#yes! happy new year to all you beautiful people from me and Sniper!

[professional-sniper-lover]

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!! Hope ye all have a fine one and get a chance to relax a bit longer before the rush of a new chapter comes along.

I’ll be continuin this whole thing through the new year and I’m real happy all a ye have been here for the ride. Cheers to all a ye.

Ye make my day a little bit brighter all the time.

All the best, mates.

-Sniper

[xgryffinwhore]

mama i’m in love with a hitman

summary: two years with barry what could go wrong? oh yeah hes a murderer-

warnings: some angst, marriage proprosal oop-

you had originally begun acting because it was the only affordable option to get you some time away from your family. ya, you still lived with your family.

anyways, acting became kind of like a release for you. you had been going for about 4 months now, you loved everyone you worked with, they were such great people.

then one day, barry berkman showed up,

and basically changed your life.

the first day you saw him, your heart basically feel out of your ass. holy shit was this guy hot; tall, mysterious, and awkward as hell. perfect.

you took him under your wing, immediately engaging with him and bugging him about his person endeavors and whatnot. you two became inseparable, youre bascially the only reason he even uses his messaging app.

you showed him the ropes of LA, giving him tours of sketchy venues, shitty Chinese restaurants. you always felt so awful for him, dragging him around to every place.

"I'm sorry, barry, im just trying to give you the full LA experience"

"its ok, being seen with the prettiest girl in LA isnt so bad"

yeah, one thing led to another, and you had moved into barry's apartment a year after. your relationship was strong; you cuddle, argue, fuck, all of that modern day romance contraband.

everything was exceptional, other than the fact that he was dragging his feet on marrying you...

yeah, you had dropped some major hints. wedding magazines everywhere, leaving honeymoon deals up on the desktop, evening face timing your friend and talking obnoxiously loud about the idea of getting hitched.

tomorrow was your two year anniversary, and you two had been buzzing about it all week, all the lovey dovey language and such.

"babe, tomorrows the day" he squeezed your shoulders from behind you. you were sitting at the coffee table, and he had just served you toast. "i know old man, didnt think we'd last did ya?" "first of all, im only like four years older than you, second" he kissed you on your temple "i knew you were the one."

in the midst of sipping your coffee and passing back and forth news papers, barry’s phone begins to vibrate; the name “Fuches” catches your eye. who was fuches and why did barry have to step out of the room to answer it?

when he came back he looked ghostly, his complexion pale and his lips quivering slightly. “all ok?” you ask, trying to sound lowkey; “uh um- yep. just have to head out for a bit, they need me at work.”

he left abruptly after, grabbing a hat and his black coat. weird. it was the middle june.

you hadn’t heard from him all day, except for a text at lunch that said

barry: Won’t be home tonight, dont forget to lock up.

your heart sunk, the day before your two year. i mean really what was his damage? you didn’t realize how hard it was to fall asleep without him, you tossed and turned until you eventually caved in and called.

ring...... ring.....

ring..........ring......

‘hey! it’s barry berk-uh um block! leave a message if you want to i guess um ok bye howthefuck do i turnthisthing off-OHH!’

oh how you missed that dorky man, true, it had only been a few hours but his touch was your saving grace. the line beeped and you decided to leave him something

“aha hey bar, y/n here. beds cold without you. miss you. be safe.”

the night way cold and long, you were drifting to sleep. but you heard the front door jangle. you sleepily run down the hall way and run straight into barry. you hugged him, his bosy was stiff and he was trying to inch away from you. "bar!" you whined looking up at him, his nose was bloody and he had a black eye.

“bar?” you wiped his cupid’s bow, the sleepy haze quickly wearing off. he pushes past you “just fell, please just wait for me in bed.” by the time you caught up with him at the bathroom, the door was already shut.

you heard the shower turn on, and you could hear him faintly hiss in pain. he was in there for a while, by the time he got back you could hear the birds chirp, which means it must have been close to 5 am. the sun was still down, and you watch his dark figure slip into bed next you to.

“i love you.” he whispered

“i love you too.” you turned to face him, you knew something was up, you knew he had been hiding something.

“you always leave in the night, when i’m sleeping you always leave barry. is it another women?” barry’s face contorts into a confused scribble. “y/n what? you’re the only one.”

“then why don’t you tell me what you’re really up to. go’s we’ve been dating for two years and you can’t even tell me why you sneak away in the night?!”

barry grabs your hands and puts them close to his face “god y/n i’m sorry happy two years” he gushed and kisses your fingers. a tear trailed down his stubbly cheek. “there are just things i can’t tell you because i don’t want to lose you.”

this hurt you, barry knew all of your deepest secrets, the things you never told anyone other then him. all of this had you worked up, how could he speak to you this way the day of your two year mark? despite his protests, you packed a tooth brush and drove to your friends to stay the night. this was just too much for 3am, you needed space. to clear your head.

you didnt sleep at all that night, you nodded off from 8am to 10, your friend waking you up. "girl i know you dont want to hear this... but barry is outside, hes been parked here since 9" she threw your jeans at you "now go outside and work this shit out, im not prepared to deal with your heart boken ass."

so you put on jeans, and headed for disaster.

you came outside, 'sleepy always looks so good on her' barry thought to himself. you loved him so much, it was so hard to fight with him.

