I yelled at her. I called her weak and pathetic,” he looked away. “She would say something like that though.”

Steve sighed. “She gave me this to give to you.” He held out the letter.

“What’s in it?”

“No idea. She didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

Bucky nodded, reluctant to open it.

Steve stood up and walked to the door. “I’ll let you read that in peace. I’ll be in the gym if you need me.”

Steve walked out and Bucky stared at the envelope in his hands. It was thick, and there was something small and lumpy in it.

He looked at, debating whether to open it or to put it in a drawer and leave it there till ate him alive. Curiosity got the best of him.

He opened the seal of the envelope with care, being sure not to rip it. When it was open he turned it over and something fell into his lap. His heart dropped.

There, on his lap, was the ring that been used to propose to her with. The last he had saw it, it had been nestled next her dog tags in the master bedroom. Why was it here?

He pulled out the folded paper and opened it. Smaller papers fell out onto his lap. They were old and had yellowed with time. He picked through some of them. His Social Security card, his birth certificate, and his bank papers. Everything he needed to restart his life outside of the avengers.

He finally started reading the letter.

~~~

Dear James,

Can I even call you James anymore? The only other person who called you that was your mother and maybe your sisters. There are so many things that I wanted to tell you when I saw you. To say to you, but then things, well you were there. I feel like I owe you a bit of an explanation.

As you know, I was to leave a week after you. My orders were to fly to London to work there for three weeks, then get new orders. That’s not important though. What is important is that week that I spent alone was torture.

I wasn’t raised ignorant of the troubles of the world. Just like the rest of our age, I grew up in the Great Depression. My parents lost their job, and we almost lost our house. I grew up with the aftermath of the first World War. According to my mother, my father never recovered. War does that to people. It rips away your soul, takes your very being. I knew that.

When the second World War started, I would lay awake next to you and pray that US wouldn’t get involved. It was my worst nightmare. When the US did join, I knew, somehow that our lives were over. You probably don’t remember that I spent almost every waking moment with you. I was so happy when you proposed, but heartbroken as well. I just knew.

Knew that we weren’t coming back.

I spent the days of that week after you left getting things in order. Papers in the lockbox, hide the lockbox key. Cover the furniture to preserve it. I took care of everything. I left the ring in the lockbox.

I spent my nights awake in your chair, wondering what you were doing. Wondering if you were thinking of me. I’ll never know.

I was in Germany during December of 44. I was traveling with a group of soldiers. Everything happened so fast. Gunshots, yelling, blood. So much blood. That shade of red in the snow will always be etched into my brain. The German soldiers took prisoners, I was one of them. Out of the 25 I was traveling with, I ended up being the only survivor.

I transferred into the hands of Hydra. A replacement for a dead lab rat. My predecessor. They tortured me for so long. Wore me down to nothing. Humiliated me for game.

Every night as I laid in my cell, all I could think of was you. The memories of us in those three years. How perfect they were.

Of course, they weren’t perfect. We had fights, but they were never too bad. The apartment itself wasn’t great either, but it was home. The ceiling leaked in the bathroom, the floors creaked in the hallway, and the water took fifteen minutes to heat up. When you’re being tortured though, I guess that the mind only sees the good. I fixated on the apartment. It became the safe place. The only place in the world where the monsters couldn’t get to me. I held onto this place as long as I could.

But as much as the apartment was my safe place, all my memories of it were with you. So you had melted into that feeling of safety.

After they blocked away those memories, I didn’t even know they were gone. I became their puppet, a lab rat with no past or identity. Until I met you again. I didn’t know you, those memories were tucked away. My heart knew you though. I felt safe around you, which didn’t make sense because you were the Winter Soldier. Oh, but we worked well together. We did a couple missions, and I was living off an emotion I didn’t even know the name to.

Love. I didn’t know what that word even meant anymore, or what it felt like, but my heart reminded me every time you looked at me.

In the end, it was my fault that you ended up with the trauma you carry around pertaining to me. I got emotional when it was time to go, and we both suffered the consequences for it.

That happened in 1997. I went onto ice for the last time with a damaged windpipe, minor brain damage, and no memories to speak of. I was sent to Africa, and was going to be undergoing testing there, but my handlers got killed. I remained on ice for 27 years until Wakandan soldiers found me.

Shuri worked for 6 months to get rid of all the damage done to me with help of the notes that traveled with me. I spent 7 more months drowning in everything. I remembered everything. Every test, every horrid thing they did to me. But the worst part was remembering you. Remembering you and knowing what happened to you broke me.

It turns out I was right all along. We weren’t going back. I had to come to terms with the fact that you weren’t going to come back to me. So I reveled in the memories of you. Of us.

I had so many emotional setbacks, I was stuck reliving memories just from small triggers. A wrong look could send me spiraling into a black hole. But then I’d remember the apartment.

I couldn’t wait to go back. The one thing that had kept me sane, alive, and hopeful. The king paid for a plane ticket and I was back in New York. I wasn’t ready.

I had been so stuck in remembering that I didn’t, couldn’t, process the new. Still I persisted, until I could be in that apartment again. I had convinced myself that it would fix everything.

That it would fix me.

But you probably know that isn’t how life works. Those same memories that propelled me and kept me afloat, are now the anchor that drags me under. I’m drowning in the memories, and they cling to me. I’m trapped in a prison of my own making, unable to leave the ghosts haunting my memories of things that will never be again.

I stay awake at night reliving the days where I was happy, carefree, and in-love. But the truth is that I can’t sleep in the bed we shared because you aren’t in it. I can’t look at pictures of us, because we aren’t them anymore. I can’t wear the ring, because we are strangers.

So I live in a museum of things that shouldn’t exist anymore because I can’t move on. This apartment is killing me inside, but I can’t leave because I’ve convinced myself that this is the only place I’ll be safe.

The truth is, I am safe in this apartment, because the only thing that can hurt me here is myself.

Along with this letter, I’m also returning the ring. It belongs to you. I have also included your bank account numbers, so that you can access your accounts. I’m sure you won’t have as much trouble as I did.

I’d offer you a key, but I don’t think you’d ever want to step foot in here again. Truthfully, if I were you, I wouldn’t either, lest you get stuck here too.

Maybe in another life we could have been together longer, but just not in this one.

Love,

Sincerely,

Y/N

[ourceliumnetwork]

Constellations

on AO3!

Rating: M / Lime Pair: Eskel/Geralt Summary: Eskel loves Geralt but their soulmarks don't match - he'd know. They're witchers, and scars are their business. As he joins Geralt in retirement, Eskel figures whatever he can get with the other witcher will be enough. He might get a little bit more than he thought he was bargaining for, but Eskel's never passed up a good deal.

My entry into the @eskelbigbang. Trying something new for posting fic so bear with me. Check out the awesome art by @dat-carovieh on their tumblr and twitter @ LupisLionstooth!

Eskel growled a little as he stumbled off the path, clutching the wound on his side. The scar on his face creased with his snarl as he collapsed into a tree. He hated being wounded. The blood loss was greater than normal and his vision swam as he tried to push forward. The horse beside him whickered softly at him as he tripped. A loose stone, probably—or at least he hoped. If there were nothing in the path that would be worse. That would mean he was worse off than he’d thought.

He needed to keep going. He had an appointment to make.

"You should meet me in Novigrad,” Geralt had said over cards last winter. They were several glasses of his horrible wine in (it wasn’t horrible, Eskel loved it, but he loved picking on Geralt more—loved making his nose wrinkle with irritation, and Eskel did prefer ale over wine but the wine made at Corvo Bianco was alright and, best of all, free) and having a quiet evening.

Most of their evenings together were quiet these days. How long had they lived now? How many of their friends were lost to the passage of time?

Lambert never stayed, preferring the road. They both dreaded his never returning but after the loss of his soulmate—the Cat Witcher that Geralt had helped avenge—he’d never been quite the same.

Ciri had grown up, grown into herself. She’d had a longer than average lifespan from her Elven blood, but she stayed with Yennefer more often than not, and had become a strong woman and mage in her own right. Yennefer, for her part, came and visited infrequently, lost often in her own research and pursuits.

Geralt’s bard, Dandelion, had retired from traveling, had owned a bar, had been a professor at Oxenfurt, and then, eventually, had passed in time from an old life lived long and lived well. Their other friends were either distant or dead.

So, things were quiet.

“Why would I meet you in Novigrad? I’m here?” Eskel had asked.

Geralt had rolled his eyes, “I mean when you’re not here. Back on the Path. We should meet in Novigrad. It’s a mid-point between here and your normal territory. And the biggest bookshop on the Continent.”

It was a tempting offer. And it wasn’t really like Eskel was going to refuse. They’d just never planned to meet before. Geralt had retired from the Path years ago, staying at his winery or traveling to meet his friends but never hunting monsters. Not that there were many monsters to find these days as it was. Eskel’s coin purse had been light for years, the only saving grace was Geralt’s hospitality during the winters, and his generosity with the funds that came in from the winery.

“Alright. Why?”

“Because I miss you when you’re out, dumbass,” Geralt groused with another eyeroll, the bite in his words sour and reminiscent of their younger brother-in-all-but-blood. The quick twitch of the corner of his mouth down and the tightness near his eyes belied the sincerity behind the words, however.

“Aww, I miss you too,” Eskel batted his eyes at Geralt sweetly, teasing, “Alright sure. I’ll meet you in Novigrad. When?”

Eskel was supposed to have been there days ago. But the contract he had been on was not only longer than anticipated but a larger beast as well. A more vicious one. And now he was injured and trying to make his way to Novigrad to meet Geralt.

He needed to meet Geralt there. He missed the man, his closest friend for the past century and a half, his only family. The closest thing Eskel would get to having his soulmate.

They didn’t talk about their marks. They used to. Before the Trials. Before everything had changed.

They were very young, the first time it had been brought up among their year group. Ten boys huddled around comparing the discolored skin that showed the closest their mate would ever come to death and recover from. They were in nothing but their smallclothes, sitting in a circle in one of the dorm rooms of Kaer Morhen and lit by only the fire in the hearth that kept the room warm in the cold nights.

Eskel’s mark was a series of dots on his arm, black-purple like bruises, peppered in regular intervals, dark lines running deep into his skin, touching the veins that brought blood to his hands, peppered in at the crook of his elbow. It was remarked by one that they were like stars—a description Eskel held onto for many years, even onto the Path itself, the constellations of Destiny drawing him to the match to his soul. Some boys had dark red patches on their chests, deep shadows of wounds-that-weren’t-yet slicing through their legs, their arms, their stomachs. One boy, Gweld, had a pale line running right across his throat.

Geralt’s was the biggest. A swath of pink skin from hips to shoulders, like he was flayed open and a new patch was sewn on in a slightly wrong color. Eskel’s heart hurt to see it. He liked Geralt best of the other boys, he wasn’t too loud when Eskel wanted to read, exchanged stories of knights and chivalry and wanting to be a hero with Eskel. And they of course got up to much mischief together, which Eskel always appreciated. To see him marked like that, to know that whoever Geralt’s soul was promised to would have to survive something that bad, was painful.

Eskel and the other boys knew Geralt’s soulmate was a Witcher. It was obvious. No one else would survive an injury that large, that deep.

Vesemir had caught them that night, scowling and barking to get back into their beds, that they’d all have kitchen duty in the morning and for the next week after for being out of bed so late. The boys had complained, whining as they got into their bunks.

The outline of Geralt’s soulmark was etched into Eskel’s mind for a long while after. Forever, really.

They’d discussed their respective marks privately at other times. Osbert had caught them out once, poking and prodding at one another, wondering what the cause of their marks would be, speculating on when they’d meet their soulmates. Would it be before they’d gotten the scars that would be representative of the marks on their bodies? Would it be after? What scars would they acquire and how would they show up on their soulmates?

Osbert had seen their marks. Saw Geralt’s and nodded, his eyes sad but knowing. Then he’d seen Eskel’s. The look on his face was one that Eskel wasn’t able to parse at the time, but as he looked back on the memory in later years, he realized it was devastated.

Eskel didn’t know what caused him to feel that way until he was strapped to the table during the Trials, mages and Witchers alike hovering over him. One of the mages had seen his arm, had nudged another beside him and said, “Look, this one already has where the needles go on his arm. Nearly labeled and everything.”

The laughter that had passed between the two mages frightened Eskel, but not more than the knowledge that his mate, the soul that matched his soul, the one that Destiny herself had picked for him, would go through the Trials, and that would be the worst thing they would survive. Would they die? On the table? He knew it was a possibility but…

Would he die before meeting his soulmate? That hurt worse, the thought of leaving his soulmate to the world without knowing what happened to Eskel. His brain raced through all the injuries he knew he’d acquired since coming to Kaer Morhen—which one was the worst one? Which one brought him closest to death? Which would be the mark on his mate’s body if he died on the table, chemicals and reagents and mutagens pouring into his bloodstream, changing his body?

For the first time in his life, he wondered if his soulmate would fear him after he became a Witcher, if he survived. And as the needles pierced his skin, their caustic, toxic mixtures seeping into him and altering him irrevocably, he cried.

Eskel, of course, had survived the Trials.

Geralt had, as well. Not easily, though. He’d been chosen for additional mutagens, extra tests, further Trials. Once-auburn hair that shone blood-red in the sunshine was snow-white. His skin was death-pale, and shadows seemed perpetually under his eyes. He had been unconscious when they’d brought him back up to the dorms, and Eskel had sat by his bed as often as he could, watching, waiting for his friend to wake up.

If he’d checked Geralt’s arms for the marks that still lay purple-bruised on his own, darker now with the pinpricks of the needles that had actually entered his arm, well… They weren’t there. His arms were as clear as the sky on a summer day. It was as if the Trials had not happened to him. Eskel knew that Witchers healed quickly, that the marks on his arm—the one’s he’d acquired, not the ones he’d been born with—would disappear shortly. But to see Geralt who had gone through more with nothing had…

Had…

Eskel hadn’t realized until that moment how much he desperately wanted Geralt to be his soulmate, until he had been so devastated by the undeniable truth that he wasn’t.

Eskel collapsed on the ground, the world shifting on its axis as he blinked foggy blurriness from his eyes. The horse behind him had stopped obediently. Geralt had trained him well, of course. Eskel didn’t expect otherwise from a man who had trained every single horse he had ever ridden—even if he did end up calling them all Roach.

He wasn’t going to make it to Novigrad.

It was the last coherent thought he had before he slumped to the ground, the world going dark around him.

Eskel had many wounds in his lifetime. Wounds that had brought him to the brink of death and he was saved only by the timeliest of Swallows, of magical healers, of mages. It was the fate of a Witcher. Their Destiny to be covered in marks from their profession. Some wore their scars proudly, some hid them away. Eskel didn’t really mind either which way. Not until Diedre.

The deep, horrible mark on his face certainly made him feel as though he were better off dead. It wrapped around the side of his face, tore part of his lip away leaving him with a constant snarl, reaching to his ear. He knew, in that moment, that whoever his soulmate was, had to hate him for giving them this…this…

This thing on their face.

It was also when he lost all hope that Geralt could still be his soulmate. That his best friend would ever become more. Geralt had always had a rather romantic idea of how soulmates worked. He would take his pleasure where he could get it in the meantime—as most Witchers did, but he would wait to have a romance with someone until their marks matched scars.

And Eskel, the fool, loved him for that. Loved him for his hopeless, idealistic view on soulmates, when in reality a soulmate was just a person, as flawed and horrible as every other person on the Continent. There were soulmate couples who hated one another. Those who never met. Those who hurt their mates, were the ones to give them their scars.

As soon as Eskel knew he was not Geralt’s he worried. He worried for Geralt because the man, despite everything was still soft on the inside, was still the boy with bright eyes who waxed poetic about becoming a Knightly Witcher, who would save the world, not just from monsters but from everything he could. The man who had wanted to name himself Geralt Eric Roger du Haute-Bellegarde entirely earnestly. The man who loved every horse he ever met and named them each after the same kind of fish.

