#unsteady is the most likely to get finished on this list

[swallowtailed]

wip ask game! tagged by @laiqualaurelote, ty!!!

rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it.

so, i don't have terribly much going at the moment, but i do have some working titles....

unsteady (fatt:pal)

the cryptorheist (fatt:tm)

questions like directions (fatt:sf)

careful the wish you make (tlasso)

drop me an ask here!

and i'll pass on this tag to anyone who wants to do this--esp if you have an fatt:pal fic in the works!! i would like to hear about it

[the-winter-spider]

Say Dont Go | Part Three

Pairings: College/Hockey Bucky x Reader AU

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Sexual activity nothing to detailed tho

A/N: i've had a couple of parts of this written for a while, but I've been focussing on invisible and since I'm five parts ahead on that I decided I'll start uploading these ones!!! i ofc have lots drama planned because i am a drama queeeeeennnnnnnnn

Once again, Tumblr won't let me upload links so I have to do it on the webpage, which is annoying, but I'll do that later lol for the master list

---

Taking a shaky breath, you edge toward the kitchen, hoping a drink will steady your nerves. The hum of the party buzzes in your ears, the sound blending into an overwhelming blur of voices and music. You can’t shake the growing weight of eyes on you, even if most of it is in your head.

Once in the kitchen, you find a friendly couple leaning against the counter, laughing and throwing back shots. They smile at you, and before you know it, you’ve joined in, downing two shots of something sharp and burning that makes your head spin. The warmth spreads quickly, the tension in your chest loosening slightly.

“Here’s to good nights and no regrets!” the guy says, clinking his shot glass against yours. You laugh, raising your empty glass before setting it down and making yourself a strong mixed drink.

You can feel your phone buzzing in Bucky’s massive jacket pocket, but you’re too buzzed to bother fishing it out. It’s probably Steve checking in again, but right now, you’re focused on finding Bucky. The night’s still young, and you haven’t seen him yet. Finishing your drink, you pour another for courage, the alcohol making your limbs feel lighter, almost floating.

The jacket slips off one shoulder as you move, leaving the strap of your little black dress exposed. You barely notice as you weave through the crowded house, the cool night air calling your name. Stepping outside, you scan the front yard, the music still pulsing faintly through the walls.

As you navigate the crowded space, your unsteady steps take you toward the doorway where a group of people stands clustered, laughing loudly. You don’t see them until it’s too late, bumping into one of the girls and sloshing a bit of your drink.

“Hey, watch it,” the girl snaps, pulling back like you spilled acid on her. Her eyes narrow as they land on you, her gaze lingering on Bucky’s oversized varsity jacket hanging loosely around your frame. “Oh, look who it is.”

You blink, trying to steady yourself. “Sorry,” you mumble, but she doesn’t seem interested in accepting your apology.

“Steve’s little friend, right?” she says, her tone biting. “Always hanging around the rink like a lost puppy.”

Another girl crosses her arms, smirking. “Must be nice, having the Captain of the hockey team babysit you.”

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, one of the guys in the group grabs the collar of Bucky’s jacket, tugging it slightly and pulling you forward.

“Wait a second,” he says with a mocking grin. “Isn’t this Barnes’ jacket? First Steve, now Bucky? Damn, you move fast.”

The laughter around you feels deafening, your cheeks burning as the alcohol makes it harder to form a coherent thought, let alone a comeback.

“Must be a new record,” another girl chimes in, her cold eyes raking over you. “A little black dress and a hockey jacket—nice combo if you’re trying to collect the whole team.”

“She couldn’t get half if she tried,” someone scoffs. “Just look at her...”

The sharp sting of their words cuts deep, but the worst is yet to come.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” the first girl says with a cruel smile. “Bet she’s spreading her legs to keep their attention....Probably has daddy issues”

Their laughter echoes around you, sharp and mocking, each word slicing through the buzz in your head. You clutch the drink tighter in your hand, knuckles whitening, as your throat tightens and your vision blurs slightly from the sting of tears you refuse to let fall.

Without a word, you duck your head and push past them, your legs shaky as you stumble back into the crowd. The weight of their comments hangs over you like a cloud, clinging to your skin. You pull Bucky’s jacket tighter around you, desperate for its warmth, its comfort, as if it could shield you from the sting of their words.

You don’t stop moving until you’re back inside, the noise of the party muffling their voices in your head. Still, the ache in your chest doesn’t ease. Your hands tremble slightly as you pause in a quieter corner, catching your breath. You tell yourself it’s just the alcohol, but deep down, you know their words have lodged themselves deeper than you’d like to admit.

When you finally spot Bucky in the backyard with Steve and Natasha, a wave of relief washes over you. Steve is looking around, scanning the crowd, just as he pulls out his phone and holds it to his ear. You laugh at the coincidence—until you realize he’s calling you.

Quickly, you weave through the crowd, catching Natasha’s eye first. She smirks, nudging Steve’s chest and pointing toward you. As both boys turn to see you, you lift a hand and wave, a bright smile on your face.

“Hi!” you beam, a little out of breath as you reach them. “I was looking for you,” you say, your gaze landing on Bucky with a small grin.

Bucky’s eyes light up with a smirk. “Yeah? Well, I was looking for you too, doll.”

“How much have you had to drink?” Steve asks, brow furrowed, his voice raised just enough to be heard over the music.

You shrug, letting out a little laugh. “Couple shots in the kitchen, and a couple of drinks. It’s a party, Stevie. Relax.”

Natasha sees the way you and Bucky are looking at each other, the chemistry electric between you, and she pulls Steve’s arm. “Steve, I want another drink,” she says, an amused smile on her face.

Steve gives you one last cautious look. “You two stay put, alright? Especially you" His finger points at you "We’ll be right back.”

Neither of you acknowledges them leaving, your attention fully locked on Bucky now. He steps closer, his gaze roaming over your figure, taking in the way his jacket slips down your arm.

As Natasha and Steve disappear into the crowd, the world feels like it shrinks to just you and Bucky. He’s looking at you with that familiar smirk, one eyebrow raised, his eyes glinting with amusement as he takes in your slightly tipsy grin and the way his jacket keeps slipping down your shoulder.

“You make it a habit of getting lost at parties? Cap seems pretty worried" he teases, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Well, maybe I just like the thrill of you finding me,” you shoot back, trying to sound casual but feeling your cheeks warm as his smirk grows.

He steps a little closer, his hand still on your shoulder, fingers brushing against your bare skin as he adjusts the jacket so it sits more securely. “Could’ve told me you were coming out looking like this. I might’ve shown up earlier.”

You laugh, shrugging playfully, and roll your eyes. “Oh, please. You probably say that to every girl wearing your jacket.”

“Funny thing about that,” he murmurs, his gaze softening as it holds yours. “No one’s worn it but you. Didn’t think anyone else could pull it off.”

You look down, trying to hide the smile that spreads across your face, but he gently nudges your chin back up with his thumb, his touch sending sparks through you. He’s close now, the smell of his cologne and the warmth of his body making your head spin in a way the alcohol couldn’t.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost a whisper against your ear. “You look amazing.”

The compliment leaves you breathless, your mind briefly reverting back to the comments from the party goers just minutes ago and before you can stop yourself, you reach up to adjust the collar of his jacket on your shoulder, your fingers lingering against the fabric. “Guess I’m a little worried I’ll end up spilling something on it,” you admit, laughing softly.

“Guess that means I’ll just have to keep an eye on you, huh?” he replies, his fingers trailing down from your shoulder, brushing against your arm. His hand finds your waist, resting there in a way that feels so natural, as if it’s always belonged there.

Your eyes drift to his mouth, and you realize how close the two of you are standing. Every word he says seems to pull you in closer, and you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek as he leans down just slightly. Your heart races as your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, holding on as if to steady yourself.

“Bucky…” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips. He inches closer, his hand tightening just a little at your waist, drawing you in until it feels like the entire party has faded away.

But just as he leans in, a shrill voice cuts through the moment, breaking the spell.

“Well, isn’t this cozy.” You both turn, startled, to see Tiffany standing there, her arms crossed and a smug look on her face. You turn to see Tiffany, her arms crossed and a fake smile plastered on her face. Her eyes narrow, glancing between you and Bucky with thinly veiled contempt. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. Guess you’re trying a little too hard.”

The remark stings, but before you can react, Bucky shifts, standing a little closer to you. “What’s your problem, Tiffany?” he says, his tone firm and uninterested.

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms and tossing her hair back as she turns her attention to Bucky, attempting a flirty smile. “I just thought you had standards, Buck. But I guess I was wrong.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens, and he slips his arm around your waist, pulling you closer. “C’mon, let’s go somewhere a little quieter and less annoying"

Leaving Tiffany standing there, embarrassed and fuming, he guides you away, his arm warm and secure around your waist, making you feel protected and confident as he leads you through the crowd.

The moment Bucky's hand closes around yours, you feel a spark—a warmth that spreads up your arm and settles in your chest. He leads you through the crowded house, his grip on your hand firm yet reassuring, like he's guiding you through the maze of people and noise. The murmurs and whispers of girls around you don't go unnoticed, but somehow they don't bother you. In fact, there's a warm, fuzzy feeling in your stomach, your head, and even your chest. Maybe it's the alcohol, or maybe it's just Bucky. Either way, it doesn't matter. You're with him, and that's all you care about. Your mind quickly jolts to Steve, what would he say? Would he be disappointed in you? Would he say he told you so if Bucky hurts you? Bucky wouldn't hurt you...right? The alcohol buzzing through your system shoves any and all common sense away.

You pass by the groups of people laughing, talking, and occasionally shooting you curious glances. But all you can focus on is Bucky-his broad back, the way his hand holds yours so easily, and the way he looks at you with that small smile playing at the corners of his lips, as though he's leading you to something important.

When you finally reach his room, he pushes the door open and lets you step in first. The room is quiet, private, a stark contrast to the noise of the party downstairs.

You glance around, taking in the space-there's nothing chaotic about it. It's neat, clean, and well put together. The bed is made, the floor spotless, and everything in its place, "It's not what I was expecting," you admit, turning to face him, feeling a little surprised.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "What were you expecting?"

You hesitate for a moment before answering, a teasing glint in your eyes. "A mess. You know, like clothes everywhere, maybe a pile of old pizza boxes."

Bucky laughs softly, his gaze softening as he steps closer, his voice lowering. "I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a slob."

"Clearly," you reply, smiling, your heart racing at the closeness between you two "I did expect that though" You nudge your head in the direction of the Hockey poster.

He follows your gaze and he laughs, its such a beautiful sound, a sound you wouldn't mind hearing for the rest of your life. There's a chemistry here, something undeniable, and it makes your pulse quicken.

He takes another step forward, his eyes scanning your face. "So, you like it?" he asks, his tone playful but also sincere.

"I like it," you answer, voice softer now. "I like this. Being here with you."

A moment of silence stretches between you, charged with an electricity that only seems to intensify. You both stand there, neither of you willing to break the tension first "I like it to..." His voice is low, hoarse almost hes afraid of his own words "I like it more than you know sweetheart"

Bucky steps closer until there's barely any space between you, his breath warm against your face. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, your body reacting to his presence. His hand lifts, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your skin. His eyes flicker down to your lips, and the way he looks at you sends a wave of heat through your body.

You instinctively lick your lips, and the sound of his sharp intake of breath is enough to make your heart skip a beat. "Can I kiss you?" His voice is low, a hint of desperation there that makes your chest tighten.

You nod, a soft, "Yes," slipping from your lips before you can stop it. The moment the words leave your mouth, Bucky closes the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that is both gentle and desperate. His hands come up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as his tongue lightly grazes your lips, asking for permission. You part your lips, and he deepens the kiss, the heat between you building with every passing second. Your hands find their way to his chest, pushing him back slightly as your bodies press closer together. Bucky groans softly at the contact, and before you know it, you're backing up toward the bed, the kiss not slowing for even a second.

When your legs hit the edge of the mattress, you stop, breathless, staring up at him as he hovers above you, his eyes lock with yours, searching, asking, waiting for your consent. There's a moment of stillness before he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger there, a soft touch that feels like a promise. "Are you sure?" His voice is a whisper, thick with desire, but laced with the care he's always shown you. The way he says it makes your heart skip—he's not pushing, not rushing. He's waiting for you to take the lead.

You nod, a small smile pulling at the corners of your lips. "I'm sure," you whisper back, your voice barely audible, but filled with the certainty you've been hiding deep down. His eyes soften, a mixture of relief and something deeper-something raw.

Before you can take another breath, his lips are on yours, slow and soft at first, as if testing the waters, giving you a chance to pull back. But you don't. You melt into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. The taste of him is intoxicating, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that matches your own.

His hands slide down your back, firm but gentle, as though he's memorizing every inch of you. He pauses for just a moment, looking at you with a hunger that makes your pulse race. There's a slight hesitation in his eyes, as if he's waiting for a sign-an invitation to take things further. Your fingers tremble as they move to the hem of his shirt, and when he doesn't pull away, you tug it over his head, revealing the taut muscles of his chest. The sight of him takes your breath away, and your heart beats faster.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, his voice husky, as he takes in your figure, his eyes filled with admiration and a quiet reverence. The words sink deep into you, igniting a fire that you hadn't known was there. His hands are back on you, skimming down your sides as he pulls you closer, his body pressing against yours. Your breath hitches as his lips trail down your neck, sending waves of heat to places you hadn't known were sensitive. You close your eyes, unable to stop the quiet gasp that escapes your lips as his mouth explores, leaving soft, lingering kisses along your skin.

Your heart is racing, your body on fire, and when he lifts his head, his eyes are dark, filled with something you can't quite name. But you don't need to. All you know is the overwhelming desire to be closer, to feel more of him. "Bucky," you breathe, your hands tugging at his belt, desperate to feel him even closer.

He freezes for just a second, his brow furrowing in concern. "Are you sure?" he asks again, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, your hands on his chest, pulling him back into a kiss that's deep and urgent, a quiet plea for him to understand. "Please," you whisper against his lips, "I want this. I want you."

The tension snaps, and in a flurry of motion, he pulls you back onto the bed, his body hovering over yours.

His movements are careful, gentle, but his need for you is unmistakable. You're both breathing hard, hearts racing, as your bodies press together, skin on skin, the world outside fading away.

His eyes meet yours again, searching for any hesitation. There is none. His lips find yours once more, softer now, but just as intense, his hands roaming, his touch making you feel like you're coming apart at the seams. When he kisses your neck, down to your collarbone, and further still, your body arches toward him instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips.

He pulls away just long enough to speak, his voice hoarse “You’re the most beautiful girl ive ever seen”

You meet his gaze, your voice steady, filled with doubt from earlier “You don’t mean that…”

He brushes hair behind your ear cupping your cheek “I mean every word i say to you” And then, with a tenderness that takes you by surprise, he leans down to kiss you again, and the rest of the world disappears. Every touch, every kiss, is filled with love, need, and something deeper-something unspoken.

In that moment, it's just the two of you. Nothing else matters, Steve, the hockey team, Bucky's reputation, his fears, your worries. And when the world fades to darkness, there's only the two of you, entwined, lost in each other, wrapped up in a moment that stops time.

[everythingelseisextra]

Commit to the Bit

Part One: Everything Is Fine

Part Three: Treasure The Memory

Description: Your first real meeting with Thomas Shelby does not go quite as planned. Warnings: Language Word Count: 1751 Author's Note: Each chapter will be progressively longer. PLEASE let me know what you think. Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @look-at-the-soul

You wake up a little before dawn.

The night air surrounds you, the windows open, as you sit and eat your pitiful breakfast in your pitiful kitchen, the cabinets stopping your chair from going too far back, the sink a little too close to the table. You wear the same clothes as the day before. Your body aches and your head rings from a faint hangover, and exhaustion ripples through you like chills. Through the windows, you can still see the moon, hovering above the horizon, faint in the gray light. 

You leave your house before the sun is fully up. Pale light filters into the hayloft windows, giving you some sight as you open the barn doors. The horses nicker to you, expecting their grain, weaving back and forth in their stalls or bobbing their elegant heads. You mindlessly fill their buckets with each individual’s specialized diet, mind elsewhere. 

Expect me tomorrow morning. 

When? How would he find the barn? You gave vague directions, hoping it would deter him. And, most importantly, what would he want once he got here? You couldn’t give him anything. You barely had enough to keep yourself going, to keep the days going. You worry that, although you have nothing to give, he’ll still decide to take. He’ll come with that bold intensity you saw the night before, and you’ll find yourself trapped, invisible walls closing in, with no strength to stand up.

Horses fed, you move on to saddling and riding your first horse. A stallion, with a sweeping, arched neck and muscles filled out to perfection, chestnut coat shining. He’s your stud, and you make some money off of selling his coverings. His registered name is Speed of Fire, ironic considering he was never fast enough to race, even before his injury, but you affectionately call him Draco. 