"listen bar, im sorry im just sensitive you know th-"

"y/n"

barry never interrupted you. for as long as you remember there has never once been a time where barry talked over you, or interrupted what you were saying. its something you loved about him, he always seemed so interested in what you had to say, he thought your words where so important.

"yes?"

he pulled a rolled up magazine out of his pack pocket, it was yours, it had faded circles on what cakes and dresses you wanted. he unrolled it and scurried to the 5th page. he pointed at the big raise ranch that you put exclamation points next to.

"this house, i want this house."

he went to the 8th page.

"and this car, we could have that if i stop going to wendys so much"

he giggled to himself and mumbled something about how he knows a guy that can re pair a cooling system.

'uh-um ok barry, what does this have to do with anything? house, car, is this what you drove over here to tell me? you want a better car? you need a bigger house."

he shook his head and trialed to the second page with that beautiful sheath wedding dress, you remembered that.

"youll wear this yeah? some time in the early fall. wouldnt that be nice, still warm, and the leaves-oh the leaves- orange and yellow bring out your eyes so i just figured."

he pulled out the rock, and shit, it didn’t disappoint. you’re not materialistic but what the FUCK?! how did he even afford that-

he slipped it on your finger and you both embraced. messy kisses all over whatever skin you two could find. it was bliss, it was happiness.

you hugged for a while. just sat there reflecting on how far you two had come, and how happy he was going to make you feel for the res rod your life. it’s crazy, you thought marriage wasn’t in the cards for you. but with barry, you can see 5 kids, a dog, and a stupid picket fence.

you were so captured in this moment, you didn’t notice barry’s demeanor change. you looked up and him, he was pale white, staring behind his shoulder at the street. you leaned over his forearm and saw a beat up mom car.

in it was a shaggy dude, didn’t look too much older then barry. he was plump in the face, and his face was aged.

“fuches!?” barry exclaimed.

“come on. we have a hit, i habe your sniper in the back. now.”

another WHAT?

[ericmun]

210314 Shinhwa’s Eric and Dongwan’s Instagram Updates

Just a quick note as what might transpire this. There have been posts from fans pressuring about the lack of Shinhwa activities and Eric got the flak usual. One post in particular on the day before (Saturday night) that tagged all the members that probably why this happened, why he feels he’s been treated unfairly, as well as explaining why he had to go on SNS.

The clash between Eric and Dongwan is nothing new. It is mostly personality differences and ways of doing things. We are posting this because everyone has the right to understand what’s going on with a full and accurate translation (as accurate as possible) of how things went. Thanks so much 6crystalis for these long translation.

Eric’s 1st post:

I was keeping track quietly, but the problem is that the gap between internal affairs compared to external perception is too big, and so, there is constant conflict between the two. I thought if just leave it, it would slowly disappear by itself. Instead, the difference became so big, these was nowhere left to take a stand. I always thought that when it came to problems, the right thing to do was to dig it up by its roots and untangle it bit by bit; you shouldn't try to cover it up and pretend nothing happened. But in the end, I chose to listen to the opinions of different people and left it alone. One guy who always put group activities before all other work. Another guy who puts certain emphasis on solo activities, but during this period is emphasizing on Shinhwa activities. Although, it caused problems for group communication and schedules, but to fans, he is an intimate and gentle guy. Two people with different thought processes, so I've decided I need to go find and understand each person's differences. But everyone is too one-sided on who they are listening to, to the point that only support the one saying nice words to them, and cursing the condition of the person who is quietly working hard for the group. Isn't that too much? If the problem only stopped at supporting VS not supporting, it doesn't matter, but is it really necessary to go to the extremes of praising one side to high heavens and making personal attacks on the other? Right now, it's not 50/50, it's more than 90% of the people who think the latter's style is correct. Then that means everything I had been doing during that period is wrong. Just let me switch places with the later then, it's easy. But, can you put on some restraint, the group of people on DC? Aren't you tired? Stop gathering in groups in places I'm absent and discussing things that aren't set? If you want to talk about those things, then say it when you come join the group meeting. Didn't I already ask you guys (the members) 3 weeks ago about setting the schedule? If you actually want to resolve this, then let's talk. I have no way of contacting you, so I'll tag you, and I will also let Andy know. You'll invite me to tomorrow's live right? I'll be there.