Eskel worried because he could not protect Geralt if his soulmate hurt him, because Eskel was not his soulmate.

Eskel traced the constellations on his arm, the little stars that marked where his soulmate went through the Trials. That marked where he went through the Trials. Absently, late at night he wondered if they were someone he had already met.

After the pogroms and the attack of Kaer Morhen he no longer needed to wonder. If he hadn’t met them yet, they had probably already died.

It was years before he let himself consider that they had died even earlier than that. Likely the first year on the Path. He tried not to think about if they were from the Wolf school or another.

Sometimes he would run his fingers over the shape of the scar on his face, wonder if his soulmate could feel it—could have felt it, he sometimes reminded himself, they weren’t alive anymore, likely. He would think about what it would be to run his fingers lovingly over the mark that tied them together, let them touch his mark—the memories of the Trials were painful, traumatic for all who went through them, but maybe with the fact that it connected them together in so many ways it would be… better.

Eventually he stopped letting himself think about it at all. It hurt too much. It wasn’t Geralt, it would never be Geralt, and he would never know his soulmate.

And maybe, if he were really and truly honest with himself, he didn’t want to know his soulmate.

Eskel woke in a bed.

This was mostly jarring because he had the distinct memory of passing out in the middle of the road, but he’d woken up in worse places than a bed before. At least this time there were no succubi.

That had been interesting.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Geralt’s voice was gravelly as always, and coming from Eskel’s left hand side.

Eskel grunted as he turned his head to look at the white-haired man beside him. The ever-present dark circles under his eyes seemed darker than usual, the pallor of his skin waxier and wanner than Eskel remembered from the last time they’d seen one another.

(Geralt had been looking healthier since he’d retired, well-fed, relaxed. This looked like Geralt on the Path—something Eskel hadn’t seen in years, decades even.)

“You look like shit,” Eskel said, pulling his face into a rough approximation of a smirk. His body felt heavy and he could feel the familiar tug of stitches in his side. At least he wasn’t actively bleeding out anymore.

“Yeah, well,” Geralt started like he was going to retort, but his voice fell flat as his expression did something Eskel wasn’t sure he’d ever seen on the man before, “You’re lucky I caught your scent while I was out hunting or you’d have died laying in the road.”

“Business as usual, then,” Eskel grunted, attempting to sit up a little. Geralt moved quickly, faster than Eskel was anticipating, and a hand was on his chest, pushing him back down into the bed. If Eskel really wanted to, he probably could have ignored the hand but…

Geralt’s long fingers were cold and felt nice on his heated skin and it had been so long since their last hug in Toussaint before Eskel had left on the Path again. Maybe this year he’d actually talk to Geralt about retiring with him, about setting up in the winery with Geralt, becoming even-older-old men together. It wasn’t like the monsters were getting any more populous. He could take up a trade, maybe, and pretend he wasn’t made into a monster himself by mutagens and actions and scars. Maybe he could pretend they were soulmates again, that this was enough.

He suddenly remembered why he hadn’t chosen to retire with Geralt yet. Why he might not ever.

“Stay down, idiot. You’ll pull your stitches.”

“Doubt I need them much longer,” Eskel grumbled.

“The fact that I could see your intestines before I got you fixed up begs to differ.” Geralt’s eyes were narrowed, the slits of his pupils dark in the wheat-gold of his eyes.

“Eh, they needed a bit of fresh air,” Eskel’s joking tone didn’t quite hit, and Geralt’s jaw clenched as he swallowed thickly. Eskel winced, turning away, “That was dumb of me to say, I’m sorry.”

“No you’re…you’re right. It’s part of the job,” Geralt was leaning back, taking his hand with him and Eskel gritted his teeth together to avoid begging him to keep touching Eskel, to never let go.

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck,” Eskel shrugged.

They sat in silence for a bit, Eskel’s eyes feeling heavy again.

“You give me something for it?” He asked, his brow creasing in confusion.

“What?”

“For the…” He gestured to his side, “Did you give me something?”

“Nah, why?”

“Tired,” Eskel mumbles, feeling his eyes drift shut again. Though, perhaps the exhaustion is more from having pushed himself on the Path for days on end before his last contract, and then further while injured, from having little to no food because he couldn’t afford it and the hunting was scarce close to the griffin.

Perhaps it was being in a bed for the first time since he’d left Geralt’s side in early spring, or maybe just the safety and comfort of having Geralt by his side again, listening to the man’s steady, Witcher-slow heartbeat and the soft sound of his breathing.

“So sleep,” Geralt’s voice is fond in Eskel’s ears and he thinks it’s probably just his mind making things up as it slows from waking to meditation to sleep, drifting from consciousness to dreams with little to no effort.

Eskel thinks he could get used to it, and fears what that means.

Eskel wakes again and it’s morning. Sun is shining through the window in the corner and birds are chirping outside.

Geralt is asleep, leaned forward on the bed, head resting on Eskel’s lap, and hands clasped around Eskel’s own. Previously cold fingers are warmed by the heat of Eskel’s palms and something in Eskel’s chest clenches in a way he is all too familiar with.

Geralt’s hair is loose, unbound and a tangled mess around his shoulders. Several strands have fallen across his face, a lock of it draped over his eyes, closed in sleep with pale lashes fanned out over dark circles. Soft breaths huff between parted lips that move slightly with the dreams that he sees behind his eyelids—Eskel can see the shape of his eyes darting back and forth beneath the thin skin.

He brings his other hand up, the one unclaimed by Geralt’s grasping fingers, and gently pushes the hair out of the other man’s face.

Geralt is beautiful. And Eskel loves him. He loves him so much.

Golden eyes drift open slowly, pupils sliding from wide circles to rounded slits with the light as Geralt blinks, taking a moment to wake up.

“Hey,” Eskel murmurs, a smile sliding over his face—easy, this time, and he is sure his emotions are plastered all over his face but he can’t really find it in himself to care. Geralt is here. Geralt was worried for him. Geralt slept at his bed rather than in one of his own, holding his hand.

“Hey,” Geralt’s already rough voice is moreso from the sleep as Eskel brings his hand away from the white hair that slides through his fingers like water made semi-solid. “You actually awake this time?”

“Probably,” Eskel chuckles, resting back against the pillow to stare up at the ceiling. “Been a tough season so far.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He wants to explain, but also he doesn’t. He doesn’t want Geralt to worry about him more. He didn’t really want Geralt to worry about him injured, either, but that wasn’t his fault.

(Their trainers might have disagreed, might have said of course it was Eskel’s fault he had been injured on the Path, but they weren’t there now, were they?)

“What got you?” Fingers trace the line of the wound, healed already, the stitches already out, having been removed while Eskel slept. Eskel shivers.

“Griffin. Villagers weren’t exaggerating the size, after all.” Eskel pulls himself up to sitting, his muscles protesting after so long relaxed in sleep. “Got here in the end, though.”

Geralt snorts, “Barely.”

“Eh, I knew either you’d come find me or it was my time to go,” Eskel half-jokes. A mirror of their earlier conversation. A conversation they’d had about various wounds and injuries accrued over their extra long lifespans. Geralt’s face is impassive, neutral and shows nothing. Which means he’s very upset by this comment.

“Come back to Toussaint with me,” Geralt says, and his voice is soft enough that if Eskel wanted to he could pretend he didn’t hear it.

Eskel isn’t sure what he wants.

“Why?”

Geralt’s jaw works as his mouth stays shut. There are words, Eskel knows, caught behind teeth and tongue and throat that will not come out because Geralt’s mind won’t let them. Ever since Blaviken, he’d been like this. Their hands are still tangled together and Eskel squeezes Geralt’s fingers to his palm gently.

“Why do you want me to come to Toussaint with you in the middle of the season, Geralt?” He asks again. Sometimes saying it again, saying *more* helps. Sometimes it makes it worse. He desperately hopes this makes it better.

“I don’t want…” Geralt starts. Stops. Squeezes Eskel’s fingers back. Then he pulls away. “You’re probably hungry. I’ll get food.”

Eskel drops it. Geralt will come to him in his own time. Eskel will decide what he wants to do in the meantime. A few days rest as planned here in Novigrad will be enough for now.

Geralt comes back with food for them both, and Eskel’s body remembers that it is starving. They don’t speak much during the meal, and when it’s over they talk about everything other than Geralt’s invitation.

Geralt doesn’t bring it back up that day, or the day after. Or the day after that.

They spend a week together in Novigrad. Eskel raids the bookstore—it was very impressive, filled with tomes on tomes of books with knowledge and poetry and stories and everything and anything. Geralt came with him, though he only picked at the plays and atlases, but he purchased several books that Eskel looked at longingly, tucking them in his bags to travel, saying they will be waiting in the library for Eskel when he comes back.

Eskel decided that meant they were not going to talk about the invitation to Toussaint again unless he brings it back up.

The thing is, Eskel doesn’t want to leave Novigrad. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt. He doesn’t want to go back on the Path where he will be lonely and cold, where there is little food and fewer friendly faces. Back to monsters and fighting and nursing himself back to health, to glares and fearful children, to long stretches of time with no contact with anyone other than the horse and his reflection in the water.

He doesn’t want to risk not being able to get back to Geralt.

That night, he begins the conversation.

“We’ve been here a week,” Eskel observed, taking a bite of a soft, buttery roll. He was not sure what kind of money Geralt was paying the innkeep here but they have eaten well since Eskel arrived.

Geralt freezes momentarily. Had Eskel not been watching, he would have missed it.

“Yep.”

“Been trying to think about where to go next. Not many monsters up north anymore,” Eskel keeps his commentary light, his tone gentle and observational only. Nothing to indicate that he’s leading the conversation anywhere.

“Eskel.”

“Geralt.”

Ah, he has been found out. Figures it wouldn’t work on the man who has known him the longest of anyone alive in the world right now.

“I- I can’t-…” Geralt pushes back from the table a little, tension clear in his body and shoulders, “I won’t-”

“I was thinking I could head south. Maybe travel with you. Head to Toussaint. I know they were having vampire problems decades back. You think there are still any hiding out? I bet there’s an infestation in your library. I should really check that out, you know. Since you’re all out of practice and all.”

Geralt glares at him but there is a relief etched in his bones that Eskel can feel as he grins unrepentantly, feeling his stiff scar tissue crinkle the skin on his cheek as he does.

“You’re an ass.”

“Hmm, but you’re friends with an ass so I think that says more about you than me.” Eskel teases and Geralt rolls his eyes.

“Ass-kel.”

“Come now, Geralt. We’ve surely grown past the insults you thought up when we were twelve.”

“Not if you still act like you did back then.” Geralt points out and Eskel laughs. The tension breaks, and the two of them end up nearly giggling over their dinner.

It is good to hear Geralt laugh again. Eskel wonders when the last time he heard it was and realizes it’s been much longer than a season on the Path.

Travelling with Geralt is easy. It is also the hardest thing Eskel has ever done.

They camp on the road. It’s economical, and reminds them both of earlier times, times before the world changed and left them behind. It also leaves them with little to no privacy between them and Eskel has never wanted a wank more in his life than when he has to wake up and watch Geralt still asleep in his bedroll, or bathing in the stream. But trying to get off with another Witcher around is even more difficult than it had been to try and get off in a keep full of them—especially when he doesn’t want Geralt to know.

Because Eskel is sure Geralt would figure out exactly what was causing Eskel’s need as soon as he was caught.

Geralt’s back is nearly unmarred by scars, leaving his mark clear as the day Eskel first saw it. The mark Eskel has seen in his mind's eye for decades. Nearly a hundred years of thinking of that shape, the line of it. The pink is the same shade as it was before but seems so much darker, starker with the contrast to Geralt’s death-pale skin. The shock of color interrupted by fine scars from smaller wounds, and from the bright white hair trailing between Geralt’s shoulder blades. Eskel wants to run his hands over it, claim it, mark it up with bites and scratches and make it his because that mark ties Geralt’s soul to another and Eskel wants what he cannot have.

He turns away, usually, and does not watch as Geralt bathes. Does not imagine what he is doing, does not follow the sounds of the water moving as it is sloughed over skin, hands chafing at dirt to scrub it off, dripping, dribbling sounds as it is squeezed from the long locks of hair.

The trip to Toussaint from Novigrad is the longest it has ever been and Eskel is glad when they arrive at Corvo Bianco, greeted by the man Geralt has hired to run things in his stead. The rooms Eskel normally uses are clean and available for him and he realizes he has actually agreed to do this. He will be staying in Toussaint. He won’t be finishing the season on the Path. He will be with Geralt.

He doesn’t know if he’s made the right decision.

Geralt is far more relaxed in Toussaint than he ever was anywhere else. He allows himself to be open with his affections—something he lost when he went off on the Path, and gained back in fits and spurts after rearing Ciri. Hugs to his brothers for no reason, gentle touches to shoulders and arms and hands, leaning on them when sitting together, especially when drinking.

Lambert always scoffs and complains, shoving the man off and griping about how he’s become sentimental in his dotage. Geralt always grins and laughs, making a joke of it, teasing the youngest of their remaining family and ramping up the gestures to absurdity for his benefit.

With Eskel it is quieter, softer. Eskel always returns the touch, reveling in the chance to hold the man he cannot have. Arms around Geralt for the hug, squeezing him tight. A returned pat to the shoulder or back (where his mark is, don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t–), a squeeze of fingers when their hands touch. His arm wrapping around Geralt’s shoulders when it’s late at night and they’re leaning on one another, deep into their cups and watching the stars and the lights of the town below the vineyards as the night drifts on around them.

If he adds a few touches of his own here and there, well, it’s just to show Geralt that it’s okay to share these moments. And a kiss to the top of the head during those late nights is entirely innocent enough.

(Wishing it was more, wanting desperately for more, more, more, is just something Eskel has gotten used to after all this time. Wanting and wishing is one thing, acting on those is another and he won’t do that to Geralt, he won’t.)

So it is that they find themselves late into the night, out on Geralt’s balcony, several bottles of wine in, and Geralt resting his head on Eskel’s shoulder, Eskel’s arm not around his shoulders but further down his back, settling on his ribs. His fingers are absently tracing patterns through the fabric of Geralt’s shirt—if he’s tracing the line of the mark on Geralt’s skin, well…It’s on his back, Geralt probably doesn’t put that together.

Geralt sighs softly, a happy, content sort of sound, and turns his head into Eskel’s shoulder, headbutting it gently with his forehead.

“You good?” Eskel asks, his voice barely above a whisper. For some reason talking louder feels like it might break some sort of spell between them. Something that would cause them to have to part.

“Yeah,” Geralt hums, a smile visible from what little of his face Eskel can spy looking down at him, “Yeah, I’m… I’m good.”

“Good,” Eskel pulls him in closer, abandoning his tracing of Geralt’s soulmark through his clothes to lay his hand steadily on Geralt’s side.

“You?”

“Yeah. Me.” Eskel teases laughing a little, “I’m good.”

“Good.”

And it is. Good, that is. They’re happy. It’s warm, the last of summer fading into autumn, a breeze blowing and rustling the leaves of the vines in the vineyard below. They can hear music from the town—probably none of the human inhabitants of the land Geralt owns can, but the two Witchers are able to. It’s faint, what with the distance, but it’s audible and sets a nice background tone for their evening. There are bugs making chirping noises and night birds calling in the trees and it’s peaceful and everything Eskel never knew he wanted alongside everything he always wanted.

“Esk?”

“Hm?” He glances down again at Geralt, having been staring out at the lamplight across the valley in a daze, feeling Geralt’s body heat against his own and his thumb absently stroking against the ribbones he can no longer feel so starkly under Geralt’s skin.

Geralt’s face is… much closer than Eskel thought it had been the last time he’d looked down at him and now it’s moving even closer and–

“Ger?” He whispers when Geralt stops, a hairsbreadth from their lips touching.

“I–” Geralt stops again, pulling back a little.

“I didn’t say stop,” Eskel breathes, leaning in and connecting them together in a way they haven’t before.