Dressage saddle girthed up, you swing your leg over his back and start your ride in the arena. You work through his warm up, making sure he stretches his body in the proper ways, then start asking for more intricate movements; canter pirouettes, passage, piaffe. Your breath comes short, your muscles tense and relax, your hips move with the motion of the horse, swinging. The sun rises. Faded warmth washes over you. It’s during these moments of synchrony when you forget who you are, forget your worries and the unsteady nature of your identity, and you get to focus solely on connection with another creature, communication so subtle it’s as though you’re reading each other’s minds. 

Halfway through your ride, you stop to give Draco a walking break and catch your breath. Your eyes scan the horizon above the hills, where deep pink and purple and bright, unending orange blend together as the sun makes its way up the sky. You glance towards the barn, where some of the horses watch you ride, having finished their hay, waiting for their turn. You look away, gathering your reins, preparing for another workout. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and you halt your horse, head on a swivel to check around you. There, at the side of the arena, leaned up against the dusty metal railing, Thomas Shelby watches you quietly, his head tilted slightly, eyes tracking Draco’s movement. Your eyes meet, you on the towering stallion, but him taking up just as much presence with his expression alone. Air thins out around you, and you suck in a slow breath, not breaking contact with the stranger on your property. 

Then, as if possessed, your outside leg shifts back, and Draco steps quickly into a canter. Without thought, without planning, you find yourself doing what can only be described as showing off. Extended canter, collected canter. Tempi changes, canter pirouettes. You’re a finely tuned machine, each tiny movement a conversation with the horse, each silent shift eliciting a full response from him. 

By the time you’re done, Draco has sweat dripping down his neck, breathing hard, and lightheadedness swirls around you, making you take in slow breaths to steady yourself. You can feel his eyes on you, pointed, judgemental, and there’s a faint tremble in your hands gripping the reins. Staying on the horse gives you some protection; there’s not much someone can do to you while on horseback, unless he decides to shoot you, in which case, there’s nothing you can do. You trust Draco. He has a habit of pinning his ears and showing his teeth to strangers, snaking his neck towards them, though you’ve tried to train it out of him. Some stallions always have an edge to them.

You walk Draco to the arena gate, reaching out to push it open, but Thomas is already there, pulling it back to allow you out. You nod your head to him, voice once again stuck in your throat, branding you with the poetry of all the words you couldn’t speak. This time, though, your heart doesn’t jolt, your mind doesn’t go blank. He’s on your turf now.

“Beautiful animal.” He nods to Draco curtly as you walk by, as if unimpressed by your show of talent. His words defy him. “Beautiful ride.”

You nod again. Thanking him feels like handing him your power, like bowing your head and allowing him to judge. This is a game of reading silence, and you know how to win it. After a moment of hesitation, you dismount. You bring your horse over to the cross ties and tie him, giving him a treat from your pocket once the bit is out of his mouth. Thomas’ footsteps follow you, but you refuse to look at him, focusing on undoing the girth and pulling the saddle off. In your periphery, he stands, a dark figure surrounded by the grandeur of a sunrise in full force, undeserving of the golden outline it gives him. His hands in his coat pockets, his gaze on Draco, his cap pulled low over his eyes. Again, you catch a glint of metal along the rim. 

“Is he for sale?” He walks up to Draco’s neck, running a hand along the sweaty length of his neck. 

“No.” You turn and carry the saddle to the tack room, hefting it onto a rack and placing the pads on the rail underneath it to dry. You return to find Thomas by the horse’s head. You pause, watching them, hoping to go unnoticed. As usual, the stallion’s ears go back, his nose wrinkles, his neck arches. Thomas nods, continuing to stroke his neck, and says something you don’t understand. Another language, perhaps, one that sounds smooth, lyrical. Draco quiets, his liquid eye softening, though his ears stay pinned. Protective, not aggressive.

“He doesn’t trust you.” You walk over to grab a hose, waiting for Thomas to move so you can rinse the sweat off Draco. 

He doesn’t. “Name a price. I’ll meet it.”

“No.” You step forward, raising the hose, trying to make your intent clear. 

“Horse like him could get you out of a little house like that.” His fingers toy with Draco’s mane, still gentle, still looking into the horse’s eye. “Got no reason not to sell him.”

“He’s not for sale,” you insist, taking another step forward. 

His eyes shift to you, clear, icy blue and unreadable. “You don’t know who I am.”

“No. I don’t.” You point the hose towards him, a clear threat. “Move, please.”

“I’ll take you into town, then. Help you recon—”

You turn on the hose. A deluge of water sprays onto him, square in the chest, and he skitters out of the way, spooking Draco into a prance. You stand there, shocked by what you just did, then, in a spark of bravery you didn’t know you had, decide to commit to the bit. 

“You don’t get to intimidate me into selling my horse. You don’t get to decide that I’m going into town with you. Those are both my choices.” One hand on the still-running hose, the other preparing to kink it, you shift your shoulders to stand square in the soaked face of Thomas. “I don’t care who you are. Someone who doesn’t treat me with basic respect doesn’t deserve my time. Are we clear?”

Your heart pounds in your chest as his furious eyes turn to you. Holding his arms away from his dripping body, the layers of the suit completely wet, his hand slowly reaches up towards his cap. 

You step back, readying your hose, your only weapon. Blood pulses in your temples, all air seems to leave your lungs, and your hand begins to tremble as you wait for him to lunge. 

Instead, he wipes his face with it, then nods. “Really fucking clear.” 

“Good.” You kink the hose and shakily walk to turn it off. Back turned to him, you hold out your hands, watching them shudder with the spike of adrenaline. Then, slowly, you walk back, catching a moment of hilarity as Thomas attempts to squeeze water out of his suit and fails. You don’t quite feel safe enough to smile, but, at least, you feel a little better. 

“We can turn him out,” you say, nodding to Draco. “And I’ll get you a towel.”

“Turn him out,” he repeats, tense brow furrowing. 

“Put him in the arena and let him be a horse for a bit. No expectations.”

“Never heard of that.”

“Apparently you haven’t heard of much,” you snap. 

His eyes flick to you, almost brooding. You’ve never seen light eyes hold so much darkness. “Don’t bother with the towel. I’ll go.”

“Fine.” You turn back to Draco. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Shelby.”

He scoffs, and starts off towards his car, parked in the dusty valley your property sits in. In your mind, a dialectic is born. You feel relieved, glad that you’ll never see him again. And, deep down, you’re disappointed. Maybe this could’ve been something more. Maybe you could’ve won a friend out of it. 

No. Stupid of you to have expected that. You are constantly looking for hope, expecting it to be soft and gentle, when in reality, hope is something with sharp teeth and a bloody, battered body. Hope is something that’s born of isolation. Hope is something man-made, purposeful, something you keep in a jar like a butterfly, and catch more once it dies. 

Hope is a man speaking gently to a fearful, aggressive horse, instead of punishing him. 

You shake your head. Stupid. 

But you can’t help but watch as the car drives off, hoping it will turn back. 

[clockwork-ashes]

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part IV

Find Part I here :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge, huge thank you to the lovely @bettdraws who literally deserves all the credit and whose post inspired me to start writing this. I could not stop thinking about this head canon, and it was so kind of you to let me try and make a story from it :) And a huge thank you to everyone reading!

Tag List: @anishake

Part V >>

The Autumn Court was on the constant verge of death, Elain knew, but it was still the loveliest place she had ever seen. Eris had winnowed them first to the border, where the trees created a canopy so thick, she couldn’t even see the sky. The richest reds, the darkest oranges, and the deepest greens had surrounded Elain. Cora had looked as equally impressed by the change of scenery, and Elain had wondered if the woman had ever left the stifling Hewn City. 

Autumn was everything Elain had imagined the lands of faerie to be like. The chill was biting, she had noticed, cold like the first kiss of winter. She had been stunned into silence, had forgotten she was upset that Eris had not even let her say a proper goodbye to her family. 

Before Elain had had a moment to catch her breath, before she could truly appreciate the wild flowers and the unfamiliar trees, Eris had not bothered to warn her or Cora as he took them directly to the Forest House. 

Eris had let go of her hand so suddenly that Elain had stumbled, and had grabbed onto the woman who would act as her lady’s maid. Cora had gently supported her, shooting an angry glare at the Autumn heir’s turned back. 

Eris had led them through winding halls, windows dark at the late hour, torches their only light. Elain had realised that she much preferred the flickering flames of Autumn to the faelights ever-present in the Night Court.  

Eris had given them a moment to look at the guest suite, all wood and stone and comfortable carpets, before he had told Elain they would be going straight to Beron.

Elain understood that Lucien was in a great deal of danger, but the quick pace at which everything was happening was enough to make her light-headed, unsteady. 

“The High Lord is expecting you,” Eris offered her his arm, but when Elain hesitated, he added, “and it’s best not to keep him waiting.” 

Elain did not reach for Eris, instead she asked, “Because I’m Lucien’s mate?” She very nearly spat the last word at Eris in distaste. Saying Lucien’s name out loud was like a vicious blow, especially since she so often refused to allow herself the liberty. On the other side of the wall it was improper, Lucien wasn’t Elain’s husband, and the familiarity with which his name fell from her lips was enough to rattle her. 

Eris shook his head, the firelight from the torches reflecting off his golden jewellery. “Because he received your letter.” His answering smile was ruthless, that of a wolf. The expression didn’t reach his amber eyes. 

Elain only frowned in confusion, she glanced at Cora. “I never–” 

Elain did not get the chance to finish her statement, not as Eris waved his hand elegantly and a letter floated gently past her face. She snatched the paper from the air, her eyes scanning its contents with growing disbelief. 

The Night Court’s wax seal was still intact and the letter was simply worded, respectful. 

Lord Eris Vanserra, it is with great urgency that I write to you, so that I might request an audience with the High Lord of the Autumn Court…

Elain continued to skim what was clearly a plea for help. Cora moved closer to peek over Elain’s shoulder and she made a low sound of displeasure. 

What surprised Elain the most was not what was written in the letter, but rather the elegant, looping scrawl, exactly like her own. Even the signed name, Lady Elain Archeron, was identical. Her lips parted slightly in surprise at the perfect forgery. 

Before Elain could say anything, Eris spoke, a hidden warning in the tone of his voice. “I received your letter just in time, Lady, my father was growing tired of waiting for someone to notice Lucien’s absence.” His words were careful, so much so that Elain wondered if Eris was worried about someone listening in on their conversation. He offered her his arm once more, a flawless gentleman. 

This time, Elain was quick to loop her arm through his, nodding in understanding. Briefly Elain wondered how Eris had managed to forge the letter so well, but she pushed those thoughts aside, vowing to bring it up again at a later time. The light blue fabric of her sleeve was an ugly contrast to the deep green colour of Eris’s velvet jacket. “I am glad, then,” Elain said softly, “that I sent my letter to you when I did.” 

Elain saw as Eris’s shoulders dropped ever so slightly in relief, although he said nothing in response. The thick oak doors of the guest room opened silently, the long hallway beyond was menacing, shadows dancing as the torches flickered. 

Elain took a deep breath to calm herself, her posture perfect, just like her mother had taught her a lifetime ago. Elain wondered if the steady heartbeat she could hear was her own or Lucien’s, now that distance no longer separated them.   

Eris stepped forward, and Elain followed, Cora just a few steps behind. Elain was grateful for her strong and silent presence, but before all three of them could walk past the stone entrance of the room and into the hallway, Eris paused. 

Auburn brow raised, he glared at Cora with flames in his eyes. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

“I’ve come with the Lady, shouldn’t I stay by her side?” Cora snapped, her words sharp and lacking any of the respect one would have expected her to show a prince. Elain liked her instantly. 

“It’ll only annoy my father,” Eris replied, glancing at Elain before he faced Cora once more. 

Cora looked like a queen, Elain thought, her braid as good as any gold crown. “And leave the High Lady’s sister alone with you?” The last word was a snarl.

“You’re her lady’s maid, not her personal guard,” Eris responded, not taking his eyes off Cora. She continued to glare, and Eris smiled mockingly, daring her to argue. 

Elain felt as though the tension between them could be cut with a knife, locked as they were in their silent battle of wills. 

“Besides,” Eris drawled, “what use will you be against the wrath of a High Lord?” 

A blush stained Cora’s brown cheeks, the fingers of her one hand curling into a fist. Elain wondered if she would have hit Eris, but she did not wait any longer to find out if that would have been the case. 

“Thank you, Cora,” Elain interjected. “I’ll be fine.” Her words were confident, even though Elain herself was anything but. 

Cora did not seem satisfied with the way the night seemed to be unfolding, but all she did was sigh in frustration. “Good luck, then,” she said quietly. “I’ll be here when Lucien is freed.” 

Cora’s words were enough to spark an ember of hope within Elain, but as she walked arm-in-arm with Eris to the throne room, panic was beginning to send unwelcome shivers down her spine. 

“Don’t be afraid,” Eris murmured, not looking at Elain. He continued to walk at an unhurried pace, the sound of his boots hitting the stone in a steady rhythm. The carved double-doors of the throne room towered just a few more steps ahead of them. “No harm will come to you, Elain, I swear it on my life.”  

Elain did not know why she believed Eris’s words, but she tightened her grip on his arm, grateful. The doors opened, the hinges groaning with the weight of the wood, and the throne room was revealed, so unlike the one Rhysand and Feyre had in the Hewn City. 

Beron Vanserra sat on a throne of ancient maple, leaves carved into the thick wood with a steady hand. Elain’s first thought was that he looked nothing like Lucien, but there was a ghost of Eris in the turned down corners of his full lips. 

Elain fought not to shrink into herself, to keep her head high, at his assessing gaze. He was frightening, and Elain could almost feel his power within the space. Beron was the oldest High Lord, Feyre had warned her, and Elain wondered if that made him the most dangerous. 

The Lady of Autumn was a striking figure in a gown the colour of fresh blood. Her throne was just as lovely as her husband’s, although it was smaller. Elain caught the way the lady straightened her back, how she brought herself forward to look at Eris. Her husband did not see the desperation in her eyes as she looked at her eldest son, but Elain recognized the emotion, had seen it before on countless women hoping for miracles. 

Eris stopped right before the pair of rulers, dropping his hold on Elain’s arm. Elain elegantly curtsied, her face downturned, the movements practised, and she was grateful for the lessons she had suffered as a young girl. Elain was surprised momentarily as Eris bowed slightly at the waist beside her, the respectful gesture clearly deference to his High Lord and not the comfortable greeting of a parent.   

“Lady Elain Archeron of the Night Court,” Beron’s voice was harsh like the slash of a knife. “You have requested this meeting, and while I am pleased by your arrival to my court, I can offer you very little of my time.”    

Elain raised her head, smiling pleasantly. “High Lord, Lady” she greeted as her eyes flicked between them, “thank you for welcoming me to your lovely home.” 

“You were most troubled in the letter we received,” Beron stated, raising a dark eyebrow as he silently asked her to make her case. 

“I am troubled still,” Elain responded, trying her best to twist her words together just as faeries did. It came unnaturally to her, but her time in Velaris had allowed her to become familiar with the specific patterns of the High fae. “I’ve asked only for a moment of your time to make a most significant request.”

Beron’s answering smile was cruel, embers flared in his dark eyes. “Then make your request, child.” 

It was intended to be an insult, Elain was sure, calling her a child. Elain was not bothered by it, and she looked straight at the ancient being before her, chin held high. “I have come to request that my mate, Lucien Vanserra, seventh son of Autumn, be allowed a safe return to the Night Court.”

Elain’s words rang clear in the near-empty throne room. The Lady of Autumn’s sharp breath was like the shattering of glass as they all waited for the High Lord’s response. 

“The bond has not yet been accepted, everyone knows this.” Beron waved a hand dismissively. “You have no claim to him.”

“High Lord,” Elain began, and Eris reached for her elbow, tension in the set of his mouth. “We were to be married,” she continued, ignoring his silent warning. 

“When?” Beron Vanserra questioned, casting a devastating glare in his eldest son’s direction. It was clear that the High Lord doubted Elain’s words. 

Panic gripped Elain so suddenly she could barely breathe. “In two weeks' time, on the first day of Spring.” Elain hoped she sounded certain, confident. Eris looked ready to shove her behind him, his body angled in a way that suggested he was ready for a violent confrontation. 

Beron’s lips curled into a vicious smile. “I believe you, Lady Elain, and take no offence, but I still must confirm the truth of your claims with my son.” 

No sooner had the High Lord finished his sentence and the throne room’s doors opened with a groan. Elain couldn’t help but turn around, drawn to her mate. 

You are mine. 

The thought crashed through her mind like a wave against the shore, shocking and unwanted. Elain could finally sigh in relief, though, at seeing Lucien bruised and bloody, but knowing that he was relatively unharmed. 

Lucien looked proud, arrogant, as he was shoved further into the throne room by a careless guard. He did not notice Elain at first, not until she tugged on the golden thread that tied them together. Beron watched them like a predator watched prey, hungry for a slip in their demeanour. 

Elain’s brown eyes met Lucien’s, and all the fire he had possessed a moment before quickly went out. Like the first rays of the sun going over the horizon, horror dawned daybright on the lovely features of Lucien’s face. 