Note: Eric tagged Dongwan for this post as seen in the photo

Source: muneric Translation: 6rystalis

Eric’s 2nd post:

Because I was afraid of causing conflict, I thought just leaving it would make it disappear, so I chose to say pretty words filled with hope that were false to make people happy and just leave everything. I think that’s just making me doenjang (superficial/full of BS)

Text on the chat:

ERIC: What time is the live tomorrow, Andy? ANDY: The time is not set yet, hyung. We'll set it after meeting with Dongwanie hyung tomorrow. ERIC: Can you tell him to invite me for tomorrow liveㅎㅎ ANDY: Okay ERIC: ㅋㅋㅋ ANDY: ㅋㅋㅋㅋ ERIC: I'm curious what he'll say ㅎㅎ No matter what he says, just forward it to me. I'll also adjust as needed. If it's really too convenient, then I'll think of a way to adjust it. ANDY: eung eung (yes yes)

Source: muneric Translation: 6rystalis

Dongwan’s post:

I am Kim Dongwan.

First of all, I feel very sorry for all the Shinhwa Changjo who got shocked.

Tomorrow, I will meet the members and have a good talk. Because it is internal affairs, we should discuss it among ourselves first.

The previous announcement about holding a live with Andy will go ahead as planned.

The conception of Shinhwa albums and concerts require the investment of a lot of manpower. This isn't completed by members on their own, or can be completed by just any member. To members, Shinhwa activities are very important and something they really look forward to. So, I have always taken into account the opinions of all six members, and after adjustments, produce a conclusion that is satisfying to all members.

Before getting this conclusion, other than the members' opinions, communication with the production team is also very important. It requires the polishing of time and opportunity.

Apart from the problem about contacting me... If we could've had a little bit of communication with the production team beginning last year, if we could've communicated so that they could feel at ease, then Shinhwa and Shinhwa Changjo wouldn't have had to encounter a situation like this... This is a point that I feel a bit regretful about.

We work hard together to be the Shinhwa that will paint a beautiful painting for Shinhwa Changjo.

Thank you, everyone.

Source: danedkim Translation: 6rystalis

Eric’s 3rd post:

Starting from 3pm, I had been asking Dongwannie and constantly checking with Andy for updates, but there was no answer at all about whether he was going to accept or reject my request to be there. Said it was because the production team couldn't contact me, so that's why they couldn't go forward with their work. Then let me tell you about my position. It started around "Sniper" activities? Around 2015-2021, he hasn't been in our group chat for 6 years; and after being blocked, I never got his new phone number. During the time I announced my marriage, because of "whether I let the members know I was getting married", I was being attacked. There was that brother that came out and loudly said, "Eric definitely has his own reasons~ Please understand~" Kept getting cursed or something. From the blank period in the military to album production in the years that followed, schedules and venues were booked one year in advance by me. I wouldn't know how to keep in contact with the production team? In those 6 years, I'm always telling everyone we should hold a meeting. Every time, the schedule is adjusted weeks in advance so that we can have this hard-earned chance to meet up. Even like that, we weren't able to see each other. There are too many times where there was no other way because of deadlines to just hold a meeting with 5 people.

Last year was the same. Again, I told the members that we should meet, everyone should open up some time in your schedule. And then the date was set, but on the day, we were stood up. The kind-hearted members were finally able to meet up after so much, but weren't even able to take a picture for proof before we separated. I was also really tired, so I suggested if it's hard to find time in your schedule, then let's use group chat to to figure things out, it'll be more convenient. I'm also really busy with work. Each time I have to adjust my schedule so we can meet, but if it gets cancelled on the day, I'll also feel really tired. Even so, he still refused to use group chat to discuss things. I'm also human. I thought, "We're in pandemic conditions and I still have dramas to film. If it continues like this, just leave it, stop pretending to be close." And so, at the end of last year, I stopped joining the group chat. But the root of the problem is here. In the 6 years that I have been doing all this, where I was constantly cursed, after I left group chat for a mere 3 months? Under the circumstances where I was absent, you had a meeting in a chat, in the way where you are comforting others and telling them to air out their raincoats? At that point, I couldn't hold it anymore. A few days ago, a Shinchang chat was established in Clubhouse. Like it was an official channel, you talked about things that members have never discussed or confirmed. There was even content that we haven't even heard of before. Yesterday, you said, "It wasn't you. It was because there are a few members who don't want to hold Shinhwa activities that these activities weren't confirmed in the end" ?