Geralt is on him like a starving man on a feast, hands gripping at Eskel’s shirt, pulling him in closer, closer, closer. And Eskel goes willingly, opening his mouth to Geralt’s assault, letting him do the leading, finding out where Geralt wants this to go because wherever it is, however far, Eskel will follow.

His hands bracket Geralt’s sides, palms resting above hip bones and thumbs pressing gently into the softer flesh under his ribs. Eskel slides them up and down slowly, just a fraction of an inch in either direction, and Geralt makes a noise that Eskel has never heard him make before and suddenly Eskel is the starving man and Geralt is the feast.

They break for air when even their lung capacity is at its limit. Gasping and panting, Geralt leans into Eskel’s neck, biting kisses into the flesh there, bared because this is home, he is safe and needs no armor, no barrier between his vulnerable parts and Geralt because he can trust this man like he trusts no other on this earth.

“Fuck, Geralt. Geralt, I–” Eskel groans, tilting his head to the side to give Geralt more room, “How long?”

“Forever,” Geralt breathes and Eskel’s hands grip his hips, yanking him closer, closer still, burying his face into Geralt’s neck for his own marks to be made on the pale, pale skin.

“I’m sorry,” Eskel’s teeth bite at Geralt’s jaw, “I wish I’d known.”

“Please,” Geralt asks, “Please come to bed with me. I– I can’t. I can’t wait for you anymore.”

Eskel answers by grabbing underneath Geralt’s ass and hauling him up. Geralt inhales sharply—whether in surprise or arousal is hard to tell—his legs wrapping around Eskel’s waist as his arms drape over his shoulders. And then there’s more kissing, which honestly Eskel doesn’t know how he’s gone so long without because it’s perfect.

Geralt doesn’t have a mark on his face, and doesn’t have scars on his arm, but Eskel thinks that this has to be better than kissing your soulmate.

He carries Geralt through the door between the balcony and Geralt’s bedroom, carefully making his way over dirtied clothes and stray shoes and half-read books to reach the bed. His knees bump the edge of the mattress and he grins wickedly into the kisses Geralt is plundering his mouth with before releasing his hold on Geralt suddenly.

Geralt clearly did not realize just how much of his weight Eskel was holding, falling to the mattress with a shocked yelp of surprise before Eskel was on him again, leaning over him, pressing him back into the bed.

“Still good?” Eskel asks between kisses to Geralt’s shoulders and neck.

“Yeah. Yeah,” Geralt is nodding and his breathy words are half-whined, “Still good, fuck Eskel. Eskel I’m– I’ve–”

“I know. I know, I’m sorry.” The kisses he is giving to Geralt get gentler, softer, sweeter, “I’m sorry, me too.”

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt breathes, fondly, “The fuck did I do falling in love with a dumbass like you?”

Eskel’s heart is fit to burst at this and he looms over Geralt suddenly, “Say it again.”

Geralt is blinking with wide, dark pupils encompassing almost the whole of his golden irises, his hair is fanned out around his head like a snowy halo and Eskel wants more than he has wanted ever before and he didn’t even know that was possible but here he is. Geralt is with him, wants him, and he can have him and it’s so much more and so much better than he thought it would be.

Why the fuck did they wait so long?

“Fuck, Eskel. Eskel I love you,” Geralt’s hands rest on Eskel’s arms, but they’re sliding up to cup Eskel’s face, thumb tracing the scar from lip to cheek and back again, “I have always loved you, you stupid idiot. How the fuck have you not known?”

“When the fuck was I supposed to know?” Eskel asks, frowning, “You never said!”

“I thought you did! I thought you were waiting for your soulmate or whatever but maybe you’d settle for me eventually.” Geralt scoffs, “Seriously? You had no idea? I’ve been so obvious that Yen said something about it ages ago.”

Eskel wants to comment on the fact that Geralt thought Eskel was waiting for his soulmate when the whole time Eskel thought Geralt was waiting for his soulmate. He wants to say something about how low Geralt’s self esteem is that he thinks Eskel would have to settle for him, like Geralt isn’t the only thing in the world Eskel can’t put a price on if he absolutely had to. He wants to make mention of the fact that Geralt thought he was being obvious about it, that Yen somehow figured it out.

Instead he just grins down at Geralt.

“I love you too, you son of a bitch.”

It’s good, what they have. It’s pretty much the same as it was, but Geralt is even more physically affectionate and now Eskel can kiss him and hold him and Geralt kisses and holds him back. Geralt is very good at kissing and Eskel tries to be as appreciative of it as possible every time he is gifted with the opportunity.

They have not gone farther than rutting against one another through their clothes and Eskel can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.

On the one hand, he very much wants to fuck Geralt. It’s something he’s been thinking of doing for nearly a hundred years, and now that he gets to be so close to it, it’s almost painful that he can’t. On the other hand, seeing Geralt’s soulmark while they’re intending on doing something intimate together, despite how many times Eskel has fantasized about marking it up, making it his, making Geralt his, he’s not sure he would actually be able to follow through with anything if he saw it in the moment.

Geralt, too, seems to be reluctant and that’s probably the main reason Eskel hasn’t made any motions to go further with it. They share a bed at night for sleeping, they wake tangled in one another, they eat together, they drink together, they hold and touch and kiss and say “I love you” to one another like it’ll be the last time they ever get to say it, like it’s the first time they’ve ever said it before, and it’s good. It’s so good. It’s more than Eskel ever thought he’d get, and it’s enough.

Eskel has taken to helping out in the fields for something to do during the day. It’s harvest season and they need all the hands they can get out there, so he joins in and assists. It’s warm in Toussaint, in the early autumn, and he is sweating and dirty when he comes in for the afternoon.

Geralt is sitting outside, drinking and reading his legs crossed as he reclines a little in the chair he’s sat in, reaching blindly for the glass of wine on the table beside him to avoid looking up from his book. Eskel smiles but does not interrupt, instead shucking his shirt off with a roll of his shoulders and taking the bucket of water beside the patio and upending it over his head.

The sluice of water is chilly enough despite the bucket’s position in the sun, and while bracing, it is also refreshing and feels good on his sweaty and overheated skin. He shakes his head out like a dog—or a wolf, he thinks to himself with a smile—his medallion clinking gently on his chest as he stretches out. Not quite as rigorous as a training session with Vesemir, but close enough. He might even be sore later if he’s lucky.

There’s a startled gasp from behind him and the clattering of a glass on wood, followed by a curse. Eskel turns around to see that Geralt has knocked his wine over and is desperately trying to clean it up while also not setting his book down in it. His movements are flustered and Eskel wonders what startled him so.

“Good book?” He asks, a laugh at the edge of his voice, amused by Geralt’s movements.

“What? Oh, uh. Yes. Yes very… very… um,” Geralt struggles to come up with a word. “When did you get that big scar on your back?”

“What?” Eskel blinks at the non sequitur.

“The big scar on your back. That’s– it’s– it looks old but I don’t think I’ve seen it before?” Geralt is affecting a tone that says he’s trying very hard to appear nonchalant, which means he’s failing miserably at it. Eskel crinkles his brow with a confused smile.

“I have lots of scars on my back, Geralt. You will have to be more specific.”

“It’s…” Geralt stands, still acting flustered, and turns Eskel around, laying a hand on the top of Eskel’s shoulder and dragging it down in a rough diagonal before tracing the edge of it—it spans the whole of Eskel’s back, and he thinks he remembers which one it was.

“Uh… Leshen, I think. About… twenty years on the Path? It’s been a while, Geralt, why?”

Geralt spins him around and takes his arm, pulling it forward and stretching his elbow flat. The network of dots on his elbow are visible to the sun for the first time in, gods, half a century at least—he’s tried to keep them covered as much as he can because looking at them was too much. A pale finger traces over them, slightly cool as usual. Eskel wants to take those fingers and chafe them between his palms to warm them up but he knows that would only work a little. Plus he kind of likes that Geralt’s hands are cool to the touch.

“Yeah, uh… that’s where they put the needles for the-”

“The Trials. Yeah. I remember.” Geralt whispers, his finger tracing a connecting line between the star-shaped marks, “Had it done twice.”

“Don’t remind me,” Eskel scowls, remembering the fierce terror at waking up and not knowing where Geralt was, learning that he was having more torture forced on him, then the recovery period where he had sat sentinel at Geralt’s bedside.

“Worst thing I ever lived through,” Geralt murmurs, glancing up at Eskel through white lashes and oh.

Oh.

“Oh.”

Eskel feels numb. And dumb. And like he’s been struck by lightning. Or a griffin. Or a Leshen.

Oh.

“So… we’re idiots, right?” Eskel asks after a moment.

Geralt laughs leaning forward to drop his head onto Eskel’s shoulder. Eskel’s arms come up automatically to hold him, threading fingers through his hair, loose and long and gorgeous. He finger-combs the locks as Geralt shakes, not answering him. Eskel doesn’t worry, it happens sometimes, that Geralt won’t have words.

He does worry a little when he catches the scent of tears, “Geralt?”

“Yeah,” He finally says, “Yeah, we’re idiots.”

“But you’re my idiot,” Eskel says and it’s the strangest, greatest feeling in the world that it’s unequivocally true.

“And you’re mine,” Geralt leans back, tilting his head to the side, and taking Eskel’s mouth with a fierce—but somehow sweeter than even their chastest—kiss.

They knock their foreheads together lightly, eyes closed for just a moment as Geralt’s hands reach up and cup Eskel’s neck and face.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

[carnelianns]

hey i really enjoyed your hc awhile back about ikesen mc who struggled with eating and fear of gaining weight could you possibly do it with the ikevamp boys? like le comte, leo, theo, arthur and nepo please? i’m recovering from an ed and your writing have really helped me alot but i totally understand if it’s too touchy ily and stay safe

it’s such an honor to hear my writing has helped u! i hope you recover well, n please know that i support u & everyone else struggling from this. the boys do as well uwu

tw: starvation

Napoleon Bonaparte

Napoleon isn’t very observant, much less at the dining table wherein he eats his meals for a solid 15 minutes tops before he’s retiring to the comforts of his room once again.

But it doesn’t even take observation skills to see how you barely eat at times, how the most you’d do is shove a spoon of food, maybe two, into your mouth, hastily swallowing it down as if you’re being forced to.

So then he asks. Plain and simple, tilting his head and furrowing his brows as his arms wrap around your waist, your paced breathing the only sound resonating through his room. 

“Why don’t you eat that much?”

Napoleon feels the way you tense up underneath his strong arms, hears how your breathing seems to quicken. In an instant, you’re wriggling yourself out of his grasp, he propping himself up on his elbows to stare at you and the sudden distance between the two of you in confusion.

“Nunuche, did I say something wrong? I’m sorry if—”

“It’s fine, Napoleon.” Your voice is all sorts of tiny and wavering, unable to look him in the eye as you fidget with your fingers — the sight only causing his heart to clench. “It’s just… I, uh, don’t like gaining weight. I want to be, uh, thin — perfect, if you will.”

You don’t look up. You couldn’t. If you did, you would have seen how the past Emperor of France — no, not even — how the man who loves you and only you breaks, cerulean eyes glossing over and a lump forming in his throat.

And he says, plain and simple, tilting his head and furrowing his brows as his hand reaches out to caress the warm skin of your cheek.

“But.. you’re already perfect. Maybe not to yourself, but to me. And… you’re all I need, in all honesty.”

It’s too much, you think. Being loved like this. Because that’s all it took for something inside you to snap, for you to start sobbing, Napoleon pulling you into his arms as he rakes lithe fingers gently through your hair, pampering the crown of your head with light kisses and sweet nothings.

He holds you like that all until you fall asleep, and even after.

Ever since then, Napoleon had taken it upon himself to dine with you, waiting patiently for you to finish your food before even thinking of going anywhere.

It’s slightly embarrassing, how he watches you with such a proud smile on his face, one he denies having whenever you point it out.

Leonardo da Vinci

The first time Leonardo finds you asleep when he gets back to his room, he simply brushes it off as exhaustion from your many chores.

And he’s not fully wrong, just has a full chunk missing. He happens to find said chunk out when you proceed to collapse in his sturdy arms, wearily mumbling for him to carry you back to the bedroom. 

When he finally sets you down into a comfortable position, sitting down beside you on the bed, Leonardo’s simply staring at you, a frown on his face and creases forming on his forehead, yet remaining silent.

“... Aren’t you gonna ask me why?” Your voice is small, unable to meet his gaze.

He speaks slowly, brushing stray strands of hair out of your face, “You’ll tell me if you want to, cara mia.”

And god, how blessed you are to have such an understanding man. It takes a while before you finally say, “I just… don’t want to gain weight. Every time I look in the mirror, I loathe what I see.”

It’s momentarily silent, though his fingers never cease moving around your face. Then, finally, with his gruff voice the softest you’ve ever heard, he sighs.

“You know, cara mia, I look at you, I see beauty.” Before your mouth is opening, ready to spew denials, he continues, tilting your head to his. “Not just in your face, or your body, but in your soul as well.”

Leaning in closer, inches away from your face, you can only hold your breath. Then, he smiles — a real, genuine smile that only makes your heart melt. 

“And I know you might not believe it, but I have all the time in the world to show you what I mean, don’t I?”

He helps you through any and every challenge the both of you face — because it’s not just your struggle anymore, it’s his as well; you are the one he loves, after all.

Most definitely spoon feeds you with that teasing smirk of his at times. It’s enjoyable for him, really, but you have to stop yourself from slapping that damned smirk off his face.

Arthur Conan Doyle

It’s no secret that Arthur was a rotten flirt before your relationship, or that women practically fling themselves onto his arms even after you two had gotten together.

You can’t help but to think each and every girl that tries to hit your lovely boyfriend up seems to be getting prettier and prettier, thinner and thinner. Of course, Arthur politely pushes them away to link himself back to you, but that doesn’t stop your thoughts from running wild all the way back to the mansion.

Try as you might, you’re unable to hide anything from a writer — and not just any writer, the famed writer of Sherlock Holmes who just so happens to be the one you’ve shared yourself with over and over again. 

So when you find yourselves back in his room after a long day, resting quietly on his soft bed, it’s no surprise when you feel his hot breath on your cheek, or the slight creak of the bed under his added weight. Your eyes crack open to Arthur’s face inches away from yours in a position you’re well-acquainted to, though the expression on his face differs.

Worry gleams in those normally jovial eyes of his, unthwarted even when you run your fingers through his hair soothingly, just the way he likes it.

“What were the thoughts going through that pretty little head of yours earlier?”

His voice is hushed, though clear as day in the empty room. The question has you pausing momentarily, before dropping the hand previously lost in his messy locks.

You hum, caressing his face, though a faraway look sets itself in your eyes, “Those girls are really pretty. And they’re so thin. Should I lose some more weight? Sleep in tomorrow to miss breakfast? I absolutely hate my bo—mmph!”

Your words were muffled when Arthur’s lips crash onto yours, silencing you in mere seconds. When he pulls away only leaving the both of you breathless, you almost wish his face wasn’t so close — the pain etched in every line of his face was horrible. 

Wordlessly, he kisses every part of your skin, intent on leaving nothing untouched, slight tingles following in its trail. As if saying “I love this, I love you.”

He had never really been good with words when it came to his own emotions, and yet that night had him repeating three simple words over and over, as if saying a prayer he wished to ingrain into your heart and mind. 

Arthur proceeds to act like an overexcited puppy with you, bringing you any and every type of food he thinks you’d like. 

You never have the heart to say no, especially when his chest puffs out in pride after you take a bite.

Theodorus van Gogh

You estimated that it would take about a week or two for someone to notice your regressing eating habits. But having Theo as a lover pulled your estimations way back.

So here you are, awkwardly staring at the man, his eyebrows raised and the words he’d previously uttered racing through your mind. 

“Do you think I wouldn’t notice how you’re barely chomping anything down anymore?”