Elain looked at Lucien, the smell of burning wood and dying leaves thick in the air, and she wondered if perhaps she had made a terrible mistake coming to the Autumn Court.

[virgoilluminati]

Hello, I just wanted to say that I love love love your page and I love how you write. It is so beautiful and deep. Belongings has me on the edge of my seat and I can’t wait to see where it goes.

Can I get a Harry Styles one shot with the prompt 23-25. I had in my head like him maybe helping the reader to stay up and look after their children because he’s always away on tour and he feels guilty he always has to miss out on their milestones. Idk I thought it would be so sweet 🥹🥹🥹❣️

Sweet Cocoa

A/N: so my original plan was to do all 3 of those prompts but then I realise I was going overboard and I much rather this fic with just prompt 23. I love this fic it’s so cute and fluffy and ahhhhhhhhh I love these imaginary children ❣️

Requests: Yes - Prompt 23 “How about something warm? It will help you sleep.”

Word Count: 2.1K

Prompt list here

——————————————————————————————

The stage lights dimmed, and the crowd erupted in thunderous applause as Harry finished his concert, pouring his heart and soul into every note. With a smile on his face, he waved goodbye to his adoring fans and walked backstage, feeling a mix of elation and exhaustion. He couldn’t wait to see his wife, Y/N, and their two young children, Abel and Elliot.

Elliot, their eldest son, had Harry’s unmistakable resemblance, with his tousled brunette curls and adorable freckles that adorned his face. At four years old, he had been fortunate to experience the early years of his life with both Harry and Y/N always by his side. They treasured every moment, cherishing the precious memories they had created together.

Abel, on the other hand, arrived during a whirlwind phase in Harry’s life. She was born amidst the chaos of album creation, touring, and even Harry’s foray into the world of movies. Harry couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt for missing out on most of Abel’s life and the significant milestones that shaped her early years.

For example: whilst Harry had been there to witness Elliot’s first steps, he couldn’t be there for Abel’s.

The magical spirit of Christmas filled the air as the family gathered in their cozy living room. Twinkling lights adorned the Christmas tree, casting a warm glow on the scene. Harry, Y/N, Abel, and Elliot were surrounded by their loved ones, creating a joyful atmosphere.

Amidst the festive cheer, Elliot, with his bright eyes and contagious smile, stood in the middle of the room, wobbling on his tiny feet. The excitement was palpable as Harry, holding Y/N’s hand, watched their eldest son prepare to take his first steps. It was a moment Harry had eagerly anticipated.

With a burst of courage, Elliot took a few unsteady steps, his little hands reaching out for support. The room erupted in cheers and applause, celebrating this monumental achievement. Harry’s heart swelled with pride and joy as he quickly moved closer to his son, his eyes shining with love.

“Elliot, you did it!” Harry exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement. He knelt down, his arms outstretched, waiting to catch Elliot in his embrace. And just as his little boy stumbled forward, Harry scooped him up, spinning him around in a joyous dance.

Elliot’s laughter filled the room, a symphony of pure happiness that resonated in Harry’s heart. In that moment, surrounded by their loved ones, Harry felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for his growing family.

However, halfway across the world, while Harry was immersed in filming his new movie, “Don’t Worry Darling,” he received an unexpected FaceTime call. With a mix of excitement and apprehension, he answered the call, only to find Y/N holding her phone and pointing it towards Abel, who was standing unsteadily on her own two feet.

Harry’s eyes widened, his heart skipping a beat as he witnessed Abel taking her first steps. Even though he was physically distant, the surge of emotions he felt mirrored the exhilaration of that Christmas day when Elliot took his first steps.

“Abel, my love, you’re doing it!” Harry exclaimed, his voice laced with awe and pride. Despite the distance, his eyes never left his daughter as she wobbled and toddled, finding her balance with determination. He couldn’t help but feel a bittersweet pang, wishing he could be there in person to witness this milestone.

Y/N smiled warmly, her own eyes filled with a mixture of joy and understanding. “She’s been practicing so much, Harry. We wanted to share this moment with you.”

Harry’s heart swelled with love and gratitude for Y/N’s thoughtfulness. He blew a kiss through the screen, sending his love and pride to his little girl. “I’m so proud of you, Abel. Daddy loves you so much.”

As Harry closed the FaceTime call, he couldn’t help but reflect on the parallels of these two precious moments. Both Elliot and Abel had taken their first steps, marking a significant milestone in their lives. While he had missed Abel’s steps in person, he was grateful for technology that bridged the physical distance, allowing him to be present in some way.

Opening the door, Harry was greeted by the sight of Abel and Elliot, their eyes shining with excitement. They rushed into his arms, hugging him tightly. “Daddy, you were amazing!” Abel exclaimed, her voice filled with admiration.

Harry chuckled, feeling the warmth of their love surround him. “Thank you, my little stars. But now it’s time for me to be your superhero and help Mommy, okay?”

Abel and Elliot nodded eagerly, their faces beaming with enthusiasm. They understood that Daddy was tired, but they also knew he was always there for them when they needed him the most.

As Harry stepped into the living room, he found Y/N sitting on the couch, a tired smile on her face. Her baby bump was prominent, a beautiful testament to the growing life inside her. Harry’s heart swelled with love and appreciation for the incredible woman he had married.

“Hey, love,” he said softly, making his way over to Y/N. “I’m here now, and I’m ready to help.”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled with gratitude, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “You don’t have to, Harry. You’ve had a long day.”

He gently brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch filled with tenderness. “Nothing matters more to me than you and our children. I want to be here for you, every step of the way.”

A mixture of relief and adoration washed over Y/N’s face as she realized the depth of Harry’s commitment. “Thank you, Harry. I’m so lucky to have you.”

Together, they devised a plan to pamper Y/N and alleviate any worries or guilt she had been carrying. Harry fetched a cozy blanket and helped her settle on the couch, making sure she was comfortable. Abel and Elliot scurried around, eager to assist their parents.

Elliot ran to the kitchen, returning with a tray of Y/N’s favorite snacks and a glass of water. Abel picked up her toy toolbox and declared himself “Daddy’s little helper,” ready to take on any task assigned to her.

As Y/N reclined on the couch, Harry sat beside her, his hand resting on her belly. The little kicks and flutters beneath his touch reminded him of the new life they were about to welcome into their family. He felt a renewed sense of purpose, vowing to be present for every milestone and precious moment.

Together, they watched a movie, their laughter mingling with the soothing sounds of the television. Abel and Elliot snuggled close to their parents, their eyes growing heavy with sleep.

As the movie came to an end, Y/N leaned her head against Harry’s shoulder, a peaceful smile gracing her lips. “Thank you for tonight, Harry. This means the world to me.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, his voice filled with sincerity. “I love you, Y/N. And I’m sorry for the moments I’ve missed. From now on, I’ll make every effort to be there, for you and our children.”

Y/N’s heart swelled with love and forgiveness. “You’re already an amazing father, Harry. We’re a team, and we’ll navigate this journey together.”

In the dimly lit room, surrounded by the warmth of their love, Harry and Y/N knew that no matter the challenges they faced, their bond was unbreakable.

As the two children lay nestled on y/n, Harry’s gaze wandered over to Elliot, peacefully asleep. With a tender smile, he turned his attention back to y/n, a silent understanding passing between them. It was time to reminisce on Elliot’s birth, a story they held dear.

“I can’t believe how much Elliot has grown,” Harry whispered, his voice filled with awe.

Y/n nodded, her eyes shining with affection. “He’s become such an amazing young person, Harry. It feels like just yesterday.”

Harry reached out, gently clasping y/n’s hand. “I remember that fateful day vividly, my love. It started with our car breaking down, right in the midst of your contractions.”

A wistful smile graced y/n’s lips. “Talk about timing, right? I wasn’t about to let a broken-down car stop us, though. I remember hopping on that bus, holding onto you tightly as the contractions came in waves.”

Harry chuckled softly, recalling the bus ride. “You were so strong, y/n. Despite the discomfort, you never lost your focus or determination. I was in awe of you.”

Y/n squeezed Harry’s hand, gratitude shining in her eyes. “And you, Harry, you were my rock. Your unwavering support gave me the strength to keep going. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

They fell into a moment of silence, their memories intertwining. The warmth of the room seemed to envelop them, creating a cocoon of love and nostalgia.

Finally, Harry spoke, his voice filled with tenderness. “Once we arrived at the hospital, everything felt like a blur. The nurses and doctors were incredible, guiding us through every step of the way.”

Harry’s voice lowered, his words carrying a hint of awe. “And then, in the midst of it all, Elliot arrived. The room filled with overwhelming joy as we held our precious baby for the first time.”

Y/n’s eyes glistened with tears of happiness. “That moment is forever etched in my heart. Seeing Elliot’s tiny face and feeling that indescribable love—it was pure magic.”

Their hands remained intertwined, their hearts connected by the profound bond they shared. In the quietude of the room, Harry and y/n found solace in their memories, grateful for the journey they had embarked upon as parents.

Harry’s gaze shifted to Abel, their youngest, her delicate form a reminder of the challenges they had faced during her birth. A mixture of concern and remorse washed over him as he thought back to that difficult time, his voice tinged with vulnerability.

“Abel’s birth… It still weighs heavily on my heart,” Harry murmured, his eyes filled with a mix of regret and sadness.

Y/n’s hand gently reached out to touch Harry’s, a gesture of comfort and reassurance. “Harry, you mustn’t blame yourself. We couldn’t have predicted what would happen. It wasn’t your fault that you weren’t there.”

Harry’s brow furrowed, his guilt evident. “But I should have been there, y/n. I should have been by your side, supporting you through it all. I beat myself up over it, even though I know it wasn’t within my control.”

Y/n’s voice softened as she squeezed his hand, her eyes brimming with understanding. “Harry, listen to me. We faced unforeseen circumstances, and it was a difficult and frightening time. Truth be told, even I struggle to recall much due to the medication I was on.”

A mixture of relief and sorrow flashed across Harry’s face. “I remember how scared I was to see you in so much pain, y/n. And yet, I didn’t want to miss a single moment. I wanted to be there for you.”

Y/n’s gaze met Harry’s, filled with compassion. “You were there in spirit, Harry, even if you couldn’t physically be present. And when we were finally allowed visitors, we both knew Abel was a fighter. She was so tiny, so fragile, but she had a strength that amazed us all.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled with a mix of pride and adoration. “Our special Abel. She proved time and again how resilient she is. She overcame those early struggles and grew into this incredible little person.”

“I love our family.” Y/N states as she admires all three of her children, including her bump. Y/n’s words filled the room with a tender warmth, echoing the depth of her love for their family. Harry’s heart swelled with gratitude and affection as he looked at their children and then at the bump that held their future.

“I love our family too, y/n,” Harry replied, his voice filled with sincerity. He gently placed his hand on her stomach, feeling the gentle kicks from within. “And I’m so grateful for these precious little ones, including the one growing here.”

Y/n’s eyes shimmered with a mixture of love and understanding. “They adore you, Harry. Even in their own unique ways, they feel your love and presence. You are their father, and your love shines through in everything you do.”

A soft smile touched Harry’s lips as he absorbed her words. He knew he couldn’t erase the guilt he carried for not being present during Abel’s birth, but he also realized that forgiveness and acceptance were vital for their family’s growth.

As the comfortable silence enveloped the room, a slight shiver ran through Abel, stirring her from her peaceful slumber. Y/n, ever the attentive mother, moved to pick her up and carry her to her bed, wanting to ensure her comfort.

However, Harry’s protective instinct kicked in, and he gently interjected, “I’ll take care of Abel, love. You’ve been holding her for a while. Let me handle this one.”

Y/n paused, her eyes meeting Harry’s, filled with gratitude for his willingness to step in. She nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Thank you, Harry. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

With careful precision, Harry cradled Abel in his arms, feeling the warmth of her small body against his chest. He held her close, gently whispering words of comfort as he made his way to her bed.

As Harry tucked Abel in and adjusted the blankets around her, he couldn’t help but marvel at her peaceful expression. His heart swelled with love as he watched her, silently vowing to always be there for her and their entire family.

Y/n stood by, observing the tender moment between father and daughter. She couldn’t help but feel a surge of affection for Harry, appreciating his dedication and the deep bond he shared with their children.

In that gentle exchange, a silent understanding passed between y/n and Harry. They were a team, supporting and nurturing each other and their children through the ups and downs of parenthood. Their actions spoke volumes, reinforcing the unbreakable connection that bound them as a family.

As Abel settled into her bed, her breathing steadied, and a contented sigh escaped her lips. Harry stood by, his hand lingering on her forehead, before turning to y/n with a soft smile.

“Our little warrior is back to dreamland,” he whispered, his voice filled with tenderness. As Abel whispered her plea for warmth, her small frame curled against Harry’s back, he couldn’t help but chuckle softly at her adorable request. His heart melted at the sight of her, and he nodded, understanding her need for comfort.

“How about something warm, it will help you sleep?” Harry suggested, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Abel’s face lit up with anticipation, her playful nature shining through. “Hot cocoa?” she asked, her voice filled with cheekiness, fully aware that sweet cocoa on a weekday was a rare indulgence.

Harry smiled warmly, knowing how much she enjoyed the occasional treat. He nodded, feigning seriousness. “I think we can make an exception tonight. Hot cocoa it is.”

Carefully, Harry settled Abel back onto the bed, making sure she was comfortable. He draped a soft blanket over her small body, tucking her in snugly. Then, with gentle strides, he made his way to the kitchen to prepare their special bedtime treat.

The aroma of cocoa filled the air as Harry carefully prepared the warm drink, stirring in the chocolate powder and adding just the right amount of sweetness. He poured the steaming liquid into a cup, watching the swirls of rich chocolate with a sense of satisfaction.

Returning to Abel’s room, Harry found her still nestled in bed, her eyes drooping with fatigue. He settled himself beside her, his free arm cradling the cup of cocoa.

“Here you go, my little one,” Harry whispered, his voice filled with tenderness. “Enjoy your hot cocoa. It’ll warm you up and help you drift off to dreamland.”

Abel’s eyes sparkled with delight as she took the cup in her small hands, blowing gently to cool it down. She took a cautious sip, a contented sigh escaping her lips. “Mmm, thank you, Daddy.”

Harry smiled, his heart full. He leaned back against the pillows, carefully cradling Abel against his chest as she settled in, the warmth of the cocoa and their shared embrace lulling her back to sleep.

In that quiet moment, Harry’s heart swelled with love and gratitude. He treasured these precious moments with Abel, cherishing the bond they shared. As he watched her, cocooned in warmth and love, he knew that being a father meant embracing both the role of caregiver and occasional indulgent treat-giver.

[pansycritter]

Animal Jam Items for Art Commissions (Open)

Okay I've decided I wanna do them because the siren call of funny pixel items has been too great for me. I'm really only looking for items that I desperately want, but I will be willing to see other offers if you want a piece but don't have an item I want! I am offering reference sheets, fullbodies, headshots, and busts. Something important to note before you read the rest of this: I do not do refunds after the lineart has been finished. I will show you the sketch before I line and you can tell me corrections or additions you would like to make before I line. If you decide not to continue with the commission then that's okay, but you are NOT allowed to use the sketch I provided for ANYTHING because I do not do work for free! After the sketch is finalized and I am going to proceed with the lineart and coloring, I expect to get the items of our exchange. If you feel anxious doing the full exchange then we can do half. After the piece is done you can give me the rest. I don't intend on scamming anyone of course, but there are losers out there that have scammed so I understand the anxiety. You can ask for updates at any time and I intend to show you updates throughout the process! :) Anyway! Comm info under the cut

There will be 3 types of commissions. -My normal commissions (Procreate drawing). I feel most confident doing these because my hand can be a bit unsteady and stabilization helps me quite a bit. -AJPW masterpiece -AJ Classic masterpiece I can do reference sheets, fullbodies, headshots, or busts. I can draw pretty much any species of animal, some mech things, humans, and light gore (scratches, blood, yknow). I will not draw NSFW on in-game pieces. I can do nudity for a ref if you'd like. I will not draw headfeathers or headdresses on any animals. Please give me a different head item to draw because I do not feel comfortable drawing these. Reference sheets will only be available as my regular commission type. They're too large and complex for in game masterpieces. I can only do fullbodies, busts, and headshots for in-game masterpieces. I can draw ferals in game but I don't feel confident doing anthros in game due to the size of the canvas (especially if you want a fullbody). If you really want an anthro in a masterpiece then we can talk about it.

Pricing/what to expect: When I list items that I would want, then it's that item or the other items listed. For example, I would do a reference sheet for ONE alpha sword OR shark tail OR etc etc. The list isn't I want *all* of the items. I will also take equivalent value for the items listed.

Reference sheets come with 1 fullbody, 1 chibi with an outfit, and 1 headshot. If your character has a special back marking or item etc that you want to add then we can discuss whether that will be extra or not (if it's pretty simple idm). They will have a flat color or free use photo for the background and the character won't be shaded. Items I would accept for a ref: 1 alpha sword, 1 pair of snow leopard slippers, 1 shark tail, up to 9 black longs, 2 phantom beanies, or a mixture of party hats (rare original versions only). Equivalent to any of these items. Fullbodies, busts, and headshots will be flat colored only unless you would like shading, which would be a few den betas (up to 3). If you don't specify that you'd like shading then I won't shade them. The background will be a flat color, a free use photo, or a pride flag if you'd like.

For fullbodies I'm looking for: Beta elf armor tail (pref 1x white or 1x pink. Green or tan + small add like a few dbs). Lower grade party hats such as the orange, yellow, or green. 1x phantom beanie. Equivalent to any of these items. For busts and headshots: Probably just a mix of short collars and long wrists or den betas. I can also do multiple (up to 3) headshots for a more valuable item like beta tail armor (along with other things) or phantom beanie etc. It's been kind of hard to price my art in terms of animal jam items, but if you'd like to talk to me more about it or make an offer then my DMs are OPEN and you can also reply to this post! I'm also on toyhou.se with the user kibblecore! Related to my "will not draw" earlier, I do not accept headdresses or headfeathers for my art. I feel uncomfortable having those items and will just trade them away. Here are some examples of my art :)

The one that is just a sketch is an idea of what you will get if you get a ref comm. This oc is Laby and I haven't finalized their design yet which is why it's unfinished lol. I just made it as an example.

The rest of these photos are examples of my art. Some have shading and some do not. The image if the fox with the party hat is from AJ classic. I know the refs have quite boring colors for the backgrounds but that color can always be changed of course! Grey is just my default :) Also I can use a font to add your character's information instead of just my hand writing lol I suppose that's all! If you have any questions/are unclear on anything then please DM me or ask!!! :D

[not-safeforsanders]

Riptide

Chapter 24: Breezeblocks // He bruises, coughs, he splutters pistol shots Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Read on A03 Ship: Receit Warnings for the whole fic: Drug use, sexual content, sex under the influence of alcohol, alcoholism, implied/referenced suicide attempts, sexual trauma, sex addiction, self-worthlessness. Plot: Remus is running from a history he doesn’t want to face, Janus is escaping guilt that he doesn’t have to bear. When the two meet under the most unlikely of circumstances, Janus finds himself in a whirlwind of a life that gets stranger by the second. As he starts to uncover more about Remus’, and his brother Roman’s, history, Janus finds himself in a much harder situation than he’d thought he’d be in. Can he stop his past repeating itself? Or will he have to carry the weight of living alone once again? Chapter Summary: Remus' emotions have an unsteady sort of day. --

His first day of his classes were only a little exhausting. He'd at least had the sense to wear something comfortable, loose clothing. It made him feel less displaced in the bustling halls of a college, unnoticeable. For once, he was quite content not being the centre of attention. Instead, he sat quietly at the back of class, bewildered how different from school it all felt. People chattered and relaxed throughout the day. Remus, nervous to admit he felt out of his depth, huddled in a corner with his notebook, sketching outlines and writing notes in one long, pictographic flow.

But overall, it wasn't a bad day. It was surprisingly uneventful, which he supposes he should be happy for.

When he recounts the day to Janus, he explains that the course content is surprisingly easy - that he might even do well, here. He'd had to let his course tutor know about his reading struggles, but as it turned out, it was a surprisingly common experience. "Apparently not being able to read right doesn't mean I won't do well," he'd chattered excitedly, flittering around the kitchen aimlessly. Janus watched him with distant amusement, sipping a cup of tea that Remus had all but abandoned in his excitable frenzy.

"I could've told you that for free."

"Oh...shut up."

Janus smiled, shaking his head as Remus finally came to a halt. He shouldn't have looked as extravagant as he did to the other man, wearing a hoodie that he's half-sure is Roman's, and a pair of black jeans. He did, though, his dark hair curling around his ears and a lively flush to his cheeks. His happiness brightened him in a way, his excitement painting a sheen over him far more beautiful than any amount of makeup could ever attest to. There was something so effortlessly alluring about him as he stared down with that smile of his.

“My smart, academic boyfriend," he uttered in the quiet, his reverence barely concealed. Remus blushed, but feigned annoyance with a roll of his eyes and a scoff.

"Don't get your hopes up."

"You can't stop me!" And this much was true. “I thought you might be a little tired when you get back, so, I figured we'd order in, my treat for your first day."

"I love you."

"Me? Or my wallet?"

"It's a package deal," his voice lifted into a teasing sing-song, spinning around excitedly on the spot. "Pizza!" His hands fluttered with the bout of emotion that ran through him, "...first day of college, and pizza!" Janus only watched with amusement, finishing off the remnants of the cup of coffee in front of him, as Remus began to dissolve into a list of all the things that made him happy. "-Did you know I fed a squirrel today? It just stood there looking at me, and I'm like-" Where had all this joy been hiding? All this excitement? Who in their right mind would have ever deprived this from him? "-but it does not go away, and I'm like here, have some granola, I guess?"

"Squirrel friend on your first day, I'm so proud of you."

"I'm thinking one day I can get all the squirrels to trust me, and raise a squirrel army if I ever have trouble."

"Smart plan."

"I know, right?"

He set about ordering pizza on the phone when Remus' chatter died down. His tiredness began to show through, slowly. The realisation that he would have to go back and do it all again tomorrow clearly started to settle in. There was a flutter of pre-emptive exhaustion at the thought, and he found himself unwilling to move from where he sat on his bed. Paralysed by an onslaught of tiredness, he stared at the fibres of the floor and wondered, distantly, if he was well enough for this.

"I ordered the pizza," Remus looked up to Janus. He hadn't even heard him come up the stairs, but he stood there with a frown as he saw the other man unmoved on the bed. "Are you okay?"

"Tired."

"Yeah, it's like that at first," Janus sat beside him, frowning. "Even I was like that when I first started working, routine changes can be difficult for anyone, the best you can do is keep at it and do what you can to make it easier."

"Anyone?"

"Yeah, I mean, I went from a good three months of not moving to a 9 to 5 job, the first month all I did was sleep when I got back." Remus sighed with some quiet relief. "It's not the difficulty, really, it's just getting used to it, bearing with the uncomfortable until it's familiar."

Remus nodded, resting his head against his partner's shoulder, before nuzzling at his neck. Janus shivered beside him, and Remus felt the way his breath caught in his throat against his own lips, where Janus' heartbeat also fluttered.

"I love you," Remus muttered.

"Pizza's on its way," Janus replied, voice suddenly hoarse and strained. The other man could do nothing other than grin, the heat of Janus' flustered response warm to the touch.

"We've got at least an hour," his hand rested on Janus' spine, where a shiver trembled through him, pressing his body into the touch without so much as a conscious thought. "That's some time to kill."

"Re-"

"Please."

"No." Remus stopped. He looked up at his lover with poorly concealed hurt, his eyebrows pulled into such a pointed frown that Janus could only assume he'd just punched him in the gut. "I'm not rejecting you, Re," he uttered, sighing, "...If we're going to do this, we're going to talk about it first."

"Talk about what?"

"About how you're feeling! About how I'm feeling! But not on a time limit and not on a whim, because I don't want that." Remus' frown deepened, trying to grasp an idea of why Janus felt the need in the first place. "I'm not comfortable doing anything that could possibly hurt you, Re, I won't do it if I think for a second it will, it's not fuckin' worth it."

"Why are you uncomfortable? I was the one that was raped." Janus flinched at the curtness.

"Because I care about you, what the fuck else do you think?"

"I should get to decide what I do!" The quick rage that seemed to fly through him was abrupt and uncontrollable. He forgot on some instinct how to curb the fire as it lit in his throat and poured out of him. At the moment, he couldn't have ascertained where it came from, why he suddenly felt helpless and furious.

"You should! But this isn't just your choice!" Whilst Janus simply felt hurt. His voice shook with a more managed anger, measured and weathered to something close to sadness; the raised voice hadn't scared him, but it did wound in one way or another. He hated to upset Remus, even more so when he felt it was a perfectly reasonable request. It would take another few minutes of back and forth and raising voices and the inevitable slam of the door as Remus - now angered beyond anything that made sense - left his own room and stormed downstairs. A few seconds for Janus to catch his breath before he would offer himself an explanation that made enough sense for him to flop back on the bed and groan dejectedly.

The silence in the house consumed them both as they waited and waited. Neither ready to face the other - for shame, or heartache, or just plain sorrow - so they remained apart, until the doorbell rang, and the pizza was there. Janus let the pizza go cold for half an hour before he swallowed his pride and returned to the other man. Remus had hardly touched the pizza, peeling sweetcorn off of the surface and dropping it into the cardboard box.

"I wasn't trying to control you," Janus muttered, "...I know, I figured...afterwards that was probably why you were so angry, I wasn't trying to control what you do with your body, and I'm not making decisions for you - but I am making them for me, Re, I couldn't live with myself knowing I hurt you." He sat down in silence and picked at the abandoned sweetcorn, eating it and wincing at the cold grease and rubbery cheese.

"I don't know why I - I just got so angry."

Janus nodded. "I think, maybe, because you don't want to feel like anyone has any input over you, and that's fine, that's normal, and that's good, but when it involves both of us..."

"Yeah," Remus nodded, "...yeah, I get you." His eyes were shining with tears. He stared down at the mangled and uneaten pizza so hard that Janus wondered if the thing might burst into flames from concentration alone. He slid closer to the other man and offered him an arm. Remus sank against his shoulder and shook with the exhaustion of his own feelings. The anger, residual from the pain he'd suffered for too long, the fear that remained ever present beyond his conscious thought, the shame of existing with all these overwhelming feelings. 

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"Let's try and keep a lid on it, for a bit, yeah, I don't want to ruin a good day." Remus nodded wearily, pressing a kiss to Janus' shoulder, the best apology he had the energy to give.

[morvantmortuary]

Sorry to hear you've had a rough day. Sending you good vibes and virtual hugs 🖤🖤🖤

thank you for this, darling, I super appreciate you thinking of me 🥰

some of it was honestly funny in hindsight? like, the two campus buses I have to take to get to work somehow stretched my commute into an hour each way

…I live ten minutes from my office 🙃

then I sent this job listing I really liked to the director of our professionalization committee for this year, which I knew wasn’t my exact specialization but I have other circumstances that made me think it would work, only for the director to explain I would be a super duper long shot (if I was considered at all) bc they’re actually looking for an MFA student but they didn’t outright say it in the listing

did I mention I switched to applying for my phd five years ago even though I originally wanted an mfa, I somehow thought a phd would be more practical

so then I went looking through all the job app websites I’m signed up for, and while I found a lot of openings for other specializations (ukrainian lit, italian lit, pre-1000 bce), I found maybe one or two for what’s considered the most general application of what I do

and they were both for military academies :’D which I really, uh, don’t want to work at

so then I was like “okay, boot and rally, it’s gonna be fine, let’s just finally get the committee together” and sent out an email being like “hey guys we still haven’t decided on a date to meet and it’s like month 2 of the semester, how about [x day]” bc I’m feeling really unsteady about my dissertation and I’m under a lot of pressure from my dad to finish as soon as possible, so I’ve been trying to get ahold of them for weeks now it feels like

only for my new chair to immediately be like “nope sry”

so then I got home (an hour later) (I still only live ten minutes away) and realized that I think my best friend since I was little forgot to send me a birthday present when she usually always remembers

which she’s not obligated to do obviously, we’re both adults and she’s had some stuff going on, but between that and the fact that the two friends whom I supported through their dissertation/defense periods have just, like, left - one is on the other side of the world, one might as well be - I just got feeling very lonely :’D as much as I love all my friends in my phone, it’s just kind of hard sometimes in meatspace. no one else in my family has been to graduate school before (hell, I’m the second person in my immediate family to graduate from college and the first to not fail out temporarily in the process) and sometimes I feel weird talking to my non-grad irl friends bc they treat me like I’m still in college/don’t have a real job yet (they don’t mean to, it’s just how people think of grad school in the states), so. yeah.

…and then the scary possession movie I rented to feel better turned out to be a conservative religious propaganda movie in disguise, which was just the cherry on top

(that’s the last time I rent a movie without checking imdb first)

but then the next day was better: my committee chair swung by my desk himself (we work across the hall from one another) and hung out and talked me through some of my biggest worries for a bit (and even said he liked my chapter, which was amazing bc I was afraid it was hot garbage), and my boss was really nice and gave me some cake balls from the local bakery for a belated birthday present (I can’t eat them due to food allergies but the thought counts!!), and I actually drove myself to work instead of taking one of the buses, which shouldn’t be a big deal but is for me bc I hate driving anywhere after a bad accident I had a few years ago :’D then my committee members emailed me like “hey how about next week!!” and I was like “oh phew okay” and found out one of them hasn’t been avoiding me, he’s just on teaching leave for the semester lmao (he’d sent me comments first and I hadn’t seen him since, so I was like “omg was it that bad” even though his comments were fairly chill) so I guess my lesson for the week is that I just need to be patient and let things work out

…then this morning I woke up with a migraine :’D but it’s not the worst one I’ve had so far, so. it evens out I guess!!

anyway, sorry to hurgle all this at you after your super nice ask, it’s just been A Lot. if you read this far, you’re a saint and I love you 😂🖤

cheers to the rest of this week looking better!! hopefully!!! knock on wood!!!

[mrcowboydeanwinchester]

🌧️ the sun, through it all, abides ☀️

charthur fic - 3152 words - rating: G - arthur healing - read on ao3

“This sickness inside of me, it’s like climbing the Grizzlies. I can’t come down, there’s no way back. It hurts. An’ when I get to the top– that’s it, Charles. I’m done. It’s a trail made of bridges and I’m burning ‘em, all of ‘em."

“So maybe you can’t see a way back, Arthur,” Charles said. “But there’s always a way forward. It’s a big old mountain you’re climbing. Take the scenic route.”

Charles convinces Arthur to make it out of Beaver Hollow alive. The arid West Elizabeth air is better for Arthur's lungs, but then a week of rain arrives, leaving Arthur's chest rattling and his mind uneasy. Turns out the slow, unsteady weight of getting better is easier to carry when shared.

fic is below the cut!

"Love, in all its forms, is the most powerful weapon we have, because love is a form of hope. And, like hope, love abides. In the face of everything.” - Vinay Patel, ‘Demons of the Punjab’

Arthur’s world had narrowed significantly since his collapse in Saint Denis. It wasn’t like the possible pathways of his future had been so wide and varied before, but with the rattling in his chest there seemed to be only one path ahead: the fork in the road had come and gone, and he had left the freedom of life’s highway for a steep and rocky mountain trail which ended more abruptly than he’d anticipated. 

He’d told all this to Charles, once, at Beaver Hollow.

“This sickness inside of me, it’s like climbing the Grizzlies. I can’t come down, there’s no way back. It hurts. An’ when I get to the top– that’s it, Charles. I’m done. It’s a trail made of bridges and I’m burning ‘em, all of ‘em.”

“So maybe you can’t see a way back, Arthur,” Charles had said. “But there’s always a way forward. It’s a big old mountain you’re climbing. Take the scenic route.”

“The scenic route?”

“Ride with me and ride somewhere slow and warm and dry. Make it easier. Make it out of this chapter of your life alive.”

And when Charles had left, Arthur had followed him, with John following Arthur. 

Now, Arthur’s narrow world is as wide as the views surrounding Beecher’s Hope. Charles and John’s handiwork is impressive even if half-finished, with Charles fixing the ranch up while John runs errands. Arthur does what he can to help out. It’s not much, but it’s more than he was able to do when he was running with the gang, and some days, those burned bridges leading back to a healthier life even seem a little salvageable. The West Elizabeth air is hot, the land is arid, and his lungs are better for it. They have a life here, a real one. It’s good. It’s healing.

It is really, really hard.

When the rain comes to Beecher’s Hope, it comes for a week, and it comes to make Arthur miserable. The humidity of the air combined with the foul weather’s accompanying chill wreaks a wearying havoc on his lungs. John has ridden up to Valentine for a job and gotten caught in a storm in New Hanover, sending word back that he won’t be arriving home until the weather has passed, and so Arthur and Charles are alone in the ranch. In a way it’s nice to have all the time to themselves. But there is so much time, and so little to do with it, and Arthur misses the extra company. With the weather working against his health the way it is, it’s all he can do to make meals on good days, and rest up on bad ones.

It’s weeks like these that Arthur is reminded that climbing this mountain is unrelentingly boring. There are things he simply cannot do, things he used to do often and enjoyed; some things he can do on some days but strictly not others and only at the time will they be made known; a list of things he can do but only if he deems them worth the consequences. 

That is a mighty big part of his job, now. Valuing the worth of something against the consequences. Hardest thing about it is, everything is worth it in the moments before the consequences. But in the gripping fist of a coughing fit, praying he doesn’t bring up blood again, rendered a helpless silvery consciousness in a breaking body, nothing is ever worth it. And knowing that, living through it, how can he make the choice to bring that pain into being again? 