Your actions are stiff, fidgeting with your fingers while you avert your gaze. “I.. thought you’d be busy, is all.”

“Busy enough to ignore the fact that the one I love is starving?” You wince at the edge in his tone, one he notices, only causing him to sigh. 

Covering the distance between you two, Theo gently pushes your chin up to meet his gaze, all sorts of worry clear in his bright eyes. With pink tinging his ears, his tone softens, not once breaking the eye contact.

“I care about you, schatje. You’re the only one I can ever love. Remember that, yeah? So I don’t have to keep repeating it…” He trails off, cheeks flushed a hot red and bottom lip caught in between his teeth in a way that only induces a watery chuckle from you. 

Theo never forces you to eat anything you don’t want to, but he serves as your cheerleader — more like drill sergeant, in actuality. He always finds subtle ways to get you to eat a bit more, bringing you home some food he deems healthy whenever he goes out.

Though he doesn’t comment on it, he’s extremely happy whenever he sees you eating more than usual, desperately trying to hide the smile on his face from you. 

He offers you some of his pancakes at times — he doesn’t even offer them to Vincent. It’s a heartwarming gesture coming from the tsundere. 

Comte de Saint-Germain

Do not underestimate this man — Comte is far more observant than he lets on, so the very moment you decide to revert back into your starvation habits, he’s immediately right behind you. 

He, however, is also very understanding, and it takes him a good portion of the day to conjure up a way to tackle the situation.

Finally, when you’re languidly running a brush through your hair, Comte takes it upon himself to snake up behind you, pressing his warm body against your back. 

“I’ve noticed how you haven’t been eating as much.”

His voice has no trace of accusation — only a simple, no-nonsense statement, bringing you to relax your tense form once more. 

Gauging your reaction, he continues carefully, “Do you mind telling me why?”

“It might sound silly but… I’m afraid you’ll leave me if I gain weight.”

Your soft reply only has his eyes widening, mouth gaping ever-so slightly in a way you thought unfit on his regal face.

Then, gently tilting your head to face him, his golden eyes meet yours, smile not-all that bright — slightly pained, if you will — yet he still tries. 

“Although you might not believe my words now, this heart of mine belongs to you and only you, ma chérie.”

He must have seen the slight hesitancy in your eyes, the thoughts whirling in your head. A gentle smile sets itself unto his face, his large, smooth hand moving to grasp your own. 

“Besides, I have all this time on my hands, and I wouldn’t mind spending it all on you.”

Comte’s with you every step of the way, getting every and anything you need or want   

He also takes it upon himself to cook you some meals as well — ones bordering on the thin line between digestible and inedible; apparently not all immortals have cooking skills — but it’s the thought that counts. 

[yukiwrites]

Byleth, Asking Questions

Thank you for the support as always, @xpegasusuniverse​! I hope you like it!

Summary: After retrieving the Lance of Ruin from Miklan, Byleth wonders alone in his tent about the origin of the Heroes Relics. Sothis’ reaction to the questions only makes Byleth delve deeper into his musings, to the point of bringing it up to Rhea...

Commission info HERE and HERE!

______________________________

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 -  Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10  - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 

The loud noise of the rain shaking the outside of Byleth's tent only made the silence inside of it to ring in the professor's ears more with each passing second.

Sitting on his bed, the former mercenary held the recently recovered Lance of Ruin in his hands, observing it intently. The ancient weapon had many intricate details, from the crest stone so carefully carved into it to the forgotten language etched all over it.

Not to mention these... moving spots.

The lance itself behaved as though it were a living being -- when wielded by someone with the right crest (namely, Sylvain), it glowed in a vibrant red, much like the Sword of the Creator did whenever Byleth himself brandished it. However, different from the Sword, one could feel something akin to a faint heartbeat once they harnessed the power of the Lance of Ruin.

The bone-like structures close to its tip would move ominous and disgustingly, honestly giving Byleth the creeps.

Frowning, the professor placed the dangerous weapon on the floor in front of him, promptly placing his own Sword of the Creator by his lap. He took it upon himself to once again observe the weapon, as though he could figure something out if he stared at it intently.

The pommel, shaft and hand guard were all so well made they've yet to see decay even after withstanding the use of a thousand years. Trailing his fingertips through the blade, Byleth narrowed his eyes, deep in thought, towards the abandoned Lance on the floor.

The moment his fingers reached the flexible structure on the Sword, his eyes reached the creepy, bone-resembling bits of the Lance, making realization hit him almost like a slap on the face.

"Hey, Sothis?" He closed his eyes so as to see his mind roommate, needing but a moment of concentration to be able to see her in the waking world, even after opening his eyes.

The young-looking green-haired girl floated in front of him, descending towards the Lance as her expression turned somber. "Still thinking about that terrible happening at the Tower?" She whispered, forlorn. “That man... His form was changed. It was as though that lance was swallowing him whole. Upon that sight, it makes sense that your students were upset. I wonder if those Relics truly hide such power? Yet even still, that power seems familiar. That form as well... As one who wields the Sword of the Creator... Does that mean you possess that power too? It is not a wonder you've left the Lance on the floor -- what sort of danger could you be at risk of encountering should you keep it too close for more than necessary?"

Byleth once again trailed his hand through the Sword. "Well, that's not exactly what I was thinking about, though I confess it did cross my mind."

Sothis looked at him from her apparent seat on the floor. "Oh? Enlighten me."

It took the professor a moment to gather his thoughts, the frown growing deeper by his brow. "It's just... these weapons are a millennia old, yes? Apparent gifts the goddess bestowed upon mankind in its time of need?"

"Or so the Church says, indeed." Sothis bobbed her head to the sides. "Get to the point already! I'm beside myself with curiosity."

"But these are clearly bones, Sothis. Look, here," he activated the Sword's extension by twisting his wrist, watching how it apparently broke into several parts, joined by a whip in the middle. "This is a spinal cord, no way around it. And these?" He pointed to the shapes close to the Lance's tip, "don't they look like spatulas to you? What kind of benevolent Goddess, Progenitor of all life, gives weapons made out of bones to protect the ones devout to her?"

"Not a good one, apparently." Sothis mused, placing one hand under chin in thought. She stared intently at the Sword of the Creator, watching how it flickered bright red simply by being close to Byleth. "This is... making me feel utterly uncomfortable." She declared, her expression turning bitter with each word.

Byleth felt nauseous, surely because he channeled what Sothis was feeling at the moment. "Sothis-" The nausea and light-headedness made the professor wince in pain, quickly lying down to regain his balance.

"Enough! No more of this!" Sothis panted, holding her head with both hands. "This topic- it is not right. You should not delve deeper into this lest you regret what you might learn!" She huffed before disappearing, certainly to rest.

It still took a few minutes for Byleth to start feeling better, though he never took the Heroes Relics out of his sight, his mind set on what he was going to do next.

It took their party another three days to return to the monastery due to the bad weather -- although the cold season was still a ways to come, the rain in Faerghus stung as hard as a snowfall, and was just as cold.

Weary from the trip yet still resolved to finding out more, Byleth trudged directly towards the Archbishop's audience chamber. His clothes still drenched and travelling supplies hanging all around his belt and back, the professor marched in holding one Relic in each hand.

Rhea gasped with relief upon finally seeing that Byleth had returned, quickly trotting to him so as to offer him her handkerchief so he could at least dry his face.

"Professor, you have returned." She flashed a motherly smile, "The goddess is indeed generous with her protection. I have already read Gilbert's report on the matter -- see that you keep all that happened to yourself. We would not want panic to spread amongst the students or populace regarding the misuse of a Hero's Relic."

"Of course," Byleth nodded in compliance as the Archbishop carefully approached to dry his forehead. "I have, however, a question mostly unrelated to the matter."

"Oh?" Rhea stepped back to give the professor his space, watching how he placed the Lance of Ruin between the two of them.

"The Church teaches that the Heroes Relics were gifts bestowed to mankind by the Goddess herself, yes?" He asked, not waiting for an answer, though receiving a nod of confirmation. "How did she come by these weapons, though? They clearly look as though they were assembled from the bones of some sort of... creature."

That statement made Rhea blink in surprise, her expression changing from shock to disgust before quickly reverting back to her serene mask. "There were, ah, many a question regarding this matter throughout the ages, dear Professor. I cannot claim to understand what the Goddess was thinking the day she blessed the land with her presence, however, I can promise you that: the Heroes Relics were made using very powerful... materials." She narrowed her eyes as though retching what she had just said, looking down to the tip of the Lance of Ruin.

"You fool!!" Sothis screamed at full capacity, startling Byleth out of his skin. "Do not go asking questions you might regret hearing the answer to! Stop talking this instant! I feel sick already!"

Yet, that only spurred the professor further. "Materials, Lady Rhea?" He lifted the Sword of the Creator overhead, focusing his conscience in it so it would glow blood-red. "The spine cord of a powerful monster is the secret of the strongest Relic in history?"

"Monster?!" Rhea hissed, forgetting her composure for a moment. "Ah! Forgive this outburst of emotion, I-"

"Stop talking, stop making questions! Aren't you feeling this gut-chilling fear that's shaking my very soul? Do not utter another word!!" Sothis yelled and, true to her words, Byleth did feel light-headed and scared out of his wits. Forcing himself not to sway on his feet, the professor shook his head as Rhea kept on speaking.

"I am rather tired due to all of this excitement, do you not, Professor?" Rhea shook her head in distress, color leaving her face. "The Church will formally return the Lance to House Gautier, so if you would..." She reached out to the Lance Byleth inadvertently used as support once he started feeling dizzy.

Hesitating, the Professor simply gripped harder on the lance for a split of second.

"Give it to her! Get away from here this instant! I cannot bear this conversation any longer...!" Sothis begged in his head and Byleth knew that if she had a physical body, she would be kicking him on the shin right there and then.

Ultimately, Byleth let go of the Lance, dutifully handing it to Rhea.

"Thank you, Professor," she smiled weakly, the color still far from her face. "I knew I made the right judgment in trusting you with this mission."

"Of course," Byleth bowed slightly, staggering so faintly it escaped Rhea's watchful gaze. "If I may, I wish to come back and ask more questions regarding this matter... another time, of course."

Rhea frowned slightly. "Another time, indeed."

"If you'll excuse me," Byleth bowed once again, turning on his heel to leave. The next time he was to approach Rhea on this subject, he should be better prepared -- with at least more Relics to study the pattern of the bones (or bone-like structures, one could never say) and figure out what they truly were.

He felt that the answer to these questions were directly related to Sothis and the reason she was trapped inside his heart -- seeing and truly feeling what she felt whenever the matter was mentioned only proved that there was something relating the girl with the power of the Relics… And Byleth was going to find out what, no matter how long it took.

Sothis was a precious presence and friend to the professor by that point, and doing whatever he could to help her regain her memories was the very least he could do, even if it meant going against her immediate wishes from time to time.

[daemongal]

The greatest gift

V x reader, angst, SFW.

T.W. mention of thoughts of suicide.

For some reason I have decided to celebrate V's special day with this. Hope you enjoy my first attempt at writing angst :)

___________

Today was V's birthday, and the anniversary of the day you met the tattooed man, a day you would never forget.

You had found him shambling around looking lost and disjointed, completely stark naked. You can’t really remember what went through your mind at that moment. Normally you’d stay as far away as possible from weird men, especially those who were happy enough to put themselves on display, but you remember feeling an intense desire to protect him, the moment you laid eyes on him; a feeling skin to how a mother feels the first time they hold their child in their arms.

You gave him your coat to cover his modesty and established that his name was V. You remember how taken aback he was at your generosity when you welcomed him into your home and how confused he was at your concern for his wellbeing. You fed him, worried that he hadn’t eaten in days considering how frail his body looked. He would always tell you that he was fine, and that his body was just weak.

When everything started going to hell, he was there at your side, protecting you with every ounce of his being. You would tell him repeatedly how strong he was, how brave he was but a look of guilt seemed to forever linger in his eyes. You took refuge with him at the Devil May Cry which remained vacant in a somewhat safer part of town, after its proprietor had fallen at the hands of the Demon King. V told you to leave, to evacuate from the town and stay away, but you couldn’t leave him. You knew you couldn’t protect him, but you still wanted to be there for him. He said you gave him strength, the strength to keep fighting.

He would leave in the mornings, scouting for any survivors, returning just after sunset each day with supplies and stories of his exploits. You would listen to him talk for hours, savouring every note of his voice. Each night you would retreat to bed and hold each other so tight that not even the splitting of the earth could separate you.

It was love, of that much you were sure. You still remember the look of pure disbelief on his face when you told him the first time. He told you he was undeserving, that your love was too good for him, that he was a weak and futile being that could never give you the happiness you truly deserved.

“If only he knew how wrong he was” you thought. You smiled to yourself, pulling yourself out of your daydream as you pressed the buzzer on the bus, signalling it to stop. You stepped down the ramp that had been lowered for you, flashing a smile at the bus driver as you left. You knew you had a bit of a walk to your destination, buses tended to just stick to the main roads these days, but you didn’t mind. You enjoyed the memories attached to these tracks.

You knew back then he had secrets, but you told him time and time again that his secrets were his and his alone and that you knew him well enough that anything he kept from you would be for your protection.

You sighed as you walked further up the track. You knew nothing would have changed if you had known, if he had told you the truth. His determination and drive were the features that drew you to him, and you knew nothing would have changed his goal or the outcome. Redgrave was slowly recovering from its loss, and you had a family now. It was chaotic and messy, but Kyrie’s cooking was second to none and Nero was like the brother you never had.

You hadn’t been to visit V in a while, a guilty pang hit your chest at the thought, but your life had become busy as of late and you knew he would understand. You smiled as you were nearing the house on the hill; his family home.

You knew there was something wrong that morning. He had woken you up earlier than usual, a darkness and passion in his eyes deeper than you had ever seen before. You had made love with unrivalled intensity as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear, and etched his very presence onto your soul. He told you he would be back by nightfall, as he always was. You didn’t believe him, yet there you stood, at the door giving him his kiss goodbye, waving him off as you always did. The tears began to fall soon after. You remember the door opening that night and the elation you felt. When Nero stepped through the door, bloodied and bruised avoiding any and all eye contact, you dropped to the floor, legs no longer able to bear the despair you felt.

You took a deep breath as you stood at your destination. You put the breaks on the stroller and reached for the flowers resting against the hood. You had decided on white lilies, soft and gentle much like his heart. You placed them on the memorial as you dusted the headstone with your hand, removing any debris. You gently lifted your daughter out of their seat and held her.

“Hey V.” You started, taking a deep breath to still your words. “Sorry it’s been a while, I’ve been pretty preoccupied.” You gazed lovingly towards your daughter. “Isn’t she incredible darling. Born of our love. Your legacy.” You pressed a kiss to her soft head to calm your shaking breath. You promised that you would always be strong for him, and that wasn’t going to change.

“She has your eyes. The nurses said they’d never seen a new born like her; lily white hair and eyes that looked like they’d seen the world five times over. Nero's enamoured with her. Calls himself Uncle Nero, he’s even stopped swearing, said he doesn’t want to be a bad influence, I know, you’d have to see it to believe it. Nico's determined that her first words are going to be dead weight.” You laughed quietly to yourself, fighting back the heat rising in your face and the stinging in the corners of your eyes.

“Still no sign of Dante returning, or Nero's old man. I hope they’re both ok. I’d like to meet him sometime, Virgil that is. Tell him how lucky he is to have such a great son. I don’t think it’ll be long before little Eva has herself a cousin. I’ve seen the way Kyrie looks at him when he holds her.” She held your index finger tightly in her hand as you spoke.

“Oh yeah, I hope you don’t mind, I named her after your mother. You were always at your happiest when you spoke about your childhood and I wanted to picture that smile whenever I looked at her.” You paused for a moment to gather your thoughts .