Life has become a constant balancing act, with pros and cons and quantifiable outcomes. There’s a level of mathematics to it which Arthur finds exhausting. He’s always been more for metaphors than mathematics, really. But there aren’t many metaphors for being ill. He can tell Charles he’s climbing a mountain all he likes but that doesn’t stop the fact he’s sore all over in ways nothing can properly fix.

So the amount of things he can do is meager and oftentimes, he finds, pitiful. And very boring.  

“You’re drawing again,” Charles notes as he wanders into their bedroom to check on Arthur. It’s the third day of pouring rain. Charles’ building chores, too, have been held up by the weather, but there’s enough work for him to do on the farm without John here that his dashes to and from the barn are frequent. 

“Hmmf,” Arthur grunts in illustrious reply. 

He’s a far cry from happy, the rain-roused heavy wheezing of his chest making him feel more accordion than human. There’s a dull ache accompanying it. It’s one which threatens more than tortures, but the threat of it is enough to make him uneasy, a fidgety anxiety that combines with the cabin fever to make him feel shit. 

Today, the most he has managed is to drag the rocking chair from its usual corner of the room to face the window. With his journal and charcoal in his hand, he’s sketching the panes of the window and its limited view. Repeatedly, over and over across the page, are little and large visions of the cagey window and the tree just outside of it that blocks most of the light. 

Charles deciphers his cartoons with ease. “You’re restless. Anything I can do?”

“Bring back the damn sun,” Arthur snaps. He bites down on his lip the second the words leave his mouth, disliking the harshness which emanates from them. He hates how he can feel himself being worse to the people he loves over this. He hates that he can’t control his body, and now he can’t even control his tongue. Still, he doesn’t say sorry. 

Charles is gentle as he always is, running a calm hand through the light strands of Arthur’s hair from where he’s leaning against the back of his chair. He is not a man without anger, but he seems to know when Arthur’s isn’t really directed at him. “This tree, it covers almost the whole window,” he muses. “Blocks most of your view.”

“I guess,” Arthur supplies, helpfully. 

“Next time the rain lessens, I’ll chop it down.”

“Charles, you don’t have to do that–”

“I can’t bring back the sun, but I can let a little more light in,” Charles says, like that settles the matter. 

Haltingly, the rain patters to a not-quite stop the next afternoon, the remaining drizzle just bearable enough for Charles to head out in. 

“I’ll chop that tree today, before more rains come,” Charles calls as he makes his way through the front door in lieu of hello. He takes off his hat, holding open the front door and shaking it so that droplets of water roll off the black leather. 

The draft that whistles through the open door is misty and cold. Arthur is glad for the fire burning in the hearth today which wrings the moisture out of the air before the worst of it reaches his lungs. 

He sighs, though, the prospect of another bout of rain settling low and depressed in his gut. “You don’t think this is the end of ‘em?”

“Sorry, Arthur. Clouds still rolling in over Blackwater. It’ll be a few more days, at least. Are the axes in the outhouse?” 

“You know more about that than me, I ain’t got much to do with manual labor ‘round here,” Arthur chuckles, a little sourly. “And I swear, they say tuberculosis is meant to cut your life short but time has never passed more slowly in my life.”

Charles nods, nudges his toes against the fire to stoke it a little. “Keeping a sick body alive is harder than surviving a shootout.” 

“Well, I’d take being shot at any day. Least then I can shoot back. Never once did a job with shootin’ involved that went by so slow.”

Charles huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he makes once more for the door. “How about watching me chop this tree?” he suggests, rolling the sleeves of his navy tunic up his broad forearms as he smiles. His voice is low and rich, like the smoke which rises from a gun barrel after a hunt’s quick kill. “I’ll fell it clean.” 

With that, he turns and heads back outside, leaving the hairs of Arthur’s neck standing. Arthur gets up stiffly and slowly, heading back to the bedroom with the noises of the outhouse doors opening and closing accompanying him. He drags the rocking chair back into view of the window in time to see Charles walking up to the tree with his ax in hand. 

“You sure there ain’t nothing I can do?” Arthur shouts to Charles. He pushes open the window as he does so - some days he can decide something is worth it and the consequences forget to arrive afterwards. Maybe today is one of those days.

Charles hears him, positioning himself at the far side of the tree so Arthur has a clear view of him. Or he has a clear view of Arthur. “Well, you can sit there and look pretty,” he grins.

“I– oh,” Arthur falters, heat rising to his cheeks and likely turning him a bashful pink. “Pretty,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head at Charles’ smile.

“You’re getting some color back,” Charles says, quite seriously, but Arthur can hear the tease rolling through his voice. Arthur waves his ribbing away. 

It’s nice to know, at least, that he hasn’t lost the ability to produce a blush. He’s been pale so long now he’s near forgotten what he used to look like. And for Charles to call him pretty through all that - the perpetual pallor, the gauntness, the loss of the fat by his waist he used to know was his – is something. Arthur looks in the mirror now and sees sickness. Charles looks at him and somehow still sees something good. 

The rain spits down steadily outside the window, Charles’ tunic soon dampening and clinging to his arms. He’s foregone his hat for this, and so his hair, too, is soon stuck against his skin, the strands falling over his face from where he’s tied half his hair back fixed to his forehead. He runs a dark hand through his hair to clear his vision and the moment passes in a pattering heartbeat Arthur wishes he could recapture. 

Charles swings once, twice, brings the tree down on the third slice through the air. It comes down easily, and Arthur watches the world outside his bedroom window be made anew. The sky blooms into being, the gray light of the expansive plains flooding the room. Everything reaches outwards, the fences which had once caged his field of vision now the markers of near distance as the horizon rolls away.  A single patch of blue, once hidden by the branches of the tree, is clear in the sky. 

“That better?” Charles asks.

It’s one tree. It’s a small change. Arthur feels a ray of delight he hasn’t felt in weeks. That’s the one good, desperate thing about a narrow life: the littlest moments of contentment become all-consuming. 

He nods, cheeks dimpling. “Sure is. It sure is.”

**

“Arthur,” a familiar voice whispers softly, lifting him from a dream where he is holding blood-stained money in his hands and can’t put it down, “Arthur, wake up. The rain has dried and the sun is rising. Come outside with me.”

Arthur opens bleary eyes to see Charles lit in dawn’s nectarine light. The curtains are pulled back from the window, leaving its newly clear view to reveal drying ground and open, almost cloudless, sky.  

Finally.

Charles offers his hand and Arthur takes it, gladly, rising from the bed and following him to the front door, slinging on his jacket and boots over his union suit as he goes. He passes from the wooden boughs of the house out into the open air with the deep breath of a wakening yawn in his lungs. There is no dampness to fight against. Just a world which seems to extend from him, the temperature around him at one with that of his skin, the dry air passing through his lungs and out again almost smoothly. Smooth as they can ever manage. There’s no cure. No real healing, not properly. But there’s this. Things in his body aren’t ever okay for long, but they’re okay for the moment, and Arthur has this. 

He sits himself down on the step of the porch. His boots, grown clean without use over the past few weeks, gain a fine coating of dust around where the sole meets the leather again. Charles sits to his right and the morning thrums, quiet around them, with little hints of life. A spider spins its home along the wooden railing of the porch. 

“Thanks for wakin’ me,” Arthur murmurs.

Charles smiles. “It felt important.”

“I’ve been– bad to be around, these past few days,” he manages to say, tugging up a blade of grass from the ground beside him. He flips it between his fingers as he gets the rest out. “Ain’t made things easy for you. I want to do better. Don’t want to be no fair weather friend. Literally.”

“What you’re going through, it’s not easy.”

“Neither is what you’re doin’.”

“Maybe,” Charles nods. “But allow yourself some grace, Arthur.” 

Arthur bumps his elbow roughly into Charles’s side. “Jus’ take the damn apology.”

“Okay,” Charles concedes, and Arthur can feel his shoulders shaking with gentle laughter as they rest against him. 

The mountains in the distance are plummy, ripening in color with the rising sun; in another world Arthur is sinking his teeth into the skin of them and reaching the softness beneath. The light shimmers down in tangible rays. Once, Arthur could’ve traveled far enough to reach out and touch them.

“Mornin’s like this… I used to ride through the night, sometimes, just waiting for the light to stream down through the clouds. Made it worth it.”

Charles hum in agreement. “There are many things you can say about this world, but you can never forsake its beauty.”

“Yeah,” Arthur mutters. Bitterness creeps back into his voice, seeing all this beauty, and knowing it has to be held at arm’s length.

With an intuition saved just for Arthur, Charles hears his discordant tone. “What are you thinking about?”

“I guess– I miss riding how I used to,” Arthur sighs. “Look at ‘em plains, just sprawlin’ outwards. Years ago I could’ve jumped up on a horse and flown over ‘em all, wouldn’t’ve even looked back. Now I’m just– just here. Can’t do anything the way I used to. And it makes me think I won’t ever get it back.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the sloping horizon, staunchly away from Charles’ sympathetic gaze. Frankly, he knows that he’s being dramatic about it all, wallowing in self-pity when there’s no need to. The fact he’s living is a goddamn miracle. Problem is, he can’t remember the last time he felt properly alive.

“We can rebuild it, Arthur,” Charles murmurs. His shoulder is warm and sturdy against Arthur’s arm, the muscles thick in a way Arthur’s no longer are. “All is not lost. We can rebuild it all.”

Arthur can’t help it; he turns his head to look at Charles and the desperation in his voice cracks out. “You think?” 

“Yeah,” Charles says simply. No promises; they’ve learned long ago that there is no point making promises. But still, if Charles thinks it, then maybe Arthur can too. 

“Okay,” he agrees, a faint smile flickering across his lips. And then– “sorry for sounding so desperate, makes me feel like a goddamn fool.”

Charles shakes his head. “You don’t sound desperate, Arthur. Even if you did, I wouldn’t judge you for it. You more than anyone has been through hell. You know another word for desperation?”

Arthur scoffs. “I dunno – weakness? Fear?”

“Hope,” Charles says, entirely paradoxically, yet with the steadfast sincerity with which he always speaks.

“I think you need to find a dictionary, friend,” Arthur chuckles. “Those are some very different words.”

“No, I meant what I said. Hope and desperation – both come from wanting a better life. Wanting a better way of being, wanting something to turn out right. I say desperation and you say weakness, maybe because to be desperate about something is to care so strongly about it. Desperation is vulnerable. It’s intimate. It’s hope without belief.”

The sun is risen, now, a fledgling held in tender hands and being released skywards. It floats over the land and cloaks the plains in the celestial mist of dawn. Light lingers close to the ground, and dust kicked up from a rider on the road into Blackwater glows with it. The rains ceased, the darkness receded. The sun, through it all, abides. 

Arthur hums. His throat rattles with the sound of it, though a cough doesn’t catch, and when he speaks his voice is raspy for a different reason. “Do you believe in me, Charles?”

Charles’ eyes meet his and in the dawning light the deep brown of his eyes is spun golden. “Arthur, of course I do.”

“I believe in you. All the time.”

“Then there’s hope in you yet,” Charles smiles. “It’s a thing that builds, I think. Over time. The world will come back to you.”

Arthur lifts Charles’ hand from where it’s resting on his knee and gently turns it so the paler skin of his palms face upwards. Places his own hand over Charles’. 

“Starting with us,” he makes plain. He can make it no plainer than this, his world and all its desperation and hope falls away without Charles by his side. His partner huffs out a fond sigh beside him and Arthur nudges him with his knee, thoughts straying from the philosophical to the more physical. “You were sayin’ something ‘bout being vulnerable. Being intimate,” he begins, raising an eyebrow. 

“Hmm, was I?” Charles laughs coyly. “Seems to have slipped my mind.” 

But he leans right into the kisses Arthur nuzzles into his hairline, grabbing at the hand not already in his to thread his fingers between Arthur’s. His body is warm as the rainless air. And Arthur knows it’s a hard climb up the mountain. Feels it every day, slow and unforgiving, both restless and demanding. But for as long as the sun stays rising, as long as the scenic route lends him moments like this, there is a feathered thing singing an old song within him. Charles takes his narrow world and finds ways to make it wider. The song carries on, and Arthur is starting to believe it’s worth listening.

[the--sound--of--rain]

2022 Writers' Review

It's already two months into the year, but I'm still going to do this, because I think it's such a nice thing. I was tagged by @lavandulacosmos and @natures-marvel thank you! 💕

1. What is your AO3 account?

brownest_goldfish

2. How many words did you write total in 2022?

34'481, according to AO3 stats

It's not a lot of words, but I feel like this was the year I've developed most as a writer so far, especially writing the first chapter of Lamb and the last chapter of my spooktober fic and I'm very proud of that ✨

3. How many fics did you publish in 2022? How many multichapters vs oneshots?

12 fics, 3 multichaptered and 9 oneshots (and of the 3 multichaptered ones only one is finished so you can see that this is not where my strength lies agajsks but i'm trying to do it more and i actually love it!)

4. What was your longest fic? Your shortest fic?

"A Lover in the story" (finished) is the longest at 9987 words but I published 5000 of those in 2023. Otherwise the longest is "A Lamb for Our Love" at 8618 words so far (one of two chapters)

The shortest is "With a smile" at 412 words. The shortness is owed to it being only one scene, more of a picture I imagined after reading Cry Wolf by @roccinan – and since I can't draw, I decide to write it down 🥰

5. What was your most popular fic? Your least popular fic?

I find this so hard to say, because numbers can never really encapsulate this, and every piece of appreciation from anyone for any fic is a gem in itself. But just for simplicity I'll go for Kudos and Hits here:

The one with most Kudos and Hits is funnily one I didn't write for Berlermo, but for "Arcane" as a birthday gift for @stilljustbitten: "Ice blue" got 113 Kudos and 842 Hits, probably owed to the fact that this fandom is just a bit bigger. My most popular Berlermo fic in 2022 in numbers is "Art and Attraction" at 83 Kudos and 755 Hits.

The least popular in numbers is "Love wins" at 16 Kudos and 146 Hits.

6. What fic didn’t perform as well as you thought it would?

I didn't expect a specific amount of reaction on any of them, so I'd say none of them. Every interaction with on of my fics just made me go "oh!🥰"

7. What fic performed way better than you thought it would?

I'd say "Like the Painting of a sorrow" because it was this oneshot I came up with, wrote and posted within 24 hours, a random idea after reading Dorian Gray. That being said, I am very proud and fond of it, so it made me so happy that it was appreciated!

And also "Love wins", I struggled getting the first chapter together and was worried it was too chaotic, and I was so happy it got good feedback.

8. What was your favorite fic you wrote from 2022?

I'm most proud of and currently most emotionally attached to "A Lover in the story". I'm especially proud of the last chapter, mostly because I managed to write it at all and make something I really like of it.

A Lamb for our Love stands right next to it though – although it's still not finished. (Not because I neglected it, but just because the second chapter is so hard to write) and I'm so excited for what it will become <3

9. What was your favorite fic that somebody else wrote in 2022?

Reducing this to one would be a shame, so I'll list a few 😊

and that was the moment i knew by @alfredo-kesmann

Andrés has Hanahaki disease and coughs up red roses. Whose favourite flowers could those be?

It had started with inconspicuous coughing, a few weeks ago. Soon followed the shaky breaths, the trouble breathing normally at random times. Then, came the shaking fingers, half a week later, creating unavoidable unsteady black lines in the painting he had been working on, the jawline of his self portrait now ruined.

A beautiful take on the trope, with all the drama befitting Berlermo, and overall an extremely romantic and enjoyable read.

Chimera 키메라 by @signorin-anarchia

A sort of crossover of Money Heist Korea and La casa de papel. Andrés is in the concentration camp Korean Berlin was in. Martín joins him there.

His mother's arms are a cradle, a safe haven.

A shelter from all that is evil on earth.

He can remember the faded feeling of bones colliding, rubbing, which nevertheless feels as comfortable as nothing in the world.

Nothing in the whole world.

But there's never much more than anything in the world.

And now his mother's arms are pincers, stealing his life, locking his way.

A very interesting concept with beautiful execution, and very poetic prose that aches just right when you read it.

The Swan's Symphony by @nharidy

Martín plans another and executes heist after the gold heist, and a rescue mission for Andrés on the side – who is alive but asuffering <3. All the old members of the gang are there, and also a lot of new additions.

“Is this true?” Estocolmo asked, turning to El Professor. Mirko, however, was looking at Palermo. It doesn't matter whether it's true or not , he realized. Palermo wasn’t there because one night in the future he might get killed in his bed. 

No, he was there for the one and only reason he's ever done anything since Mirko knew him.

El Profesor sighed.

This genuinely feels like a continuation of lcdp. It gives all the vibes of the show, the characters, their interactions and the action, flashbacks and execution of the heist are spot on. Just overall extremely fun to read.

Remember what your old pal said by @roccinan

La casa de papel Toy Story AU. Andrés is a bullfighter doll, and he finds Martín in the collection he belongs to. But what is Martín really up to?