“I’m so sorry that you weren’t here to... to hold her with... me...” your vision blurred as you felt a familiar warmth on your cheeks, as the tears began to pour from your eyes against your control. Your arms shook as you placed Eva back in her seat and collapsed to your knees, hands against your face, throat burning from fighting back the tears and chest heaving with every intake of breath.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t do this! I never wanted you to see me like this. I needed to be strong for you V, I was your strength, I was your reason to keep fighting. I’ve needed you so much these past few months, I’ve fought so hard. I’ve struggled so much. Every time I look at her, I see you. If it wasn’t for her I... I... probably wouldn’t even be here.” You were sobbing uncontrollably, spilling your heart out, everything you wanted to hide and conceal behind a facade. But you were breaking, you couldn’t keep it up any more.

“I was ready to join you V, oh so ready. And then I found out, I had a life inside of me; a life that we created together. Even though you’re not here, every part of you that has been left behind is keeping me going, keeping me alive, protecting me. Someone weak couldn’t do that, someone weak couldn’t create such beauty.” The tears eased as you glanced towards your daughters peaceful face. You wiped your eyes, the tears stilling for long enough for you to regain some of your composure.

“Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care, but for another gives its ease, and builds a heaven in hells despair.” You read the words engraved into the headstone in front of you, tracing them with your fingers as you did. “I spent many a long night reading your book. The only peace I could find was in its pages. I read this one from the hospital bed the night I found out about our treasure and nothing has ever resonated with me more.”

You shared a few moments of silence, before a familiar gurgling began from behind you. You chuckled as you stood up. “For someone who used to struggle to clear a plate of food, you sure made one hungry baby.” You lifted her and cradled her against your breast. “Thank you , V. You’ve given me the greatest gift I could have imagined. How something so pure could have been born from a hell so grim, only you could have done this.” You looked down the hill to see the familiar van waiting. Nico knew you were coming today and offered to pick you up on her way back home, knowing you’d probably not want to face public transport.

“Looks like my ride is here. Nico's always on time now, and her driving has never been better. She realised her driving was not child safe in the slightest. How I made it to the hospital in one piece when I went into labour I'll never know. I don’t know who was freaking out more, her or Nero!” You smiled at the happy memories. You had so many of them now, and it was all possible because of him.

“Happy birthday, V. I’ll make sure she knows who her father was and how incredible he was.” You placed Eva back in the stroller as she gives you a content gargle.

“I’ll make you proud V. I’ll do it for the both of us... I love you.”

___________

A/N: I decided to go with a scenario where you were never told about what really happened in the Qliphoth. As far as you were aware, he died at the hands of Urizen (just in case anyone cared enough to wonder haha). Also, for the purpose of this fic, Devil May Cry is located in Redgrave, just seemed like a good place to stow away in my mind.

I'm sorry ;_;

[lichlover]

hello can i get one order of taakitz fluff?? just. cuddles. jokes and japes. smth quiet n warm in front of a couch. thank u i adore u and your writing

happy birthday, seren!!! you’re an inspiration and an incredible talent and i’m so, so lucky to call you my friend. that said: one order of taakitz fluff, coming right up! i told you i was taking notes.

please consider donating to my ko-fi!

Kravitz can’t find his cloak.

That wouldn’t normally be a problem. It’s a material construct that he can dematerialize and summon at will. Technically, it’s an extension of his manifest, which in the past has led to some fairly interesting discussions over the sacrament of pillow talk. But lately he’s found snippets of information and common sense slipping through his brain like a sieve—human error, he might have called it, had he been human. The thing about the real world is that it’s bright and loud and it moves terribly fast, and the passage of time is stiffly marked by increments of hours and minutes and seconds, and for how long he’s been living with Taako in the material plane, one would think he’d be used to it.

He isn’t.

That’s why the watch sitting on his wrist reads a good ten minutes after when he was supposed to be at the office. (At least, it would, if it told time in minutes—it’s more of a vague impression of lateness, which Kravitz feels like a prickle across his neck.) Taako’s side of the bed is empty; he’s a surprisingly diligent early riser when he needs to be, which means he’s (a) already at work and (b) mercifully not there to see Kravitz on his knees, digging through the sea of clothes that smother the floor of their walk-in closet. It’s not the way he’d wanted to spend his morning and it certainly isn’t the way he’d expected.

He’s been at it for some time now—if he has to approximate, about the length of a wine being aged, or a star being born—and some endeavors, however brave, must ultimately be abandoned. Kravitz stands up, immediately slips on a gauzy blouse, and lands on his back with a mountain of scarves to cushion his fall. And oh, that is it. The sun isn’t risen and he’s already had it.

He storms into the living room in a huff, thinking maybe if he checks the coat rack one more time, it’ll just magically appear. The universe owes him a few small miracles, anyway. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem to want him to cash in, because his cloak isn’t hanging on the rack, and it isn’t draped over the arm of their recliner like it is when he’s too agitated to bother. Kravitz’s gaze darts from the recliner to the couch, where a lamp’s soft light breaks up the monotony of darkness, and then he sees it. A layer of impossibly soft suede and peaceful, settled feathers, wrapped tightly around Taako’s sleeping form.

“Oh,” Kravitz breathes, and just like that, he morning’s frustration melts away. Taako’s ears are set at a relaxed incline, and his lips are slightly parted by the occasional shallow exhale. He’s actually sleeping, Kravitz knows; not trancing, because there is no telltale flutter of his eyelashes or complete, meditative stillness. When he shifts, the cloak shifts with him, feathers perking and ruffling before they settle again. Kravitz has never known it to attune itself to anyone other than him, but somehow, he thinks, it suits Taako well.

He rocks back on his heels, debating the possibility of just going to work without the thing; he can do without a little dramatic flair just once. Of course, his internal agonizing is promptly cut short when Taako stirs again and looks blearily up at him.

“Mm,” he says, and then tries again. “Hi.”

“Hi,” says Kravitz, softly. “I thought you were at work.”

Taako shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d go ’n, uh…” He breaks off into a tiny yawn. “Thought I’d make some tea or somethin’. Kinda ended up here instead.”

Ended up here, indeed. Kravitz is familiar with Taako���s late-night pacing and unconventional rhythms. On some particularly restless nights, he’ll wake up to hear pots and pans clanging in the kitchen, or something sizzling on the stove. After he wakes up, he very rarely falls asleep again. Kravitz, for whom Circadian cycles really don’t mean anything, tends to stay up with him.

Which is why this is so rare. And now he’s kicking himself for practically standing around and waiting for Taako to wake, even though Taako himself doesn’t seem bothered. Instead, he detangles his arms from the folds of Kravitz’s cloak and reaches out.

“Why’re you just standin’ around like that?” he mumbles. “C’mere.”

Kravitz’s work-oriented self says, I can’t, I really have to go, it’s a lot easier than it should be to blow off an actual goddess and I shouldn’t be taking advantage of that. The part of him that’s exhausted and aching from frantically digging through a mountain of clothes gives in straightaway. He relents, and Taako inches toward the edge of the couch, still half-buried under a mound of feathers. With admittedly practiced ease, Kravitz climbs carefully over Taako’s legs and tosses a few pillows to the ground as he situates himself. Before he can get himself completely settled, though, Taako shifts again and tucks himself into Kravitz’s side, prodding at the cloak to drape it over them both. A soft, familiar hum of static ripples over them as it comes back into contact with its original owner, and the feathers shudder, then go dormant once more.

“I should be at work,” he says, to no one in particular.

The cloak flutters as Taako shrugs. “You can kick it for a couple hours, right? They try to send Barry or Lup after us, I’ll just throw up some good ol’ wards around the place.”

“You know that would kick me out too, right?”

“Really? Shit. Guess we’re livin’ on a prayer, then.” He snickers at his own wit. “Anyway, we both—we deserve a day off. Or at least a morning off. If it’s even morning. What time is it?”

Kravitz thumbs absently over Taako’s hairline and says, “What were you doing up?”

“Huh?” Taako’s eyes flick to his through a few angled feathers. “Like I said. Just, uh… just got, uh, restless. Happens sometimes, y’know?”

He’s holding Kravitz’s gaze too steadily. It’s a tell he himself is more than familiar with—in a gamble, for instance, a bluff is always faulted by the player’s overconfidence. If they act too honest, too assured, the façade drops faster than they can fold.

Taako is remarkably good at façades, but lying to Kravitz is the one thing he’s never seemed to have gotten down. It probably denotes something meaningful, which doesn’t really matter right now, because Kravitz is only concerned with why Taako would be lying.

The answer probably is, as it so often seems to be nowadays, Because I didn’t want you to worry.

His husband threads a few of the feathers between his fingers, and the back of Kravitz’s neck prickles, although not altogether unpleasantly. “Okay, yeah. It was just a—just a fucked-up nightmare, okay? I didn’t do anything bad. It’s all—Taako’s all good. I just couldn’t stay in there.” He tips his head in the vague direction of their bedroom, where the covers on their bed are now thrown back on both sides, and the floor is covered in clothing.

The cloak gives another brief, distinctly anxious shudder, and suddenly its attunement to Taako makes a lot more sense. Kravitz can feel that anxiety in the pit of his stomach as easily as if it were his own. If the cloak is an extension of his soul, then they’re soulbound, or something to that end. (There’s another word for what they are, in another universe, where those bonds are etched deep into their skin. But that sort of thing is better suited for a different story.)

So Taako isn’t all good. It doesn’t take a soulbinding to know that. But he shifts the cloak over his shoulder and Kravitz notices that his breathing is even, his pupils thin and ears still lying dormant. He is, for all intents and purposes, at peace as he tucks his head under Kravitz’s chin and toys with the collar of his shirt. There’s truth in that much, at least.

And maybe it’s selfish—hell, it’s probably the most wishful he’ll ever be in his thinking. But Kravitz can’t help but notice the way Taako shrinks stubbornly under the cloak, like it’s shielding against the open air or some residual darkness. And because it’s far too early in the morning and exhaustion is starting to drag at his eyelids again, he has to ask.

“Does this—does it help?”

“Does what help?”

“The, uh… the cloak.”

“It’s not—” Taako scoffs. “It’s not a fuckin’—security blanket. I was just cold, okay?”

He doesn’t want a response to that, not really. So Kravitz threads his fingers fondly through Taako’s hair, which as of late has been more of a reflex than anything else, and Taako moves a little closer and reaches up drowsily to return it in kind. Regardless of whatever had roused him at some ungodly hour, in the moment he looks more than recovered. Kravitz watches his eyelashes flutter and thinks as long as it’s over, he doesn’t need to know. Not now.

(It’ll come up in conversation, as it always does, over a candlelit table for two or in front of a raging fire when all they have is each other, and the honesty that follows at the heels of those moments. Sometimes truth is a slow burn, and sometimes it’s spontaneous and a little drunk, and they’ve both found they’re alright with that.)

The clock on their far wall ticks softly away, and they lie curled into each other under the cloak, dozing as the sky starts to grow paler and Kravitz’s watch informs him, in a language older than time itself, that it’s really not even worth going into work at this point. The Raven Queen’s resonance hasn’t reached out, he’s noticed; nor have Lup or Barry smashed through the entryway and demanded to know where the fight is. It’s a quiet, far-too-early morning, and they’re safe and warm and all they have is each other.

Taako is the first to break the silence.

“Alright,” he mumbles, and then, “fine, get off my shit, it kinda—it’s part of your manifest or whatever, right? So, yeah, it makes me feel safe. Duh.”

His expression is nearly impossible to make out under the feathered hem, but the tips of Taako’s ears are slightly flushed in a very familiar way.

You make me feel safe.

Kravitz has gotten pretty adept at reading between the lines, and for good reason.

“Well,” he says. “That’s what I’m here for. Quite literally, in this case.”

A bit of the cloak hits him in the shoulder, and, well, fine, he deserved that. “That barely made any fuckin’ sense.”

“It’s not even six-thirty, you can’t expect me to make sense.”

“You’re a dork,” Taako snarks, and tugs at his collar again, and pulls Kravitz in for a kiss. It’s sharp and languid and perfectly suited for the early morning, and the pale sky, and the way they’re both clinging to each other for balance. The cloak’s feathers jump and flutter excitedly. He’s late—dear gods, he’s so late—and it’s perfect.

They pull apart, and his husband’s voice is light and breathless as he says, “You stickin’ around?”

And it’s by sheer coincidence—although if the universe has taught him anything, it’s that a coincidence is more often than not a trick of Fate—that right then, the Raven Queen’s voice echoes in his head.

IS EVERYTHING ALRIGHT, MY SON? comes the projection, strong and full but cautious in volume (because they’ve both learned from incidents past). HAVE YOU ELECTED TO… TAKE A DAY OFF, AS THE MORTALS SAY?

Kravitz locks his gaze with Taako’s.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m exactly where I need to be.”

[thestuckylibrary]

Mod’s Reads: August 2017

Here's the list of everything the Mods have read this past month!

Mod Blue

Cliché by BladedFeather THAT TIME STEVE AND BUCKY GOT MARRIED by ipoiledi Plug & Play by DisappointMe Progress (The One With The Post-It Notes) by Paraxdisepink Today's Another Day To Find You by perfect_plan Broken Dicks and Bloody Noses by nerakrose Exactly One Wedding and Zero Funerals by nerakrose Third Time's the Charm by nerakrose Cornerstone by Magnetism_bind Funny But It Seems I Always Wind Up Here With You by perfect_plan I’ve Been Careless With a Delicate Man by Paraxdisepink First, Do No Harm by BarqueBatch, SkyisGray One Caress by fuck_me_barnes War, Children by Nonymos In This Life and the Next by ScootyPuffJrSucks  From Such Darkness We'll Hold Pretty True by Nori

Mod Julia

And the Silhouettes You Drew by inkdust

Some of the pieces Bucky’s slowly getting back aren’t really memories. They’re more like...feelings.

Complicated, uncertain, potentially embarrassing feelings.

And Steve is no help at all.

Grind by Claudia_flies

Steve opens the fancy cardboard packaging and pulls out the underpants. They are bright white and look small, but the girl in the store had convinced him that they were just his size. The waistband is etched with the brand name. Apparently, that’s very important.

The Thing Is... by cleo4u2, xantissa

It’s Bucky’s job to take control, but it’s Steve who runs the show, tells Bucky how far he wants to be pushed, punished, and played with. They won’t talk about it tomorrow, because Steve will be gone before Bucky wakes up. They never talk about why this thing between them happens. Bucky doesn’t know why. It matters, but he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t ask.

Not Just A Pretty Face by cleo4u2

Steve does something stupid on a mission and Bucky has to save him with a little help from Howard Stark.

Feral by sahiya

Steve had learned to live on less than what he actually needed a long time ago. Food in the Great Depression; touch and affection in the twenty-first century. It wasn’t really that different.

maybe tomorrow (i'll find my way home) by obsessivereader, SD_Ryan

What if… What if Captain America died on the Valkyrie. What if he was reborn. What if the Winter Soldier met him after the fall of the helicarriers.

A Game Show Love Connection by emphasisonem

In which Steve Rogers starts watching Jeopardy as a fun way to learn about the things he’s missed, gets selected through the online test, auditions for the show and surprises the hell out of everyone. Especially one James Buchanan Barnes.

Winter Gorgon by Quarra

For as long as Steve could remember, all he ever wanted to do was what was right. So when he hears about his father's old regiment being held as POW's by the Nazis, he's determined to put what Doctor Erskine gave him to good use and goes AWOL to rescue them.

But the 107th isn't all he finds there. Deep in the labs is a very unusual prisoner; one with snakes in his hair and a mask nailed to his face. Despite the man's monstrous visage, Steve can't in good conscience leave him to the enemy. That one act of mercy will change his life, the course of the war, and even the future of the world.

Anatomy of a Scandal by Rena

When Steve Rogers returns to Brooklyn, the marriage arranged for him having proven to be a sham, he is desperate; desperate to regain his footing in Society, desperate to secure a wealthy spouse capable of paying the costly treatments that keep his mother alive and settling his family's debts. But how is he to do that when people view him as nothing more than damaged goods, someone to be sneered at, ridiculed, looked down upon, or pitied at best?