Andrés is beautiful. And he doesn’t need a mirror to tell him what he already knows. Because he can stare at anything that bounces back light for a wonderful view of himself from head to toe: sunglasses, helmet visors, watches, or even the window on a bright spring day.

He has a slim, well-proportioned frame, a statuesque figure that expertly hides a body of incredible might and power within its wires.

This is genuinely just hilarious, and Andrés is perfectly delusional in it. And the Berlermo romance is so sweet – with an added element of darkness, of course.

10. Tag your friends to do this year-end fic review as well!

I think everyone has already been tagged and done this agajsks but I'll tag the ones I haven't seen doing it, please just ignore this if you have ✌🏼💕 @dormarunt @liz @signorin-anarchia @oreo @lammaducks ✨

[elisethetraveller]

Continued from; misstantabismuses

This monthly meeting with the Chem-Barons had been more draining than it usually was. Everybody was on edge since someone had been trying to supplant him in terms of power. It had resulted in Silco spending most of the meeting arguing more with the Barons than getting anything substantial done. Great. That was another meeting, they could effectively throw into the trash.

Silco hated those occurrences. After all, he didn't ask the Chem-Barons to meet him daily. He only ever asked for one monthly get-together where they discussed relevant events and problems, which affected more than one territory. Other than that, they all stayed in their place and traded with one another when they weren't trying to lynch each other. After all, at the end of the day, they were still criminals. Thus Silco detested it when this one meeting resulted in more arguing, snarling and insults than any results. Especially Finn had been nothing but a torn in his side.

This was why Silco had returned to his office with a foul mood and an even fouler temper. Upon spotting Elise, he had simply pointed at the floor and told her: "You sit there." before he had made his way over to the desk and set down, choosing to distract himself with a smoke and some other calculations, he had to finish. Renata Glasc and his trade agreement required a lot of juggling of money, subtractions and raises. After all, Renata couldn't develop enough medicine if she wasn't properly funded. Her words, not this.

Silco could feel Elise's gaze on him once every while as if she was checking to make sure that he was alright. He didn't grant her with a response, just finding some solace for his boiling blood in the fact that Elise as told had moved her work from the desk to the floor and just sat there. It was a pathetic attempt to reestablish control. Silco was well aware of that. But his raging mind needed it before he chose to try and take it out on someone else. Silco still remembered how at one point, he had almost curb-stomped Dustin into the ground just because his runner had made the mistake of saying something at the wrong time.

The cigar was gleaming in his hand. Embers gathered in its tip becoming more and more, ready to fall off at any moment. Finally, Silco's heterochromatic gaze met Elise as he ordered: "Elise, the ashtray."

He wanted her to pick up the ashtray, crawl over towards him, drop down on her knees and present the ashtray to him so that he might use it.

While they were as far from the Sickly months as the year allowed it didn’t mean the mage was without work. A city never sleeps, and while Zaun was a city unlike any she had previously been in the truth was that it not only never slept, it never stopped fighting. Fighting with itself, fighting with its environment, fighting with Piltover. And like all fighting it left wounded in its wake, be it physical wounds, sickness or mental strains.

Picking a handwritten note from a pile silver eyes skimmed over the unsteady letters. Passes of paranoia, unsteadiness, extensive nightmares, feelings of numbness and pain in the affected limbs. The list of symptoms was from a family member of a worker from one of the chemical plants. They’d escaped an accident, a little nicked but otherwise alive, however some hadn’t been as fortunate and from what was described it would appear the one survivor was now dealing with the aftermath of that. Using a pen she noted the address in the lower right corner of the note in the journal laying in the centre of it all. The header of the page read ‘Home Visits’. It almost felt like a luxury when she had the time for those, but times were good right now. At least on that front.

A smaller stack of notes, all in the same curly tight handwriting, detailing the things which were going…less well. The one thing which was going less well. Eyes drifting back to Silco there was no denying he was tense. Be it in tone or body language. He hadn’t spoken a word since he entered the office. He must have been at a meeting, possibly with the Chembarons, it was that time of the month, and she knew few things that could drive him into such a mood without her hearing about it.

“Hm?” Despite the questioning tone she moved, first picking up the ashtray from the coffee table and then silently making her way over to him. Without a word she settled back down on her knees, skirt billowing around her legs, a simple image of proper posture. Offering the ashtray Elise held it out towards him, strong fingers holding it slightly above her palm as if presenting it to him. “Here.”

( @misstantabismuses )

[creations-by-chaosfay]

Goals for 2023

I had a lot planned for 2022, but the year of madness made it virtually impossible to reach all those goals. The IRS requiring I pay back the "no strings attached" stimulus check because I'm a "non-contributing" citizen, aka Disabled, was just the beginning. Then the eviction without cause, seeking out a new rental and finding none, searching for a house to buy within our limited budget (yay for first time home buyer programs), arranging the move, the person handling the paper failing which then resulted in delaying the move and losing all our cold and frozen groceries, the former landlord trying to pull illegal nonsense with keeping our deposit (threatening small claims court changed their mind), Husband starting a new job, contracting covid and spending weeks recovering, Husband's grandmother passing away, euthanizing Jasper due to cancer, long term effects of covid (severe inflammation in my ears) and being treated for it, and now we're at the end of the year. All this delayed or prevented me from being able to start and finish projects in time for the holidays.

But we did have good things happen. We're now homeowners, Husband requested he be moved to a different location and position, which has been granted, successfully acquiring commissions, sell what I've made, recover from covid, purchase a new cutting table, sewing chair, and sewing desk, finished quilt tops, starting and finishing little things like ornaments and coasters, and soon we shall see about replacing our garage door with a wall in order to turn the space into a library and D&D game room. 

I'll keep my goals for 2023 very simple and far more achievable. The long term effects of covid have left me with my eustachian tubes (tubes in your ears) inflamed. This resulted in partial deafness for a few days, with zero equilibrium, pressure in my head that had me feeling like it was going to pop off as though it were a cork on a bottle of shaken bubbly wine, and in pain. I'm on powerful medications right now, and the side effects are enough that I'm not comfortable standing for long periods of time and my hands are unsteady. This will pass in a couple weeks, and my ears have improved quite a bit. It likely won't be until the middle of January before I really get back to work in my sewing room.

Now let's focus on the sewing and art goals I have for 2023, shall we?

Make at least three lap size quilt tops, measuring no less than 50x50 inches. All the quilt patterns and fabric I have pulled meet the criteria, and these are fairly simple patterns. It'll make for quick work once I get to it. These quilt tops will be listed on the commission page later, providing a clear image of what the finished quilt will look like. More on that later.

Make a bookshelf wall quilt for the bedroom. A bookshelf quilt is simply a quilt that looks like a bookshelf. I high recommend using a search engine and checking out what you find. They're often made using foundation paper piecing. Most of the blocks I'll be using are free, but I there are several I plan on purchasing. This will hang on the wall at the head of the bed, made using patterns that reflect the interests and hobbies my husband and I have. It won't be a show piece, but something to make the bedroom have less of an echo and have a much more homey effect.

Open commission in April 2023. The commissions will have finished quilt tops as mentioned above. Several clients informed me this gave them more confidence about results. People unfamiliar with quilting may find it difficult to "see" the quilt in their mind. Having the information there on the screen makes it easier to decide on commissioning me. They can then choose which quilt I work on. This gives me more focus, and I also don't end up with several finished quilts taking up limited space while they wait for a buyer. 

Make at least one queen size quilt for home. I want to make a warm weather quilt, something light and breathable, and very colorful. I have two queen size quilts from my mom, but they're earth tones, nothing vibrant. I do have one finished quilt top that qualifies, and that one I intend to have machine quilted by a local quilter. The fabric and pattern were a gift from my mom, which I love, but I want to make something a little more personal and handquilt it. 

Make a sampler quilt. This will also fit in with a couple of the other goals. What's a sampler quilt? It's a quilt make using many different blocks that don't repeat. You get to sample different blocks and designs this way. I have fabric set aside for a sampler quilt, and have found a pattern I like. I might keep it, seeing as it's queen size, though it will likely be placed on my commission page.

Create at least three tree wallhangings that will be placed in my shop. I had hoped to make these this year, but things didn't quite work out that way. I intend to start these early, and make them using scraps. They're small enough that I can machine quilt them comfortably. 

Make more pins and magnets. These are tiny things, about 1.5x1.5 inches. Easy and quick to make, but I haven't had the energy or focus to make them this year. I hope to make at least 10 batches of four, and spread the work throughout the year.

Close commissions in August 2023. Depending on what sort of commissions I have, it may be earlier. This will provide me with time to make more holiday quilts. I know August may sound early, but keep in mind my work takes weeks and even months to finish. A December quilt is best started in September in order to have it finished by November.

Reach my Ko-Fi goals. I intend to purchase a filing cabinet, a printer that uses toner, vertical storage for my sewing room (hanging baskets, tack board, shelves), and fabric (I'm out of yellow, low on orange, very low on prints in black, white, grey, and black & white combinations). Commissions and successfully selling what I have in my shop, plus donations, will cover these quite nicely.

Learn how to make my own pants and shorts. I'm barely 5'2" or 1.57 meters tall, aka very short, and pear shaped. Women's clothes for short people tend to assume we're also very thin. Finding clothes that fit and match my style and preferences is virtually impossible. If I want something I like, I'll have to make it myself. When I was a teenager, my favorite shorts were a pair my mom made for me using Hawaiian prints. I wore them to the point of threadbare, and have missed having such wild shorts. Plus, they went to my knees, and most of women's shorts are too short and tight for me to be comfortable. Making my own pants will also be great because I prefer mine very baggy, wide leg and not boot cut/bell bottom. Finding those has, in fact, been impossible. Once I learn how to make my own, I will be a very happy lady.

These are all achievable, especially with the help of clients, supporters, and members. Member will, of course, have the option of commissioning me earlier. Commissions will be open for them starting probably in mid-March, giving them first dibs. If you want to have this early advantage, sign up to be a member here. It works like a friendly version of Patreon. I currently have just three members, resulting in $29/month in support. Members also receive and automatic 15% discount in my shop and on commissions, as well as a few other goodies you can read there.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. As a show of gratitude, use 2023GOAL for a 20% discount in my shop. It expires January 2nd, so use it soon. 

I hope 2023 treats us well, with a dull and uneventful year, a time of calm and recovery from the madness we have enduring since 2020. Remember to take care of yourself, especially in regards to wearing a mask so as not to get sick or make others sick. Wash your hands, treat yourself and those around you with kindness, and find things to look forward to. Give yourself an achievable goal, make them easy, and reward yourself when you have reached them. Don't be shy or ashamed of asking for help; we are mortal and no one can truly survive entirely on their own. Find something to look forward to, be it a new game that's coming out, finishing a book you've been reading, whatever simple thing that will provide you with gratitude and happiness. May 2023 be a happy new year.

[teine-mallaichte]

Asset 77

The facility mistreats all of its assets, including those on the decommission list. They push them relentlessly, squeezing every last bit of utility from them, using any and all tools at their disposal to keep them "functional", until their inevitable end.

CW: living weapon, non-con drug use, implied addiction, suicidal thoughts, dehumanisation, exhaustion, hallucinations, manipulation, captivity/restraint, pending decomission.

On The Run Masterlist Complex 27

Ash’s footsteps dragged as he staggered through the dense underbrush, every movement feeling like it was underwater. His limbs were heavy, the weight of exhaustion and chemicals bearing down on him like lead. The extraction point was close—he knew that much. He could see the faint outline of the clearing through his blurred vision, just a few steps away, but those few steps felt like an insurmountable distance.

He paused, swaying on his feet, his mind swimming in a haze of exhaustion and chemicals. The familiar burn of artificial energy fading, leaving behind a dull ache in his muscles and a pounding in his head. The high from the 'reward' Sergeant Kerr had given him after the last target a distant memory now, swallowed up by the overwhelming need for more. His thoughts felt fragmented, disjointed, slipping through his fingers like sand. Had it been days since he lest the facility? Hours? He couldn’t tell anymore.

The face of the most recent target flashed in his mind, the moment of impact when he’d pulled the trigger. The shot had been clean, precise, as always, despite 78’s constant attempts to throw him off. Ash’s jaw clenched involuntarily at the thought of 78. The Even had been getting bolder in his sabotage. He wasn’t stupid - he knew 78 was trying to get him killed. Maybe the Facility had decided he was more trouble than he was worth. Maybe this was their way of tying up loose ends, not deemed even worthy of his upcoming decommission.

He stumbled, catching himself on a tree trunk as his vision swam again. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up. The chemicals were a double-edged sword, keeping him on his feet just long enough to get the job done before leaving him to crash and burn. His hands were shaking, the tremors making it hard to focus. The world spun around him as his stomach clunched, his body shuddering as he heaved, the dry retching tearing through his already weakened frame. The pain in his throat was sharp, the taste of bile acrid, but it was the emptiness inside him that hurt the most - a hollow ache that the drugs couldn’t fill, no matter how much Kerr administered.

"You're dying," a voice whispered from behind him, he didn't bother looking, knowing there would be no one there. The whispers had grown louder recently, probably just another defect to add to his growing list.

Ash wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, the motion unsteady and rough. The taste of bile lingered, bitter and acidic, but he pushed it aside, just another discomfort in a growing list. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, pressing at the edges of his mind. He clenched his fists, trying to shut them out, but they slithered in anyway, curling around his thoughts like smoke.

"You’re not going to make it," one voice taunted, its tone disturbingly upbeetupbeat. "Just lie down here, let it end."

Squeezing his eyes shut, he dug his fingernails into palm as he tried to anchor himself in reality. But what was reality anymore? A never-ending cycle of missions, drugs, and death. A fleeting moment of clarity passed through him, a memory from years ago—back when he still had some semblance of control, before the drugs, before 78. He’d been someone else then, or maybe just a shadow of who he might have been. But that person was gone now, buried beneath layers of conditioning and chemicals.

"Just a little farther," he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse and cracked. "Just a little farther, and then—" He didn’t finish the thought. He wasn’t sure what came after the extraction point. Maybe nothing. Maybe more of the same.

The world tilted again as he pushed off the tree, the ground seeming to sway beneath him, as he stumbled forward, each step a monumental effort. The underbrush clawed at him, the branches tearing at his clothes, but he pressed on, driven by something he couldn’t quite name—some stubborn refusal to give up, to let the Facility win.

"They have already won," the voices whispered, "you only have two weeks left."

The clearing was closer now, the outline sharper even through his blurred vision. He could see the helicopter, a dark silhouette against the night sky, its engines humming softly as it waited for him. A figure stood by the open hatch, a faceless shape that could have been anyone—another handler, another Even, another mission. But none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was reaching it, collapsing inside, and letting oblivion take over for a while.

Ash stumbled again, nearly falling, but caught himself just in time. The whispers were a cacophony now, overlapping voices that grated against his sanity. "dying, dying, dying," they chanted, a relentless chorus that pounded in his skull. His heart raced, thudding painfully in his chest as the last remnants of adrenaline warred with the crashing fatigue. He was close—so close.

But just as the clearing came fully into view, something caught his foot—a root or a rock, he couldn’t tell—and he went down hard. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping for air as he lay sprawled on the cold ground. The world spun wildly, darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision. He tried to push himself up, but his arms gave out beneath him, and he collapsed again, the earth cool and unforgiving against his skin.

The figure moved, coming closer, but Ash couldn’t make out any details. His vision was fading, the whispers growing fainter as everything started to blur together. Was this it? Was this where he finally broke? A small, bitter laugh bubbled up from his chest, but it was cut off by another wave of nausea that wracked his body.

"Get up," he hissed through gritted teeth, trying to will himself back to his feet. But his body wasn’t listening anymore. The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was the Sergeant Kerr looming over him, reaching out with a hand that seemed to stretch into eternity.

And then, finally, there was nothing.

-

Ash awoke to the biting chill of cold metal pressing against his skin and the muted thrum of machinery resonating around him. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing the cramped confines of the “cage”—a stark, unforgiving metal compartment within the helicopter. It was little more than a steel box, devoid of comfort or warmth, the only hint of the outside world was a small, narrow window, through which a single shaft of pale light pierced the darkness, casting an eerie glow across the floor.

He recognized this space all too well. The cage was a place of confinement and transition, a holding cell where he was often placed between deployments, assignments, and inevitable returns to the Facility. Over the years, he had spent countless hours in this claustrophobic prison, enduring the long, lonely flights that marked the end of one mission and the uncertain beginning of the next.

The cold metal beneath him was familiar, grounding him in the harsh reality that he was, once again, just a tool being moved from one task to another.

A soft metallic clinking from outside the cage drew his attention. The door to the cage creaked open, and a figure shilloetted by the bright light of the outside world - Sergeant Kerr. The sergeant’s presence was enough to ignite a fresh wave of anxiety within Ash. his handler was unpredictabie, Ash's treatment varying based on the success of the mission and his Kerr's own whims.

“Look who finally decided to wake up,” Kerr’s tone was mocking, laced with an edge of menace.