An opportunity presents itself when Lord Barnes, the renowned carefree Casanova of Brooklyn, forgets himself during one night of drunken stupor, sending Steve a letter that flouts all laws of common decency.

Brave Boy by rooonil_waazlib

Steve’s always wanted to see Madrid: to have the chance to wander through Retiro Park; to explore the Museo del Prado and the Royal Palace and the Reina Sofía; maybe to light a candle at the Almudena Cathedral; to drink wine and eat tapas at all hours of the night and go dancing until the sun comes up, just once or twice.

Never in his entire life had he expected it might happen this way, though: a terrible memory ground into his brain; a scar the size of his fist knotted over his shoulder; his friends convinced he’s dead; his hair dyed dark; and a bodyguard next to him that’s pretending to be his new husband.

Howitzer by spacebuck

Bucky Barnes, figure skating champion, is forced to switch his skates for hockey ones when he leaves for college. Problem is, he's never played hockey before, and now he has to be good enough to get the scholarship he needs. Enter Steve Rogers, Carter University Men's Hockey player, who's decided that he'd do anything to get this guy on his team.

The Saughteling by Claudia_flies, Hopeless--Geek (wuzzy90), SD_Ryan, zilia

James Buchanan Barnes and Steve Grant Rogers arrive at the Jedi Temple just over twelve months apart.

Many years later, a disillusioned Jedi Knight Steve Rogers returns to the Core Worlds at the summoning of the Jedi Council. Instead of following the will of the Council, Steve chooses a different path. His quest will lead Steve to confront a specter from his past and finally open himself up to the will of the Force.

no matter how long the day is (i'll come home to you) by alby_mangroves, talkplaylove

Or, the one where Captain America travels the world, learns how to be Steve Rogers again, and meets Bucky Barnes along the way. Also: the one where two old souls fall in love over young adult books, long distance calls, and texting at strange hours of the day.

the cold never bothered me anyway by icoulddothisallday

Bucky Barnes has spent his whole life in a state of mild hypothermia. Steve Rogers has spent the last 70 years in the ice. The two things aren’t related until, suddenly, they are. Shrunkyclunks soulmate AU (AKA the awkward bb au).

Tint & Shade by InTheArmsofaThief

Somewhere between the fall of Shield due to a long running Hydra infiltration, finding out that his land lord is an Avenger, and being commissioned for some truly gaudy paintings, Steve finds himself harboring the worlds most wanted.

Fourth Floor by dirtybinary, mithborien, picoalloe

(The one where Steve is an angry millennial wizard, Sam is a Disney prince, Natasha is a shapeshifter, and Bucky is a spoiler.)

Give Me Fuel, Give Me Fire by 221BJen (jcoz1701), faceisamess

Brooklyn detective Steve Rogers finds his loyalty tested when he goes undercover to investigate a group at the center of a series of high speed heists. He doesn’t know what to make of James Barnes and his family of choice, but he wants to know more. Drag races, muscle cars and intense attraction leave Steve wondering if he’s in way too deep. Spoiler alert: Definitely.

Freshwater Memories by superheroresin

Steve hasn’t been back to his family’s cottage for years, ever since the car accident took both his parents and his childhood memories. His therapist seems to think it’s a good idea for him to get out of the city for a while, so Steve decides it's time to fix it up. He remembers a lot of things when he’s finally arrives, smells the fresh grass, hears the whisper of the trees, and the familiar warmth of a home away from home. The river outside is familiar too, only Steve can’t quite remember the imaginary friend he invented from it, when he needed one the most.

The river remembers him though, and will be damned if it watches his old friend sulk in loneliness instead of play with him, like he used to.

After, Therefore Because of It by alby_mangroves, noncorporealform

Steve wants Bucky’s help to solve the murder of Dr. Abraham Erskine. Meanwhile, Bucky wants to find out what happened to Steve after his mysterious disappearance at seventeen.

I, The Paradox by DrowningByDegrees, Hopeless--Geek (wuzzy90), Riakomai

Sharing a life with a recovering Winter Soldier means never quite escaping what Steve sees as his biggest failure. When one of Tony’s machines functions differently than advertised, Steve is given an unexpected opportunity to change the past. He’s spent so much time mapping out all the ways he could have saved Bucky from falling, but in the moment, he never stops to consider whether or not he should.

Actions have consequences, and meddling with time has more drastic ones than most. Steve wakes with two divergent timelines in his head, and two very different versions of Bucky in his bed.

Mod Karin

Coming Home by charlesdk

“Steve, you don't know a damn thing about that guy. The fact that you're even considering keeping him in your house is crazy.”

“I don't care.” Steve glanced over at the stranger, his face softening when he saw him sinking back into the couch cushions and gripping his backpack so tightly. “Sam, the guy looks like no one's been nice to him for years. How am I supposed to be okay with just sending him off somewhere?”

Sam sighed heavily and looked heavenward. “I swear to God, if I come by tomorrow and find you dead in your bed, I'm gonna find a way to bring you back to life just to kill you again.”

OR – in which former army captain, current farmer Steve Rogers finds a bruised and battered and dirty stranger who remembers nothing and doesn't speak in his barn. He takes him in, despite his friends' advice not to, and helps him recover. It's not easy. Especially not when, along the way, feelings get involved.

Gweilo Gongfu by PR Zed (przed)

"I can look after myself." Steve bristled. "And how about you? You go around taking on three fighters from the Hip Sing Tong on a regular basis?"

"Sure," the guy said, and then he gave Steve a big grin. "I don't like bullies either."

"Jeez, we're two of a kind, ain't we?" Steve laughed and stuck out his hand. "Steve Rogers."

The guy took his hand in a firm grip.

"Bucky Dyun."

"Bucky?"

"Yeah, unless you want to call me Pok Chi like my ma does."

"Bucky it is."

Steve Rogers doesn't know much about Chinese culture when he makes a wrong turn in Chinatown. But a chance meeting gives him not only a new friend, but an entry into a whole new world. The more he learns from Bucky, the closer they get, until Bucky is so much more than a friend. But when a Chinese gang goes after Bucky and his family, Steve knows he needs to stand up and make sure the man he loves doesn't lose everything.

In This Life and the Next by ScootyPuffJrSucks

In 1926, when Steve’s friend Tony presents him with an interesting artifact from an ancient city that isn’t supposed to exist, Steve hopes his days as just a librarian might be over. The artifact leads him to Bucky, a mysterious man with a strange golden arm who was found in the desert with no memory. Steve and Bucky immediately feel a connection to one another that leads them on an adventure to discover the past and save the future. Together, they travel to Hamunaptra, the City of the Dead, unleash a cursed Mummy with a grotesque red face, and do everything in their power to stop him from destroying the world.

Save my life and I’ll save yours by Elendrien, gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)

What if Bucky had actually escaped in Bucharest? Now the race is on to find out who framed the Winter Soldier—and why. Cap and his family of soldiers and spies must rely on old-school tradecraft, coded messages, covert meetings, mistaken identities, and the Moscow Rules to bring Steve back together with Bucky.

Siege by ftmsteverogers

Steve called him Bucky, and the Winter Soldier was trying to shoulder into that name like a badly-fitting jacket.

Or, the one where the Winter Soldier pulls Steve from the Potomac and sticks around this time.

Stellar by vintage_granddad

"The serum was not ready. But more important, the man. The serum amplifies everything that is inside, so good becomes great; bad becomes worse. This is why you were chosen. Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing. That you will stay who you are, not a perfect soldier, but a good man." During the Great Depression, a young, trans Steve Rogers falls in love with his best friend, ultimately creating an unbreakable bond. And, by a supposed mistake of modern science, Steve Rogers is finally able to live as himself, at a cost.

The North Star by littleblackfox

“I heard rumour that William Fly is swinging from a gibbet in Boston harbour. They say the age of piracy is ending,” Steve utters softly, rubbing the tip of his thumb across his lower lip. Sam glances at him. “You got plans to retire, Cap? Find a nice little beach in the Indies and a good supply of rum? Couple of pretty girls in grass skirts to dance for you.” “Sam,” Steve mumbles, covering his face with his hand. “I’m sorry, a couple of pretty boys?” Sam grins wickedly. “Sam!” Steve looks scandalised, which gets him nothing but laughter from his Quartermaster. “You’re fired. Go throw yourself overboard this instant.”

they're gonna send us to prison for jerks by napricot

“Hey Steve, this is Jack Murphy, our other neighbor. Jack, this is Steve.” Steve looked at Sam a little wildly, expecting to see—he didn’t even know, but some reaction other than Sam’s usual easy friendliness. And there was something there, but it was just the twitch of Sam’s mouth that said he found something hilarious and he was trying not to show it. Was this Sam’s idea of a joke, or a prank? Because this guy—behind the glasses and mustache, Steve could have sworn—well, he looked like Bucky.

Three, and Not Just Two by CoraRochester

Steve tried to take a drink of water from the glass on his bedside table, but there was definitely already a three-inch long piece of dog hair in it. The ice hadn’t even melted yet.

....

Bucky "liberates" a Chow Chow and brings it home. This means, in no particular order: special shampoo, dog hair, googling "can dogs eat apples??", more dog hair, and learning to share your boyfriend with the dog.

Steve's none too quick on the uptake that it's his dog, too.

Inspired by the artwork of silentwalrus

[its-morphin-time-xiv]

<== Truly The Beginning Of Moving On ==>

How long had it been?

Hours?

Days?

Weeks..?

It had been weeks since Belladonna had first set out to hunt these.. fools, outlawed by the Empire. Time and time again they had eluded her until now, the hyur had spent every ounce of waking in ther search for the souls that have haunted her since she had reappeared to Enambris and the Network whole. For whatever reason she knew not, Burwenna Eir Graves had taken a liking to the rather peaceful life the hannish hyur had been trying to live.

Bella only wanted revenge, not just for herself anymore, but for those other lives this now rogue agent of the frumentarii had ruined with pleasure seemingly etched along her face. Being given the green light for actions, the hyur had not wasted resources to track down every moment up to this point. And now she was so close... so very close.

But as time ticked on by, her solo hunt had began to prove ever more difficult... Whether it be from the tiresome action or lack of sleep, or even the memories she began to be plagued with and no way to recover from alone... her hunt was starting to stall. There was doubt beginning to sow deep into her mind as she made every move to counter the Rogue Eir's growing following of fanatics. Every time she'd cut one down, it seemed as if three more took their place, and soon enough she would be overwhelmed if she fought them head-on.

Tracing their actions and tracking their motions led her to believe that even if her fighting strength was fleeting, there was still hope. Even if the memories that began to flash before her in vivid detail ate away at her already torn sanity... there could still be some few good deeds before she finally succumb to the crippling loneliness of the dark.

But that wasn't today... not yet. Bella had trailed a tracker she planted on a runaway supply cart that was originally heading for Graves' holdout in one of the Ala Mhigan ruins now on it's way back to a staging area for the rest of the supplies. The hyur slipped deep into the cavernous depths of the peaks till she could climb to a high vantage point. She was already weak and mildly bloodied from her earlier skirmishes that her breath was short and haggard, yet she pushed herself on. Stark flashes of her past pinged in her mind, the laughter of her fellow rangers filling the empty and lonely tunnels as she stepped forward.

Her heart began to ache as she recalled all their voices with such sharp memories. The laughter and cherished thoughts ate away at her heart, oh how she missed their faces, how she missed their smiles and voices that would greet her every morning before training. She missed how in the warm evening nights within the Thavnairian coastal islands, their instruments would fill the air with waves of music. She missed those nights before being a Ranger for their home.. before being a Ranger for the XIth.

Belladonna missed those nights, when the world seemed so much simpler. She missed the sweet honey suckle scents that she'd have when walking through her city's gardens in the evening. She missed the ability to sing without a care in the world other than the next verse. Not having to fight, or fly a ship for duty.. but for fun.

The bitterly cold cavern air brushing past her hair brought the woman back out of her dulling dreams. Back into the dank and cold darkness that she lingered in. Warm tears could be felt trickling down her cheeks as she sobered herself up from the mild memories and what would've been tragic past. She didn't need it here..

The hyur was crouched atop of some old scaffolding that held strong against the stone overlook. Below there were scores of hooded men and women carting supplies from aged canals to creaking carts, each hood carried an insignia; one of the Graves' own. She had made it to the right place. The burning warmth of the torchlight below gave her shadows a lingering depth, she could stand there and remain unseen for quite sometime.

As she slowly rose, her bare hands slid against the cold stone, helping her hurting body up to full height. She had been wounded before, but she hadn't felt when the blades pierced her body, or when the rounds from muskets punctured her armor. The Omega 17 serum running deep through her veins had shorted out her nerve endings.. she wouldn't feel the pain from wounds.. only from broken hearts.

Step by step she moved close to the edge, without her armor.. She had morphed out of it to give herself some ease of sneaking through the dark, but she still carried her spear. What came next was... odd. She hadn't expected for her voice to carry out in a manner that wasn't daunting. Bitter sweet tones came from her has her broken velvet voice began to descend onto the populace below.

Perhaps it was her inner self yearning to fight.. yearning to break past through the memories that ate away at her and make something new. Something someone could be proud of. Perhaps we'd never know. Regardless now, she was making herself known yet still unseen as she carried herself through the first sudden verse. A song that she had only sang during the Hannish nights, when she had lost herself in the band's vibes and carried a smile on her face.  

[Mood/Song link]

One OK Rock - The Beginning (Against The Current Cover)

♪ Just give me a reason To keep my heart beating Don't worry it's safe right here in my arms As the world falls apart around us All we can do is hold on, hold on ♪

♪ Take my hand And bring me back, yeah ♪

As she brought her voice through, the men and women below drew their weapons. Anger and surprise stirring the crowd as they stood in fear of whom would be their Death Angel. The cart goers began to hasten their movements, intending to pack away as much as they could before the hidden siren's song and spear found them in the end.

Bella stepped out into the light, she was adorned in civilian clothing, yet still visibly wounded and bleeding as the clothes that she wore were torn and partially shredded. Yet with a newly determined look on her face, she shot her hand into the air, swiping it along her left gauntlet. Flashes of near blinding color could be seen envelop the women as her voice rose and fell with the song that seemed to play. Glints of purple armor began to shape along the woman's body all the while the "fanatical heretics" below rose rifles and pistols, firing off quickly only to miss or malfunction due to the hasty nature.

♪ I'll risk everything if it's for you A whisper into the night Telling me "it's not my time and don't give up" I've never stood up before this time Down is not the way we go I feel a chance so i know that i can't give in ♪

♪ So stand up, stand up Just gotta keep it I wanna wake up wake up Just tell me how I can Never give up These moments of beauty drive me insane ♪

♪ Just tell me why baby They might call me crazy For saying I'd fight until there is no more Forget how we felt about each other It’s time to get over Blinded, I can't see the end So where do I begin? ♪

The armored hyur hefted her spear off her back, swinging the sharpened head forward to deflect another round of oncoming shots before bounding herself higher up into the air. The lance itself glowing red and blue with the raw power that she now carried herself with, the spikes along her back rattling in due excitement as she shot down onto the crowd, descending with frightening thunderous power.  The foundations of the semi man-made cavern rumbled beneath the impact as the lancing ranger was descended upon by screaming heretics.

♪ Say not a word, I can hear you The silence between us Is starting to be louder than the words we scream I take this chance that I make you mine Taking in the fears i know, and knowing that i can barely say ♪

♪ So stand up, stand up Just gotta keep it I wanna wake up wake up Just tell me how I can Never give up These moments of beauty make me somber ♪

Bell hefted her lance up tirelessly as if it weighed nothing but a feather to her, lifting it with both arms as she deflected a pair of swords that descended onto her. The hyur's voice carrying on seamlessly as the woman spun on her heel to launch herself back into the air, sailing over the fanatics' ranks. Her right arm tucking only to fire out three shots from the cannon embedded within the gauntlet, the rounds downing hood after hood before she landed opposite of where she started.