Ash tried to push himself upright, but his body felt alien and unresponsive. Every movement a struggle, his limbs heavy and uncooperative.

“Not much of a talker today, are we?” Kerr taunted, stepping closer, "The medic has insisted on your return to the facility," he looked annoyed.

Ash’s vision swam as he tried to focus on Sergeant Kerr’s face, still obscured by shadows. The words seemed to come from a distance, muffled and distorted by the pounding in his head.

"We have to keep you fuctional afterall," Kerr leant closer, his breath hot against Ash's skin, "We can;t have you dying before the decommission can we?" Ash felt a needle enter as his arm as Kerr spoke, "now, be a good little weapon and go back to sleep."

-

When Ash awoke next, he was in the medical wing of the Facility. The sterile, white walls, the persistent hum of the ventilation system, and the faint scent of antiseptic filled his senses. He was lying on a cot, a metal cord dug uncomfortably into his wrist, securing him to the wall, a reminder of his status as a mere asset rather than a person.

“Morning 77,” 75 said, their voice artificially bright. “You nearly died this time.” The words were blunt, devoid of sympathy or concern, but the implication was clear.

“Nearly died,” Ash echoed hoarsely.

“Yes,” 75 said, their tone almost too casual for the gravity of the situation. “You’ve been quite the problem asset lately. How does it feel to be so close to the end?”

Ash’s vision blurred, the effort of focusing on 75 making his head throb. He was well aware of his own precarious position. The facility had always been unforgiving, but the idea of imminent decommissioning was a harsh reminder of how expendable he was. He tried to respond, a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tounge, but all that came out was an incoherent murmur.

75 continued to monitor the readouts on the nearby medical equipment. The blips and beeps of the monitors provided a mechanical soundtrack to Ash’s growing sense of dread. “You’ll be stabilised soon enough. They want you back in the field within two days."

"Two days," Ash muttered, the last few weeks had been relentless, the facility trying to squeeze every last drop out of what was once one of their most valuable assets before the inevitable end.

75 finished their adjustments and glanced at Ash with a blank expression, "get some rest while you can," With a final glance at the readouts, they turned and left the room, the door sliding shut behind them with a soft hiss.

-

Charlie entered the med wing her mind still realing from her meeting with Sam and Alex, as she approcached recovery room 9 - where she knew assset 77 was being kept. She had limited personal interaction with 77 knowing him mainly by reputation and from a distance during his frequent visits to the med wing. He had a reputation as one of the most lethal assets in the facility, known for his high kill count and chilling efficiency. His persona was meant to be one of a solitary, almost sociopathic figure - unpredictable, dangerously volatile, and detached from any semblance of empathy or normalcy. Everything she had heard painted him as a cold, calculating machine, whose every move was driven by a relentless pursuit of mission success, regardless of the human cost.

But at some point Ash had become a "problem asset", displaying behaviours that the facility deemed defective - though she was unsure exactly what those behaviours were. What she did know is that asset 77 had been through the reconditioning process multiple times, each time leaving him slightly more unstable and erratic - the opposite of what the facility wanted.

Administering stimulants to heighten alertness, adrenaline to enhance performance, nerve blockers to mask pain, and various other "quick fixes" were routine for many assets. Interventions intended to maximise efficiency and ensure mission success - often at the expense of the asset's long-term health and well-being, this had been a large part of Charlies own role for years. But for "problem assets" it became more complex, their drug regimes often became a daily reality, the doses increasing and cocktails becoming more complex, this was combined with "corrections" and reconditioning to keep an asset going for as long as possible before they were eventually deemed too far gone and decommissioned - a fate that awaited Ash in just a few weeks.

She approached the room where Ash was kept, guarded by two heavily armed guards which felt slightly excessive in Charlies mind. She took a breath, moving her jumpsuit slightly to ensure her designation tattoo was visible, the 83 usually a symbol of her ownership and lower standing was also a passport of sorts in this environment - just another medic asset, nothing to be suspicious of.

As Charlie approached the recovery room, one of the guards eyed her carefully, giving a curt nod before pushing a button on the wall behind him. The sliding door opened with a soft hiss, revealing the stark, clinical interior of the recovery room.

Asset 77, Ash, lay on a narrow cot against the far wall, his right wrist secured with the same metal strap that Charlie had come to hate seeing. The harsh fluorescent light accentuated his pallor, his breathing was shallow and uneven.

Charlie approached the cot cautiously, her footsteps soundless on the sterile floor. She couldn’t help but note the contrast between the image of the formidable operative she’d heard about and the broken man before her.

“Asset 77,” she began, her voice deliberately neutral, “I’m 85, I’ve been assigned to oversee your recovery. How are you feeling?”

Her question was largely rhetorical. She didn’t expect him to respond with anything other than a murmur or a groan, but she had to follow protocol. Her role was not only to oversee recovery but also to maintain a façade of concern and professionalism.

Ash’s eyes flickered open at the sound of Charlie’s voice. They were a deep, weary brown, dull and slightly unfocused but somehow still intense. He didn’t immediately respond, his gaze shifting from the sterile ceiling to Charlie as she moved around the room. He swallowed, his throat dry and raspy. "Dying," he managed to croak out.

Charlie offered a small, reassuring smile, though it was tinged with sadness. “You’re not dying yet.”

Ash’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he let out a ragged breath. “Two weeks,” he said with a hint of bitter resignation.

Charlie took a moment to adjust some settings on the monitors, her attention divided between her tasks and Ash. She glanced over her shoulder to ensure the door was securely closed, then turned her full attention to him.

“What if I told you,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “that there might be a way for you to stay alive? A chance for something different, with less pain and more hope.”

Ash’s response was immediate and harsh. “There is no hope,” he muttered, turning his head away from Charlie and closing his eyes.

Charlie felt a flash of irritation, both at Ash’s stubbornness and at herself for caring. She wasn’t used to this - trying to convince someone to trust her, to believe that she wasn’t just another cog in the Facility’s machine. She leaned in closer, her tone more insistent, “Ash, I’m talking about escaping.”

Ash’s eyes fluttered open again, the mention of escape piercing through. He turned his head slowly to face Charlie, his gaze sharp despite the fatigue and chemicals clouding his mind.

Escape?” he repeated, his voice thick with skepticism.

Charlie nodded, her expression serious but tinged with uncertainty. She was stepping into unfamiliar territory, and it showed. “We have a plan. But we need someone with your… skills.”

“Skills?” Ash let out a hollow laugh, his gaze turning back to the ceiling. “So you just want to use me too?”

Charlie felt a pang of guilt at his words, knowing there was some truth to them. But she pushed it aside, focusing on the bigger picture. “It’s not about using you,” she said, though the doubt in her own voice was hard to ignore. “It’s about giving you a choice. You can keep going down this path, let them use you until there’s nothing left. Or you can take a chance on something different.”

Ash’s gaze lingered on the ceiling, his expression tired and resigned. But Charlie could see a flicker of something else—defiance, perhaps, or maybe just a desperate need for something to believe in.

“Why should I trust you?” Ash asked, his voice rough. “You’re a medic… part of the system.”

Charlie swallowed hard, her own internal struggle reflecting in her eyes. “You’re right,” she admitted softly. “I am part of the system, and I’ve done things I’m not proud of. But I’m also an asset… just like you.… I am just as much a prisoner here as you."

Ash snorted, the sound filled with sarcasm and disbelief. “Yeah, obviously we’re the same,” he muttered, turning his head away from Charlie again and closing his eyes.

Charlie’s heart sank at his words, but she knew she couldn’t give up. She had come too far, and she couldn’t let her own doubts get in the way. Taking a deep breath, she leaned closer, her voice steady but laced with urgency. “Think about it - you’ve got two weeks left. What have you got to lose?”

“Two weeks,” Ash repeated, the words heavy with resignation. His eyes remained closed, as though he could shut out the grim reality he faced by simply refusing to see it.

Charlie watched him, her resolve solidifying. “Stay here and face decommissioning, or take a chance on a new path” she said softly. “ We’re not asking for blind trust. Just consider the option.”

Ash's head turned slightly, just enough to catch Charlie’s gaze from the corner of his eye. “What’s the catch?”

“There’s always a risk,” Charlie admitted. “Escaping won’t be easy, and the Facility won’t take kindly to it. But if we’re successful, you’ll have a chance at a life outside these walls. A chance to be more than just an asset.”

Ash’s expression was unreadable, “And if we fail?”

“Then you’ll be in the same position you’re in now,” Charlie replied, her tone steady.

Ash's gaze drifted back to the ceiling, Charlie could practically see the internal struggle within him. After a moment, he met her gaze again, "alright," he murmured as his eyes closed again.

Charlie let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. There was no turning back now, but she was relieved to see that Ash was willing to consider the escape plan. It was a risky move, but one that could be worth the gamble. She had to make sure everything was in place for when the time came.

“Good,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “I’ll be back soon with more details. In the meantime, try to rest and regain your strength."

[gertiegarbage]

Top Marijuana Strains for Stress and Anxiety Relief

Stress is a typical part of life that everybody encounters once in a while. Stress can motivate you to finish undertakings; however, in some cases, elevated degrees of stress can prompt anxiety and negatively affect your body.

Stress is a physical and mental biological response to an outside trigger, for example, a huge life-altering event, a traumatic event, or high-stakes academic or professional assumptions. In the event that your symptoms become relentless, overpowering, or start to influence your everyday personal satisfaction when no stressor is available, you might have an anxiety disorder. Anxiety is a continuous stress reaction that might feel like a predictable impression of fear or trepidation.

Anxiety is the most widespread mental illness in the US, influencing about 40 million people. While cannabis isn't a substitute for professional therapy and medication, many individuals have viewed it as a valuable guide to assist with dealing with their anxiety.

In spite of the fact that talking therapies and beta blockers can assist with treating the condition, a few patients find they're not exactly enough. That is the reason many are presently investigating whether marijuana and anxiety are a decent blend. However, we urge you to talk with your PCP prior to integrating cannabis into your health schedule.

How Cannabis Affects Anxiety

Anxiety is a sensation of stress, apprehension, and dread related to negative considerations about current and future occasions. It goes beyond the ordinary emotion toward unpleasant circumstances and could turn into a disorder wherein the condition becomes severe and incapacitating. You probably won't have the option to carry out your work or manage others, assuming you have anxiety.

Cannabis associates with the body's endocannabinoid system (ECS), which keeps up with homeostasis in a few cycles, including memory, hunger, digestion, resistance reactions, and stress.

Nonetheless, it is important to note that high-THC cannabis in large quantities can exacerbate stress and anxiety, whereas CBD products can reduce stress and anxiety in high doses.

An excess of THC can cause you more damage than good. Rather than getting full-body unwinding, you'll have tense muscles and more space for your cerebrum to think, which will demolish anxiety and stress levels as well as cause you to feel very unsteady.

While utilizing cannabis strains for anxiety, ensure that you take them at the lowest dose conceivable.

Best Cannabis Strains for Stress and Anxiety

There are a huge number of various strains available; however, observe that these aren't all compelling for anxiety relief, decreasing stress levels, or alleviating depression.

We've listed the best weed strain and the accompanying strains that can assist you with treating anxiety and give you a soothing rest!

Granddaddy Purple

This indica-dominant strain, also known as GDP or Granddaddy Purp, is regarded as one of the most effective in terms of finishing mental excitement.

This hybrid of Big Bud and Purple Urkle won't ever expect you to do more research, particularly while you're managing chronic pain, stress, and anxiety. Having a higher THC proportion gives it better power with regards to anything that's overwhelming your brain.

Linalool, a quieting terpene, and camphene, a characteristic stress reliever, make the strain ideal for tending to nighttime stress or panic attacks.

ACDC

ACDC is one of the greatest CBD strains around. ACDC has a 20:1 CBD-to-THC proportion, with CBD levels as high as 19%. This sativa-dominant cannabis strain is incredibly viable at reducing anxiety with practically zero psychoactivity because of its high proportion of CBD to THC.

Dominant terpenes in ACDC incorporate myrcene and beta-caryophyllene, both known for their anxiety-alleviating properties. The relieving gifts ACDC offers will convey unwinding and quieting impacts you've never experienced.

After consuming this earthy, skunky, and sweet strain, the impacts of the absolute most normal conditions like seizures, liquor abuse, severe pain, distress, and even disease can be mitigated.

Headband

It doesn't seem like one, yet it really is a strain of the cannabis plant! The Headband is the lovechild of the popular OG Kush and Sour Diesel; from that by itself, you definitely know what's up.

This posterity of a power couple will give you the stimulating, euphoric, and elevating feeling you're searching for.

Known for effectively fighting high stress levels, the dependable impacts of this strain are known to intervene—even with specific symptoms and levels of inconvenience—by causing you to feel loose from your head down to your body.

Chocolate Chunk

This indica-dominant cannabis strain is an excellent choice for strains for anxiety disorders. Chocolate chunk is well known for its ability to reduce anxiety when consumed in small to moderate amounts.

With a THC content of 18% to 20% and a CBD of 1%, it will confer relief from stress, anxiety, worry, dread, and depression effectively.

A small amount makes an enormous difference with this powerful strain, which includes high convergences of carene and valencene, the two of which have calming impacts.

OG Kush

OG Kush is a solid strain for those searching for stress relief. This strain creates an euphoric inclination and may assist with diminishing stress, anxiety, and depression. While using this strain, some users have reported relief from cerebral pains and headaches.

Numerous patients and recreational users decide to utilize this cannabis strain not just due to its upbringing and fame, but additionally as a result of how delightful, rich, and lavish the taste and smell are.

If you need "genuine" weed strains and you don't know which medical marijuana strain to go for, this cannabis strain will be the most ideal decision you can make.

Final Words

Weed can be a wellbeing wizard for some conditions, particularly for those managing anxiety. So, it might take a little trial and error to find the specific strain that works best for you. We generally suggest beginning with the most minimal portion, so you can feel open to evaluating another product.

While it is not a guaranteed cure, some people find it helpful in alleviating some of their symptoms. To experiment with cannabis strains, simply keep in mind any anxiety medications prescribed by your doctor.

[bensolosbluesaber]

Returning a Favor (Zemo x Reader fic)

TFATWS Ep. 4 Spoilers!!

Summary: When your old friend, Sam Wilson, needs your help in Riga you drop everything and go. You knew they broke Baron Helmut Zemo out of jail, but you didn't expect to bond with the villain. (AKA: I thought getting hit in the face by the Shield would at least leave a bruise. Here's how that would go down with a fourth person.)

CW: Blood, wounds, some creepy behavior (not from Zemo), a few Y/N inserts

No smut yet, just cute cuddles and taking care of each other. Maybe smut in the future though! Let me know if you want a Part 2 or added to a tag list for potential future fics! I think the reader can be any gender; I tried to write it that way and be inclusive, but please tell me if I messed up!

If you know me in real life, no you don't:) I write most of my fics on @aurora521 and write on AO3 and fanfiction.net under the same name. Please don't come for me about finding Zemo attractive.

Hope you enjoy!

---

Returning a Favor

Meet me in Riga. -S

That was the text you received from Sam Wilson, your old military friend, yesterday. And now here you are, outside the Riga airport walking toward Sam in traditional undercover superhero attire- a baseball hat and sunglasses.

“Thanks for coming,” he greeted. “We have a little problem.”

“Is his name Baron Helmut Zemo by chance?” You asked, following him to a jet black sports car.

You were very aware of just what type of trouble Sam was getting himself into since you, a SWORD agent, still had access to all kinds of classified information.

“See for yourself,” Sam muttered, gesturing to the back door of the car and climbing in the driver's seat himself.

You hesitated for a moment, then opened the door and slid into the back. And yes, Zemo was there, lounging back with legs spread. He’s wearing a long coat with fur lining, a deep purple shirt, black pants, and shiny leather shoes. He nods to you and smirks ever so slightly. Bucky Barnes, who you had only heard about but recognized immediately, turns from his spot in the front seat and smiles at you.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Y/N,” he says.

“And I you,” you respond.

Sam pulls out of the parking lot with a screech of tires. The ride is mostly silent, Sam and Bucky bickering occasionally. That made you smile, knowing that as much as Bucky annoyed Sam, this was the type of relationship he craved. Zemo watched you the entire drive, sizing you up.

The home they’re staying at is obviously the Baron's. He’s comfortable there, leaning against the counters, rifling through cabinets, lounging on the couch.

“So what am I doing here?” You finally asked.

The three men interact easily, and either Sam or Bucky is always watching Zemo. There’s no real need for a fourth person to get involved, at least not in your mind.

“Someone needs to babysit the Baron,” Sam explained with an annoyed sigh.

Zemo shrugged with a smirk so innocent it’s sinister. He’s still wearing that ridiculous coat.

“The two Avengers can’t handle him?”

“I believe your friends find it challenging to be around me,” Zemo answered for Sam.

“You shot a man in the head yesterday!” Sam snapped. “You antagonize Bucky at every turn. Forgive us for needing a break from whatever is happening in your fucked up head.”

Zemo tilts his head as if agreeing with everything Sam had just said.