Quick to recover she pulled right on her spear, sweeping up from below several of the people's legs, sending them into the air only to be followed up with a staggering swipe down onto collective abdomens, knocking them down to the ground with shuddering thumps.

There was a call for rally as the heretics around the hyur finally gained their bearings. Steeling themselves the more prepared stepped forth with armor hastily adorned, charging forth towards the kneeling lone woman. The remaining scores of fanatics began to send off their carts and dinghy down into the lost canals. But perhaps.. it was too late.

With a flick of the Lance Ranger's wrist, the canals exploded into a sea of fire as a trap she had set some time before finally lit the dark water ways, enveloping the tunnel and boat together in a sea of blue ceruleum fire. The cave shuddered some more as rocks and debris began to lightly fall from the dark ceiling overhead.

Rising to a stand on the table near her the hyur's armor was a shimmering purple as it was bathed in the nearby violent fire's light. The helmet she wore folded back to reveal the surprise songstress turned warrior as she kept apace with where she needed to be in her somber song.

♪ Just give me a reason To keep my heart beating Don't worry it's safe right here in my arms Crying it's time to save the weaker Reaching for something So blinded I can't see the end ♪

♪ Look how far we've made it The pain I can't escape it Remember a time when i was on the outs and had nowhere to go I know now that, no matter how i start i have to play my part all the way through So where do I begin? ♪

♪ This hand I've held tightly To keep it close to me I can't let it slip through these fingers, I'll hold on It's away with those old days back when i nothing or no one to lose I do now.. ♪

Down did the hoods descend onto the hyur in armor. Swords, axes and spears together did they try to strike down the songstress as she neared the end of her harrowing song. Her voice never wavering as she carried each note, high or low like any professional would under pressure. 

Spinning on her heels the hyur slipped to her knee as she spun, her lance nothing but an extension of herself as she swung her arms, dispatching each soul that came towards her, crimson was already tainting the air around her, now splattering itself to stain the purple armor. 

Belladonna’s face was covered in the crimson, mixing it with the tears she had been shedding all throughout the engagement. Each clash of blades created blue and green sparks, lighting up the rest of the area as the burning flames of ceruleum traps licked at the other half of the trembling cavern. 

Loud she roared her final chorus, her voice was seemingly pure as she matched rose to match what she needed. Her breath was slowing as her heart was doing it’s work, struggling to keep up with the action that had been present. The strength of the hyur never wanned as she pushed back against men far larger than the mutant ever was. 

Slowly she carried her final words out as one by one she let go of the swords and spears and nearly struck her. Causing the enemy that held them to fall to the ground lifeless and limp. Bella’s spear dragged itself from another as she leaped  off the bloodied table, landing effortlessly on the pile of the damned she had created. The blue fires began consume the rest of the cavern, the remaining supplies were quick to be turned to fodder for the flames as the bodies that were the first to fall were enveloped soon after. 

♪Just tell me why baby They might call me crazy For saying I'd fight until there is no more Forget how we felt about each other It's time to get over Blinded, I can't see the end ♪

♪Look how far we made it The pain I can't escape it Remember a time when i was on the outs and had nowhere to go I know now that, no matter how i start i have to play my part all the way through It finally begins... ♪

The hyur looked at the work she had done, her last words ending in quiet and sullen tones as she dragged the spear along the dirt and stonework to the only exit left. There were survivors here and there, but she didn’t care. They were scared, running for their lives, fleeing their leader’s supplies. They knew better than to follow those that died before this time. 

Belladonna hadn’t ever been able to feel the heat of the fires that were around her, nor the cold of the frozen north either. Ever since her serum, she hadn’t ever been able to feel much physically.. She dreaded it, but as she exited the cave to be greeted by the morning sunrise...

A smile slipped across her face, as the glistening of unwiped and still falling tears gleamed. The welcome warmth of a new day’s sun was there to meet her, the memories she had been fighting began to drift away as she let her armor retract and seemingly disappear in the same magitek manner they had appeared prior. Her skin could feel the warm orange as she stepped further and further away from the smoking cavern entrance. 

It was here that she finally could feel that she had moved onward, that progress was hers despite everything. In truth, she had gone on a solo war with these fanatics to hide her hurting heart in the wake of news of what would be Blind Autumn. As she pushed herself further and further away, she could feel herself being able to regain the strength she had so simply lost over time. 

Perhaps.. 

Perhaps now.. she truly was strong again...

[askmicrowaveayem]

Boink! The Gaster Brothers Pt. 13

[Previous]

[Archive] [Cast]

The healer watched the two warily, but having warriors and soldiers wasn’t… as uncommon as it had once been.

She cleared a space for the stranger to set the skeleton down, and stepped back, gathering some supplies to begin the examination.

“What happened?” she asked, in case there were additional injuries or circumstances she needed to know about.

--

He took a spot beside his brother, gauntlet resting on Rage’s shoulder and unwilling to go sit while the healer did their magic. Dings would stand beside him, touching him, making sure he knew he was right there in case anything went wrong. “Humans.” Was all he said, his voice cold and emotionless and, through his helmet, sounding much older than he really was. --

The monster pursed her lips and nodded.

It always was humans, lately.

The arms were most urgent. They were somewhat stabilized, but flecks of dust still scattered at the slightest touch. The skeleton flinched away, even as she tried to keep her inspection as gentle as possible.

Slowly, she took a deep breath and tried to heal over the wounds, closing them and smoothing them over so that they would not accumulate anymore damage.

--

Dings gripped his brother’s shoulder, his own silent way of saying ‘I’m here’.

He would stand over him and watch every little thing the woman did, the dots of his eyes focused on her hands and the magic that spilled from them. --

She was very, very aware of how the stranger was watching her, but resolutely kept her head down and focused on healing the skeleton.

Soon enough, the ends of his broken-off bones were smooth nubs, scarred over.

His body had accepted the healing readily. She reached over his chest a moment later, trying to get an idea of how strong his soul was at the moment, and frowned when she found it…. Frail.

Drained.

Carefully, slowly, she started a transfusion, helping raise his energy levels slowly.

“What other injuries?”

--

Dings looked at his brother, then at the healer. “His face.” Maybe he didn’t have to have such large scars over them like he did, but… those were older than the arms. They were probably permanent. In a strange way they were looking like twins. “... If they can be healed.” He added, after a moment. --

She looked up at the scar on his face. She hadn’t immediately thought to heal it, because….

“...it’s already scarred over, I’m afraid. There’s not much I can do for it. It’s too old.”

--

After a moment Dings nodded. “That’s all then.” --

“Are you certain?” she said, looking doubtful. “...”

After a moment, she named her price, all the same.

--

Dings knew he could heal the rest on his own. He had washed him the day after rescuing him, had seen all the cuts and scuffs in his bones, none of them amounting to the missing arms. He paid in full and lifted his brother into his arms again, turning to leave before stopping and looking back at her. “M’am, do you have a skilled woodworker in this village? Or do you know the nearest one?” --

She blinked, surprised at the question.

“...on the northwest edge of town, there should be one. Near the Tavern.”

--

Dings nodded, “Thank you.” He stepped out of the healer and met up with Grillby to tell him where he was going before heading straight for the woodworker, Rage in his arms. --

Rage felt better after the healing, but still wasn’t exactly up to walking on his own. He rested against his brother as he was carried, enjoying his arms not paining him for the first time.

“...woodworking?”

--

“Prosthetics.” Dings said as he carried him. “I have a few ideas.” A sturdy wood. A pair of arms like a wooden doll etched with runes to make them work and then over-layed with metal to protect them from being shattered. Straps to wrap them around his torso. The ends inladen with fur to keep what remained of his fragile arms from being hurt any further. They would be heavy, but Rage would handle it once he was fully better. If they were still too heavy he could figure out some runes to make them lighter by the wearer. He would figure it out. He would make it work. --

Rage blinked up and him and then nodded slowly, relaxing again against his brother.

...he’d have arms again.

Not his original arms, but..

But he could hold him again.

--

He would stop just outside the woodworker’s shop to stare at the wares through the window, trying to judge whether they were of high enough quality before stepping inside. “Hello?” --

The woodworker looked up. A large, uneven rock monster who’d been badly chipped and cracked over the years.

They looked surprised at the two in their door, turning from their worktable and wiping their hands.

“...can I help ya?”

--

“I’m looking to have some prosthetics made for my brother.” Dings said, the dots of his eyes finding a finished rocking chair by the counter and gently resting his brother in it so he could pull out his notebook, hidden behind his chestplate. He turned to a page and set the book in front of the monster, the drawings of a set of jointed arms with straps at different angles, showing just how long they would be and how they would fit around his brother’s stubbed arms and hold against his chest. It had been the only thing he had worked on for days. “These.” He said nothing about having runes engraved on them. He would do that himself. To an outsider it would look like just having them made for show. --

The monster took the page and inspected it, nodding.

“It’ll take ‘bout a week to make,” they said, looking at the masked stranger. “Not gonna be too cheap, I’ll warn you now.”

Between the high quality wood required and the difficulty to carve it, the estimate was fair.

--

Dings nodded, took his notebook to rip out the plans and hand them over before putting the book itself back under his chestplate. “I’d like it made out of a hardwood. Oak or chestnut. Something sturdy.” He had just gotten a hefty pay for escorting Seer and was willing to spend every drop to get his brother a set of arms again. Dings dug into his pouch and pulled out a hefty bag of gold. He counted out half and set it on the counter. Half now, half when he got the finished product.

--

The woodcarver’s eyes widened and he eyed the bag. Taking it carefully, he counted out the gold, and nodded.

“...you’ll get it in a week,” he said, nodding, pocketing the bag after placing the gold back in it.

--

Dings nodded, “Thank you.” He turned, lifted his brother back into his arms, and left the shop. --

He looked up at his brother, grinning.

“Everyone’s scared of you,” he said, like it was the funniest thing he’d ever thought of.

Someone being scared of little Dings.

--

He smiled even though it went unseen, but it could be heard in his voice. “They’d be even more scared if I took the helmet off.” That was good. He liked it. Dings would meet up with Grillby again and they would head out of the village, camp somewhere nearby and not waste money on a tavern when they didn’t need it. They couldn’t stick around and be seen too much just yet anyway, not after just deserting.

The kingdom would need time to forget about them.

--

“You put fangs on it,” he said, snickering.

He went quiet and relaxed again, trying to not draw anymore attention than he and his brother did by simply existing and let himself be carried to the meeting place.

Grillby stood near the edge of the village with a bag of fresh supplies and a new, long cloak for Rage to wear instead of the rags that probably needed replacing even before his capture.

--

“... Fangs are cool.” Dings said, sounding like that little kid who had been enraptured by his first helmet for a moment. He would help Rage into his new cloak before starting to set up camp, filling Grillby in on his plan to stick around until the prosthetics were done. --

“We need to find you some real teeth to stick on it,” he said, “That would really make people shit themselves.”

He curled into the new cloak, beyond grateful to have something better to cover himself in and contentedly curling up on the ground as a fire was made nearby.

Grillby nodded along to the plan, agreeing easily enough. They all needed rest and time to recover, Rage especially, and this town was as good a place as any.

--

Dings laughed, “Better get to knocking a pair out for me with those new arms I’m making you then.”

--

“Can do,” Rage said, winking. “How pointy do you want ‘em?”

He was in no shape to knock out much of anything, but he could maybe find a skull to wiggle a few teeth loose from. Maybe substitute a few bird beaks for fangs.

--

“Real fuckin’ pointy.” Dings laughed as he removed some of his armor now that they were alone and taking it easy. When everything was set up he would help his brother eat a little something and then settle in to sketch out more runes. --

Grillby pulled out some food and began to heat it over the fire, offering some to both brothers a moment later.

The night passed peacefully, and Rage told a sleepy, short story if he could find the strength again.

Slowly, slowly, he continued to recover.

--

The week would be the most peace any of them had gotten in years. Just three monsters, three friends, camping outside of a little village and waiting for Rage’s prosthetics to be made. He would help his brother eat and would hold him when they slept. He would sketch in his notebook and listen to Rage’s stories. They would gang up on Grillby and tease him about being such a hit with the ladies or tell stories about their trips together. Nothing ever heavy. Lighthearted fun. … Sometimes that turned into laughing about death. Deaths they caused. To the skeleton brothers that tended to coincide a lot more than normal. Neither seemed to care. --

Rage didn’t talk about his time on the front lines outside the jokes. A human soldier who lived a few seconds after his chest had been blasted out, staring down at the new hole in him with only confusion, poking at himself in incomprehension. A ridiculous end to a life that never saw it coming. A soldier bragging and throwing themselves around in pride, only to be cut down anticlimactically.

Little moments he’d loved.

Grillby remembered some of them, but just sighed and shook his head.

He kept the two fed and went into town instead of Dings more often than not, letting the two have time on their own and not worry about bringing but so much attention.

Still, the longer they stayed, the more attention their presence seemed to draw.

People in town, he said the day before the prosthetics were ready, were starting to mention the trio camped outside their gates.

--

Dings didn’t care what they said about him. He knew he looked scary, that was the point, but Rage? He looked like a cripple. But he wasn’t. He wouldn’t let people think so. “What are they saying?” He asked once Grillby came back.

--

He didn’t have any arms. Rage couldn’t ignore that. Even if only because it meant things were more difficult now because he didn’t yet have tools at his disposal to make it easier.

He wanted to hear too.

He was still weak.

He had to know.

“...that we’re dangerous...” Grillby said, looking towards Dings. “...not sure where we came from. Hoping we leave soon….”

--

Dings laughed, “Good. Well, they don’t have to worry. We should be gone by tomorrow.” He smirked at his brother and wiggled the bone around his eyes. “Hear that? Your little bro is dangerous.” --

“Dangerously cute,” Rage said, waggling the same bone back. “You fucking munchkin.”

Grillby shook his head, exasperated. “...rumors may make it to people looking for deserters…”

--

“I’m already taller than you!” Dings argued, but went stern at Grillby’s next words. “... Right. Well, one more day hopefully. Then we can just keep on moving.” --

“...any plan where-to?” Rage asked, looking up at his brother.

It made sense that they had to leave, but he’d feel better if he knew they had a plan.

--

“I’m going to ask the woodworker if the next village over has a blacksmith. If not, we go to one that does. I still need one part of your arms after this one.” “By then you should have most of your strength back. We can decide what to do after that.” Dings said, having only thought far enough ahead to get his brother new arms to replace the old ones. Whatever beyond didn’t matter to him. --

Rage nodded, accepting that. At least they had a short-term goal.

He’d committed murder with less of a plan.

“Okay. Tomorow, then?”

--

Dings nodded, “Tomorrow, if the arms are finished, we move.”

--

He nodded.

“...I’ll try to walk. You shouldn’t have to carry me the whole way.”

--

Dings smiled and nodded. “... You wanna see if you can manage standing today?”

--

He nodded. “Just help me get up? It’s just… getting up. Once I’m up I think I’ll be okay.”

--

He nodded and leaned down, one hand taking his brother’s back while the other helped balance the front. Dings waited for him to get into a good position with his legs before slowly helping him to stand. --

Rage grunted as he got to his feet, still not the most stable, but managing alright for what time he’d had.

Gritting his teeth, his eyes flared and he cheated a bit, using extra magic to intentionally reinforce his legs and keep him steadier.

--

Once Rage was on his feet he held onto him tightly, not daring to let him fall. “Don’t push it, idiot.” He said, smiling. --

“Remember who you’re talking to,” he said, grinning through his gritted teeth. “See? I’m doing great. It’s only been… only been two weeks.”

Two weeks after months of captivity.

--

“I remember exactly who I’m talking to.” Dings rolled his eyes, even the third one joining in. When his legs started to shake he leaned down and lifted him up into his arms. “Okay that’s enough, tough guy.” Cradled like a baby in his little brother’s carved arms. --

“When I can walk again, I’m going to trip you,” Rage said, huffing, but allowing himself to be carried and dissipating his magic.

--

“Good luck with that.” Dings grinned as he set his brother back against the tree, then tapped at his third eye. --

“Remember that I am also going to sneak up on you,” Rage said, voice flat. “You can’t stop me.”

--

“You underestimate how much magic I have pumped into this thing.” Dings laughed, “I’m a little upset.” --

“I’m upset you’re underestimating me!” he said, laughing back. “I know you’re a stubborn shit, but I’m your brother, I’ll figure out how to fuck with you if no one else does.”

--

“Okay, okay! Fair enough!” Dings held up his mangled hands in defeat. --

Rage snorted but grinned up at his brother.

“I think that’s the first time you gave up before I did.”

--

Dings laughed, “I’ll let you have it, but you’re going to have to prove it to me. I’ll buy you a beer if you manage to sneak up on me successfully once you’re well. How about that?” --

“Deal,” Rage said, grinning up at him. “Do I get a beer every time I sneak up on you, or just once?”

--

Dings thought about that. “... How about every new time you sneak up on me? ‘Cause you’ll only be able to manage it once before having to change it up.” --

Rage gave him a look. “Won’t that just be the same thing, then? If I have to change it up every time, it’s still every time I sneak up on you.”

--

“Hmm, yeah I guess.” Dings said after a moment.

--

Rage looked satisfied.

--

The remainder of the day would go by uneventful. They would chat and eat and prepare for potentially leaving the next day. Dings would fall asleep holding his brother just like always. If Rage were to wake up in the middle of the night and look at Dings, the eye in the crack of his skull would still be there, staring up at the sky. If he looked long enough it would shoot over to look at him. --

He did wake, somehow shaking awake with nightmares without waking his brother.

When the eye turned to look at him, he looked back, giving it a slight smile.

--

Dings would suck in a breath but not open his eyes. “Nhh… sorry…. you okay..?” He mumbled, eyes twitching open.

He couldn’t turn it off. Even as he slept he could see, but… he had learned to zone it out enough to sleep after a lot of very long, horrible weeks. --

He blinked, surprised.

“...yeah. I’m fine.”

He curled closer to his brother.

“...you want me to cover that eye up?”

--

“Nnno… I’m fine.” His eyes closed again. “No one can sneak up on us like this.” --

What little smile he’d kept faded. “...alright. If you’re sure.”

He curled in close and closed his eyes as well.

The next morning, they’d be able to move.

--

Dings would mumble an affirmative and fall right back asleep. The next morning he would help his brother eat and then put all of his armor back on before carrying Rage into the village. --

This time, more people took notice of them more quickly.

Grillby hadn’t been lying when he said word of them was spreading.

Still, Rage just tried to keep relaxed against his brother, meeting no one’s eyes and waiting out the walk.

--

Dings didn’t pay anyone any mind at all. He walked right to the woodworker and went inside. --

The woodworker looked up and straightened immediately at the sight of him, pulling off his gloves.

“Here for the arms?”

--

Dings nodded and set his brother down in the same rocking chair as before.

--

The woodworker produced the arms, laying them on the table and giving Dings a moment to inspect them before naming the remaining payment.

--

He inspected them and moved them around in his hands, testing their weight before taking them over to his brother to make sure the padded  parts cut out for his stumps fit and the straps were the proper length. “Bare with me for a second.” Ding said as he slipped it over his brother’s still fresh wounds, just enough to test their size. “Does that feel like a good fit?” --

He shifted a little and made a face, but nodded. “Yeah. I think they’re good, yeah.”

--

Dings nodded and removed them, then paid the remaining price in full. The arms were slung over one shoulder while his brother was lifted against the other. “Thank you.” He turned to leave. --

The merchant watched him go.

Once they were gone, he sent out a message to the royal guard.

--

Dings hadn’t asked him about a blacksmith. He walked quickly to the camp, set Rage down, and started to pack their meager belongings up. “We gotta go.” --

Grillby looked up, confused at the urgency of the tone.

He cocked his head curiously, silently asking if something was wrong.

--

Dings hadn’t been in the town during that week. He hadn’t seen the gradual shift in tone like Grillby had and they didn’t particularly fear the flame monster like they did him. Normally he wouldn’t care, but… The tone the woodworker had. It was drastically different than the day when they had arrived. He didn’t trust him.

“I don’t like the feel of the place.” Dings said, tying the prosthetic arms around his belt before flinging on his pack. “We should leave before they start suspecting something.” --

Grillby wasn’t as certain, but he decided to humor Gaster--there wasn’t harm in being overcautious.

He packed quickly and quietly as well, though not with the same fury as Gaster did.

There wasn’t much to pack. He wished they’d had time to gather a few extra supplies, but--they had enough to make them to the next town without resorting to hunting. They would be fine.

Rage watched them both pack, trying to not frown a bit.

He felt better after a week of rest. Much better, in fact. The healing had helped enormously, and though he was still far from what he once was, he no longer felt like he was one bad day away from crumbling.

He’d started hating sitting around.

--

Dings waited until Grillby was finished packing to lean down and heft his brother onto his back again, finally letting out a tiny huff at the strain, but nothing more. They had full supplies, his brother was getting heavier the better he felt, and the prosthetics were heavy.

He didn’t complain, but he would need to take one or two more breaks during the day as they headed to the next town over. --

During the second break, Rage edged away from his brother.

“...you don’t have to carry me if it’s hard.”

--

“Who said it’s hard?” Dings asked, looking at him. “I’m carrying you until you’ve got your strength back.” During their breaks he would sketch some rune work in his notebook. --

“You taking breaks says it’s hard,” he said, a little disgusted with himself, scowling a bit more fiercely. “At least make Grillby carry something extra to lighten your load.”

--

Dings frowned, “No. This is fine.” He paused, “... You remember when you would come back home after training with mom completely fucking exhausted? This is the same thing. I’m training. There’s nothing wrong with pushing yourself sometimes and I’m sure we’ll still make good time to the next village.” --

Rage hated that logic and wanted to argue it, but he hated hypocrisy a bit more--and with it pointed out so blatantly to him, he couldn’t exactly ignore it without being an even bigger hypocrite.

“Fine,” he said, “But keep resting if you need it. We--”

A volley of magic bullets burst through the trees.

--

Dings saw them before they could hit them, quickly reaching for his brother and pulling him close before summoning a wall of bones between them and the bullets to protect them. --

Grillby shot to his feet but was on the other side of the clearing and couldn’t risk using his magic without possibly hitting one of the brothers. He still stood, watching as a group of royal guardsmen emerged from the woods, one on the flanks holding a scroll while the others readied their magic.

“Wingdings Gaster and Do You Have A First Name Grillby, you are charged with treason against the King and Deserting. Surrender here and you will be granted a trial.”

--

Dings’ eyes went dark and he slowly stood up. He held his hands upward in surrender, but didn’t dissipate the bones protecting his brother from their attacks, instead stepping over them. “... I know when I’m outnumbered.” He said, approaching them slowly. --

Rage lay on the ground, staring.

No.

No, no.

He wasn’t allowed to leave like this.

A trial just meant a longer wait for execution.

Dings couldn’t do that to him.

The blaster roared to life at the edge of the group where the reader stood, the skull fragile and worn from his weak magic, but the blast--

The blast was his.

--

Dings allowed himself to get closer and closer, hands raised. His hands lowered slightly as though he was about to remove his helmet. Then he shoved both his hands into the faces of two of the guards and fired his own blasts point-blank. They weren’t quite as powerful as his brother’s, but the closer he was the more damage they would do, helmet or not. If it didn’t kill them they would be knocked out. Blinded, for sure. --

Both brother’s blasters went off near simultaneously.

Between the two, over half the guards were dusted in an instant. The rest left badly injured.

Grillby stood, staring, wide-eyed.

Their dust billowed through the clearing like smoke.

[dtk-imagines]

First just want to say you are awesome, love your imagines so damn much! :D so, about that pregnancy imagine... can you give me the reactions of the US and SF bro's realising that they themselves are pregnant with their S/O? like do any of them panic? do any of them figure out immediately that they are pregnant and not just sick? how do they tell their S/O about it? I have a mighty need for this, go nuts!

Aw man, THANK YOU! I’m really happy to hear that!! You are also awesome - I’ve been reading all of your tags, they’re seriously so sweet. (also your icon never fails to make me laugh, oh my god)

This was such a fun ask, thank you for sending it in! Also a note to add before this: With a monster/human situation, since the human has considerably less magic than average monsters, the monster parent’s load gets much heavier. The baby soul saps their magic reserves and it affects different monsters in different ways.

The pregnancy imagine referred to is here.

US!Sans/Plum:

– Plum feels the affects very soon after the soul is conceived, but he doesn’t think of it as anything out of the ordinary. It starts off as a mild headache and a cloudy, unfocused gaze - but he shakes it off and continues with whatever he’s doing. He gets these sort of off days every once in a while so he isn’t worried.

– But as the week wears on, the headaches don’t cease. In fact they get worse, making his skull pound and his normally alert eyelights dim. He does his best to last through his training, work, volunteering - but in the end, it’s too much. 

– He shares this with you after calling Alphys (or if you’re on the surface, his job there) to ask for a day off for the first time in… Well, for the first time ever, actually. That in itself makes the issue concerning enough, so you convince him to let you take him to a monster doctor.

– You’re in the same room when the doctor reveals the cause. At this point, Plum’s too out of it to realize what has been said. You have to repeat it to him a few times.

“I’M..” Plum’s eyelights flicker, but he’s trying so hard to process what you’ve said. You finally see the recognition in the way his entire face lights up, “I’M WITH A CHILD.. OUR CHILD! OH, STARS!” He jumps up from his seat, knocking his glasses askew as he picks you up with newfound energy. “I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! THIS IS - THIS IS SO INCREDIBLE!” He spins you once before setting you down. His hands grip your shoulders, and he looks like he’s about to speak -

but then his pupils vanish and he falls forward and on to you. With the pain in his head and the way he’s been pushing himself, the poor skeleton is completely spent. Not to worry though, he’ll be back to normal with proper rest.

– After recovering, he makes sure to slow down and take it easy for once. He doesn’t want to put any strain on the soul forming right next to his, so he lets you take care of a lot of the heavy lifting (as much as it bothers him).  Though you’ll have to reprimand him a few times - he’s going to get restless and find things to do, and he might take it a bit too far in an effort to feel more useful. Just remind him that he’s the one with a flippin’ child in him and you should be good.

US!Papyrus/Cherry:

– Unlike his brother, Cherry feels very little impact from the pregnancy. His magic reserves are quite high, so he’s not likely to feel much of anything until about a third through the process.

– He finds out by accident, really. He’s decided that this new honey stain renders his hoodie unusable, so he sheds it and starts rummaging through his drawers for a spare. Upon finding one, he goes to cross the room so he can throw the dirty one in the hamper and change.. Then something shines in his eye as he passes the mirror in his room. That’s weird. 

– He backtracks to spare a glance at his reflection and his sockets widen. The spot where his soul is shines bright - too bright - through his black tank top. He peeks in through the opening of the shirt and almost inhales the sucker in his mouth.

Glowing brilliantly next to his soul is another one. It’s small and only partially formed, but it’s unmistakable and holy shit holy shit holy shit

Cherry practically rips his shirt over his head and stumbles over to the mirror. He sits himself down there and stares at the soul for hours, his mind shooting out thoughts every second. What were you going to think?? Would you be happy?? Afraid? Would you freak out and leave him?? His thoughts spiral, wrestling with the idea of telling you about it. He eventually takes his phone out of his pocket to send you a text. 

“hey babe, got a minute today? i wanna show you something.”

Phalanges shaking, he taps send before he can stop himself. He’s a ball of nerves when you arrive, taking your hand to silently guide you to his room. You both sit in front of the mirror and he lifts his shirt to reveal the souls to you, bracing himself. When you react positively, throwing yourself at him in a hug, the tension seeps out of his bones and he lets himself feel the joy he’s been holding back.

– The rest of the pregnancy is, thankfully, smooth sailing. Papyrus only starts to feel drained towards the end, but luckily he can just deal with it by napping the whole day away.

SF!Sans/Hunter:

– The pregnancy affects Hunter the most. He’s rarely ever ill, he makes sure of that himself, so when he wakes up one day feeling sluggish and gross he already has his suspicions.

– Which are immediately confirmed when he begins his training session with Alphys. He barely dodges the swing of her axe when normally, he’s out of the way the moment she begins to make her move. His bone attacks form a fraction slower than they usually do, throwing off his groove. 

– He holds up his hand in the middle of their fight and shouts for Alphys to stop. Hunter would never do such a thing if it wasn’t urgent, so she does, and he tells her the situation. She lets him leave with the promise of a rematch and he makes a speedy exit to get to the doctor.

– Once it’s confirmed, he heads home with a scowl etched into his features. He’s warring with his thoughts and he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Hunter never once thought about having children in the Underground; It was a nearly impossible task to have them, let alone raise them in that environment, and he’d experienced the latter first hand. All his life he’d known that having a child would be impractical, so to know that he is going to have one now makes him.. afraid. And that makes him angry.

– He enters the house, boots clicking loud on the floor as he goes to the stairs, where you’re descending to welcome him home. He meets you at the bottom and grabs your hands, glaring at you fiercely. “HUMAN, I –”

He stops; he’s suddenly aware that he hasn’t thought of what to say to you yet. Sans was so lost in his feelings that he’d somehow completely forgotten about your part in this. Yes, he was going to have a child - but he was going to have a child here on the surface, here with you. His soulmate. At this, his expression changes into something so, so vulnerable.

“WE’RE.. WE’RE HAVING A CHILD.”

– Hunter is a mix of extremely irritable and wonderfully cheerful throughout the pregnancy. He’s endlessly annoyed at the fact that the baby has drained him to the point where he can barely do anything without feeling faint, and he scolds the little soul on the regular. He already loves them to death though, make no mistake.

SF!Papyrus/Hound:

– Hound is only marginally affected by the new soul. It’s thanks to his magic reserves, yes, but the biggest reason he doesn’t feel much is because the baby is taking most of its energy from his gaster blasters.

– So while he doesn’t notice anything with himself, he starts to get worried when the blasters he’s summoned to linger around the house look constantly tired and lethargic. A few days of them just laying around is what makes him check himself one day, and he’s shocked when he sees more than one set of stats.

– Stunned and alarmed, he calls his brother and asks him to come over so that he can check him too. When it comes up the same for Sans, Hound sits down and holds his head in his hands. He’s pregnant with a child! Oh god, oh my god, he’s pregnant with your child!! Much like in this ask, he’s immediately doubtful that’d he’d be a good father. Does he really have what it takes?? Will you be happy to have a child with him?? Or will you leave and never come back??

– Hunter convinces him to just tell you (”OR I WILL TELL THEM MYSELF, SO HELP ME”) so he calls you and asks you to come over. And Hound never makes phone calls unless it’s important, so you’re over there in a flash.

– Sans lets you in and leaves you in the living room, where Hound is standing and looking incredibly uneasy. He sits you down on the couch, but it seems as though he’s lost in his thoughts. He sits there in silence until you prod at him and ask what’s wrong.

“nothing’s wrong, sugar.” He assures you, finally meeting your eyes. “i’m just.. i’m..” He sighs heavily, and gives up on his words, unzipping his vest and pulling down his shirt so you can see the two souls floating side by side. “we’re gonna have a kid.”

His doubts vanish when you express your glee with a kiss.

 – The pregnancy has its ups and downs - there will be times when the soul switches between eating away at his main magic reserves and the blasters, but all in all things aren’t too bad. You’ll find him whispering to the baby, telling them how excited he is to meet them and how he hopes that they’re more like you.