“Anyway,” Bucky interrupted. “We have a lead on Karli. You can sleep off some jet lag while we’re gone, but starting tonight it’s your turn to keep track of him.”

You settled into a small bedroom. The moment your head hit the pillow, you fell asleep. At home it’s nearly ten at night; here it’s midday.

The trio is back all too soon, heralded by a slam of a door, and you force yourself to wake up to adjust to the time change as rapidly and effectively as possible. As you open the door to the living room, Bucky is stalking toward Zemo. He grabs the teacup from Zemo’s hand and hurls it against the wall.

“You wanna see what someone can do with leverage?” Bucky growled, staring at Zemo with an unnerving glint in his eyes.

“Take it easy. Don’t engage him,” Sam jumped up and grabbed Bucky’s arm. “He’s just gonna extort you and do that stupid head tilt thing.”

Bucky’s face softened slightly. Zemo stops tilting his head.

“Let me make a call,” Sam says and walks away.

“You want some cherry blossom tea?” Zemo offers Bucky with a mocking tone.

“No. You go ahead,” Bucky hissed, and after a moment of staring, he followed Sam out of the room.

You had watched Zemo for that entire exchange, noticed the slightest flinch and hint of fear when Bucky had grabbed that cup. The moment the other two men are gone and Zemo thinks he’s alone, he pours himself another cup. His hand is steady, but he draws a sharp, unsteady breath.

You move out of the room, and Zemo looks up at you from his spot on the couch. Without a word, you walk into the kitchen, taking a roll of paper towels and carefully picking up the shattered glass.

“I can do that,” Zemo says, speaking directly to you for the first time.

His voice is calm, accent thick.

“It’s alright,” you answer, then gasp sharply as a piece slices your pointer finger from tip to palm. “Fuck.”

You set the bloody piece with the pile of glass and hold a paper towel to your hand. You used the other hand to wipe tea off the wall and floor before picking up the glass piled on a paper towel and placing it in the trash, carefully tucked in other garbage.

“Let me.”

Zemo’s voice behind you makes you jump. You eye him for a moment wondering if there is some ulterior motive, some way he could hurt you or hold you hostage. Nothing comes to mind, not with Sam and Bucky so close, so you hold out your bleeding hand. He clicks his tongue at the wound.

When he takes your hand in his, his fingers are soft and warm. He moves your wound under a faucet and lets water run, rinsing the blood down the sink. He squeezes the wound a bit, and you wince as it begins to bleed more.

“We bleed to clean our wounds. It is the body’s way of protecting itself,” he says and presses a towel to your finger as he shuts off the water. “Ironic isn’t it. The very thing meant to protect us from future danger, often kills us first.”

“I’m not here to debate the ethics of superheroes with you.”

“Hold that,” he lets go of your hand and opens another cabinet. “I know how I feel about enhanced humans. There is nothing for me to debate.”

Zemo takes your hand back in his. You watch his face as he works. He uses his mouth to remove the wrapping from a butterfly bandage. The bleeding has slowed, and he uses the bandage to pull your torn skin back together. The cut isn’t terrible, certainly not the worst injury you’ve ever had, but it will scar. He adds two more strips, then places an absorbent pad over it and wraps it all in gauze.

“When we get back, I’ll change that for you.”

“I’ll hope you don’t get killed then,” you offer with a grateful smile.

He doesn’t respond but gestures to you to join on the couch. You do, keeping what you feel is a safe distance between the two of you. Zemo hands you a cup of warm tea, but as you grab it, he doesn’t let go. Your undamaged fingers brush his for a long moment and he chuckles.

“Promise not to take after your friend James? I quite like this tea set.”

Your eyebrows knit together as he smiles at his own joke and finally surrenders the cup to you. That’s the last words you two exchange, and when Bucky and Sam return ready for the next part of the mission, they find the two of you sitting in silence sharing a pot of tea.

___

When the three men returned, Sam and Bucky held an unconscious Zemo between them. You jumped off the couch, the book you had been reading discarded, and let them lay Zemo down.

“What happened?”

“John Walker,” the two men answered in the same disgusted tone.

You leaned over Zemo, finally seeing the blood and bruise on his right temple.

“This one disappeared for a few minutes, shot Karli-”

“Didn’t kill her,” Sam interrupted, sounding relieved.

Much like Sam, you sympathized with Karli’s motives if not her methods. And much like Sam, you were glad she hadn’t died.

“Then Walker knocked him out with the shield,” Bucky finished.

There was no jab at Sam this time for which you were grateful.

“Which is the only useful thing he did,” Sam added. “Zemo destroyed the rest of the serum, so right now he’s above Walker in my book.”

You looked down at Zemo, blood had dripped down his face and neck, though most of it was dried now. His eyelids twitched as he slept.

“Are you two okay?” You asked as you walked toward the bathroom.

“Fine. We ditched Walker, but we’ll need to get out of here as soon as we figure out what to do with Karli,” Sam answered, collapsing on the couch with a heavy sigh.

You dampened a washcloth in the bathroom and on your way back to the living room, grabbed the first aid kit Zemo had used on you earlier.

“What are you doing? He’ll be fine,” Bucky muttered.

He was sitting next to Sam now.

“Returning a favor,” you answered as you knelt at Zemo’s side.

You dabbed at the drying blood with the cloth, wiping it off his cheek, out of his hair. Somehow the coat came out unscathed. Sam and Bucky were talking about something behind you, but you were entirely focused on the unconscious man.

Zemo had a handsome, aristocratic face, and he walked like royalty, like he was untouchable. This was evidence he wasn’t.

You moved to the actual wound next. The cloth was soft, unreasonably so. A large hand wrapped around your wrist, squeezing tightly. You inhale sharply and shift your gaze to Zemo’s hand then his eyes. When your eyes met his, he seemed to relax, releasing you and letting his hand fall at his side.

“Apologies,” he grunted, mouth twitching with pain.

“It’s alright,” you answer calmly, very aware that the other men had stopped talking and were fixated on a potential threat. “Turn your head please.”

You put a hand on his cheek and turned him to face you to get a better look at the wound that was still seeping slowly.

“The new Captain America might force me to reconsider my stance on superheroes. I would enjoy seeing Sam and James have a go at him,” Zemo said as you prod the wound.

You wiped the cut with antiseptic, and Zemo hissed a bit at that but said nothing. Then, just like he had done to you, you placed three butterfly bandages on the cut. It wasn’t deep, just long and jagged.

“You’re my new favorite,” he joked with a little grin.

You laughed and walked to the kitchen for some ice. There were no packs, so you grabbed a bag of frozen peas, wrapped them in a towel and set it gently on Zemo’s temple.

“I can’t have you dying when I need this changed tonight,” you said, holding up a finger.

When you turned around, Sam and Bucky had both stretched out on the couch. They both wore annoyed expressions that Zemo got a whole couch and they got one to share. Bucky bumped Sam’s foot with his own, much to your amusement and Sam’s annoyance. He kicked his partner back, and you decided not to interrupt their little couples spat. Instead, you move to sit on the ground.

Zemo grabbed your wrist again, this time gently. He tucked his legs up, folding them into a V, and motioned you to share his couch. And you did, sitting in the same spot you had earlier, this time near his feet still clad in shiny black leather shoes.

“Hey, you two,” Sam called. “What’s this cozy little couch situation going on here?”

“You two could have a cozy little couch situation too if you’d just talk to each other,” Zemo shot back.

He didn’t even look at Sam, just held the frozen vegetables to his face, eyes closed.

“Y/N?” Zemo asked after a moment. “Can you get me an Advil? Or better yet, some sort of alcoholic beverage?”

“I’m not your servant, Zemo,” you sighed but stood and poured him a glass of some expensive alcohol from a bottle with Sokovian writing.

He sipped it, setting it on his chest between sips as he lounged on the couch with you. Bucky was watching you out the corner of his eye, and you were watching Zemo. Every few sips he would grimace, his lips pressing together and chest catching. Then he’d relax, exhale softly and shift the peas back into place. Eventually you picked up your book and began to read again.

Sam left the room to take a phone call a few hours later and came back shaking.

“Karli threatened Sarah, my nephews. I have to meet with her. Alone.”

“I’m coming with you,” Bucky jumped in, already on his feet. “Walker will be there, and you can’t handle the Super Soldiers and Captain Propaganda on your own.”

Zemo was either asleep or doing a good job pretending beside you. The pea bag had been returned to the freezer. He’d discarded his coat and was now wearing only his black pants and a deep purple shirt with shoulder holsters.

“You got him?” Sam pointed to the sleeping man.

“That’s what I’m here for,” you answered, setting the book aside and watching them prepare to leave.

Both men donned their costumes, Sam strapping his wings on, Bucky ripping the sleeve off of yet another jacket so his metal arm could move freely.

“Call me- us if you need backup,” you shouted after them, knowing full well they would do no such thing.

“If we aren’t back in two hours, take his ass back to jail,” Bucky called back.

Baron Zemo woke up the minute the door slammed shut, which made you doubt he’d been sleeping at all.

“And now it is only us,” he said in that thick Sokovian accent. “I will cook us something for dinner.”

He moved into the kitchen, boiling a pot of water while you watched. You perched yourself on the counter near him as he searched through cabinets. When he noticed you, he paused and chuckled before returning to the cooking. You watched in silence, keeping a close eye on him when he picked up a knife and began chopping tomatoes from a can.

He handed you a bowl of thin noodles with a thick red sauce. It smelled delicious.

“A traditional and simple Sokovian dish, a comfort food you might say,” he explained and joined you on the counter. “I made enough for Sam and James. Call me an optimist.”

Zemo didn’t talk much, you realized, as you enjoyed the food in silence. It was delicious, a bit like pasta. Suddenly, the back door clicked open. You glance around nervously, realizing just how wrong this felt.

“They shouldn’t be back yet,” you say quietly. “And they wouldn’t come in the back.”

“My old associates must have found me,” Zemo jumps off the table, and you notice the same nervousness as when Bucky threw the cup. He cannot know about James or Sam.”

You can hear a single person strolling toward the kitchen in heavy boots.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Zemo whispered, and before you could even process the words, he was standing between your legs and pressing his lips to yours.

His movements are slow and careful, trying not to be invasive as he moves his hands to your back, sliding one up to the back of your head. You wrap an arm around his waist and slide the other hand up the front of his purple shirt, splaying your fingers across his chest. His lips are soft and warm as they move against yours. His hand keeps you from pulling away, not that you’d want to.

“I heard you were back in Riga,” a new voice chuckled. “I had to see for myself.”

Zemo pulls back, feigning surprise, but kept an arm protectively around you.

“And as you have undoubtedly noticed, I am quite busy,” he replied. “Perhaps you could come back tomorrow? I’d prefer not to discuss our business in front of…”

Zemo nods to you. You were staring at the man who you recognized from work files. He was a former Shield agent. When Shield fell, he used the chaos for his own advantage, working for neither Shield nor Hydra and killing anyone who stood in his way. You suspected, but couldn’t be sure, that some of your best friends had been killed by him. Fortunately, you had enough self-control not to shoot him. His mere presence made you tense and uncomfortable.

“Of course, Baron,” he grinned and look at you in a way that made you shift closer to Zemo. “I’ll see you tomorrow, noon. The usual place.”

He gave the two of you one last look and left with a wink to Zemo. Even when the other man had gone, Zemo’s hands were still holding you against him.

“We will have to be gone before noon tomorrow,” he said looking down at you.

For some reason, you were both still wrapped around each other.

“You know who he is?” Zemo said, a statement masquerading as a question. “I am sorry.”

Your face was only inches from him, and you could smell his cologne. Zemo used the hand on your head to pull you against his shoulder. You set your head there, face turned into his neck, and inhaled deeply. And there he sat and you stood, hugging tightly for no real reason except that no one else was there.

Zemo pressed a soft kiss to your head, and rather than protest you let his lips linger. Finally, his head fell on your shoulder. After a moment, he slid you off the counter, took your hand, and led you back to the couch. Without asking, the two of you settled together on the couch, so close your sides pressed against each other. He pulled a gun out of his shoulder holster, and you froze until he set it down on the table, smirking a little.

“I don’t make a habit of shooting people I’ve just kissed,” he chuckled and raised an arm for you to lean against him.

You raised an eyebrow at him, surprised at the forwardness. You shouldn’t be, after all, he had just kissed you and held you on the counter of his kitchen. Helmut Zemo made no sense to you, but in the end, you curled against him. He shifted to lay on his back, head propped on the pillows he was laying on earlier while you tucked yourself beside him, head on his chest.

Zemo wrapped an arm around you. You put a hand on his chest, fingering the purple shirt. He was warm and soft, and you had to remind yourself that you could not fall asleep while you are supposed to be watching him.

“Why are we doing this?” You whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why are you?” Zemo turns his head toward you.

“I haven’t had someone to do this with in a long time,” you answer slowly, cautiously, knowing full well this was a man who could turn on you on an instant or hold onto information until the moment it was advantageous to him.

“Neither have I,” He replied. “German prisons don’t allow much physical contact. Besides, I hope that with enough time perhaps I may kiss you again.”

You tilted your head up to see a grin tugging at the side of his lips, lips that had been on yours a few minutes ago.

“Maybe with enough time,” you answer and brush a lose strand of hair out of his eyes, letting your hand trail over the bruise on his face.

He caged your hand in his, bringing your joined hands back to his chest and holding them there. You felt the rise and fall of his breaths and it soothed you. When they grew deep and steady and the tension seemed to fall from his body, you realized he was truly asleep, not faking like earlier. Soon and against your better judgment, you were dozing off in his arms tossing a leg over his so your limbs tangled together.

Your last thought before you fell asleep was how warm and comfortable you felt with Helmut Zemo, and how completely ludicrous such a thought was.

It wasn’t long before the door opening woke you, still secure in Zemo’s arms. You tried to move, sit up so Sam and Bucky wouldn’t see this little arrangement. You failed. Bucky came in first, stopping in his tracks as he saw the scene on the couch.

“What are you doing? Keep walk- what?” Sam ran right into Bucky’s back then froze.

Their eyes were wide as they stared. Zemo shifted awake beneath you, and you could imagine the smirk on his face. Bucky’s metal fist clenched, and Sam, ever the peacemaker grabbed his arm and opted for a more amicable approach.

“One of you better start talking.”

[yb-cringe]

Ur into a lotta smps right what are ur favorites. Trying to get into more smps

hmmmm ohh thats a. hard question. i’m into a lot bc I love a lot of varied genres Within them though- they may not fit your vibe. Top 3? I’ll try a top 3

I’d. Imagine since you’re here, you already know Empires smp (if you dont, how did you get here) so ill skip that but emotionally its here. and the other common ones- Dream smp and the Life series. Which you should Also watch

(list below!)

1. Mianite. /MIANITE/.

I’ve never been so quickly charmed by an smp before in it’s first season. Usually it takes a bit for SMPs to start ramping up and making sense of themselves but watching from Captain Sparklez position, you basically start the series AFTER the rules are already set in place.

We watch our titular main character Mr Revenge himself enter a world of gods and conflict where he has no interest in either. He doesn’t want to side with ‘good’ or ‘evil’— he wants to survive (A rather relatable feeling these days lol). He demands a third option and by god, does he get it.

Mianite does an exceptional job at keeping you hooked with personal interactions between players, Purges or main pvp moments, and natural lore that lends well to the rather unsteady alliances made throughout. Watching other povs isnt necessary but adds so much to the experience. I can’t recommend it more.

2. YDYD season 1 Achievement Hunter

If you can ignore a *single* person in there who’s done some rather awful things- then this series is to die for. The cast of Let’s Play AH play minecraft hardcore where, if you’re dead- you’re dead (hence the name).

What makes it different from OTHER series like 3rd life or X life is that instead of breaking apart into duos to fight each other, the entire group works /together/ to try and make the series as long as they can. And it’s in spite of this that people die, graves are made, people are lost, and one person still ends up being the winner.

It’s a twist on the genre I don’t /see/ a lot bc most hardcore series are very much Hunger Games esq in that you’re all trying to kill the other to survive the longest. And that- doesn’t really become a main motivator here. No one wants to be the last one standing. They already /know/ that’s lonely.

3. Outsiders SMP

So. Much. Love went into making this smp possible. It’s a finished series as well, with well over several hours of vods or at least 3 in youtube videos of content. It’s planned, organized, detailed with lots of World building but what matters most is the connections between people.

Everyone on the smp lives in a Clearing, a la Maze Runners, surrounded by a large wall and a maze beyond that which traps people when the gates close at night. Outsiders isnt afraid to talk about the difficult choices being in this situation gives you- brings morality into question and the worthwhileness of political powers in a place without them.

You don’t leave Outsiders with questions. Not unless you missed the answers. It wraps everything up in a neat little bow and I felt satisfied with how it all panned out. I think getting into the more /consistent/ lore rather than ‘improv but mostly fucking around and then whoops lore’ is important bc not many ppl actually give this area of mcrp attention and i want this brought into spotlight as a shining representation of what Good Consistent MCRP planning and communication is.