I'm not playing that despicable SNS where you can say things without leaving any evidence, talking about things that don't exist or politics where people criticize you. But to be different from being like that despicable SNS. I chose to leave a record of what I'm saying to be criticized. I guess it can be considered me saying what's on my mind. 6 years and 3 months. I'm too angry, so I suggested in the past that for 3 months, everyone should calm down on their own and think about what our things mean to us. If suggesting these 3 months is wrong, then I admit it, I apologize. But, in the post, it brought up the production team. I really want to ask, am I really the one affecting Shinhwa's schedule? Up until now, I've asked another members about this situation, yet I'm still unable to get a solid answer about whether you're accepting my arrival. Instead, you confirmed on Instagram that it's Eric and the production team's miscommunication that things couldn't be confirmed? I'm preparing to take a rest right now. I'm going to treat it as you rejecting to invite me to join you tomorrow. If members discuss things in the future and really want to make our dongsaeng, who's caught in the middle, uncomfortable, then just continue to do so. The person I wanted you to invite was me, so why are you replying to the fans? It would be great if I also had the ability to omit the main point and say words that sound nice to the ears. But, I'm also human. I apologize to everyone for having to listen to such tiring story.

Dongwan’s reply: I had a phone call with Andy around 6pm. I said that the 3 of us should meet and talk together. Perhaps he hasn’t told you yet.  I’m coming to Seoul tomorrow. We’ll talk face to face.

Source: muneric Translation: 6rystalis 

============================================================

Eric also did 2 more posts about the hate posts from Shinhwa DC Gall. We might translate it later if translator has time.

[navegandoaciegas]

Sunshine Girl

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: fluff, soft!Bucky, mentions of injury (no graphic descriptions), 3.6k words

Summary: You are the sun and he’s simply basking in your light. And he’s so selfish, he thinks as he holds the velvet box with the diamond ring inside of it, he’s so damn selfish he wants to keep the light all to himself for the rest of his life.

Two years ago you were supposed to enjoy a solo road trip after years of Avenging, but Bucky invited himself along. Now you’re forced back to New York, and your boyfriend is ready to surprise you once again.

A/N: Bucky’s POV. Sequel to I love my baby to death, but I suppose you could read it on its own. As always forgive any mistakes, English is my third language.

Had to repost this cause it didn’t show up in the tags, hopefully this time it will

“I swear Buck, if I see one more damn corn plant I’m losing it. I am this close” you say pinching your thumb and pointer finger real close “to a mental breakdown. I’m never eating corn again, mark my words. No corn flakes, no corn on the cobble, no nothing. I’m done.”

“We’re in Iowa, in the middle of the corn belt, I don’t know what you were expecting.” he replies, slightly amused by your little outburst and sour mood.

“Well, clearly not ending up on the set of Children of the corn.” you groan, getting back to sulking in the passenger’s seat, seething at the fields that are only a scapegoat to the real problem.

You’d been merrily skiing in Montana when his skis got somehow tangled with yours and he tumbled down on you, dragging you down the slope. Hadn’t you injured yourself, rolling in the snow like it only ever happens in cartoons would have been pretty comical.

“What?” you screech, almost jumping off the stretcher and grimacing in pain when your left foot hits the metal poles at the side. “No. It’s just pain, I’m sure it will go away, right? I mean I was an Avenger, I’ve suffered worse than a fall.”

“I’m sorry, miss, but knee surgery will be necessary, the MRI here shows you’ve torn your ACL and from the looks of it, your left knee was already damaged badly, numerous times at that, probably a result of your time on the field.”

“I can’t, I can’t just get surgery, we’re miles away from home and I-”

You’re almost sobbing and Bucky feels like shit because he’s the reason for all this and all he can do now is pat your back reassuringly.

“Given the extent of the damage, I’m afraid there’s no other option.”

“How long is the recovery time?” he asks, voice unsure.

“Well, it’s my knowledge she’s not an enhanced individual, so like any average human it will take anywhere from 6 to 9 months to recover fully. In the meantime, no more hikes or sports.”

Bucky inhales a sharp breath. Six to nine months. No more hikes. Surely you’ll have to go back to New York.

God, you are so going to break up with him.

Turns out you didn’t dump him in Montana, you didn’t abandon him in one of those auto stops along Interstate 90 in South Dakota, and you don’t seem to want to break up with him amidst the green fields of Iowa, but still, he knows he will drive through Illinois, Indiana, Ohio and Pennsylvania anxiously waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It almost seems like a cruel twist of fate, driving the same route you did as friends two years ago, along Interstate 80 headed East instead of West, only this time he’s not hoping to be more than the annoying old man who invited himself on your trip; he’s your boyfriend now, but maybe not for long.

“You know, you really are dramatic.” you say in a teasing tone, “I’m not going to break up with you, stop thinking about that, it was an accident, ‘s not like you beat me.”

“I know, I’m just sorry because you’re in pain and it’s my fault and now we have to get back home but I know you wanted to stay more and I did too and if I didn’t-” he’s rambling, and your place your hand on his thigh and squeeze reassuringly, offering him one of those sweet smiles he dies for.

“Buck, it’s okay” you interrupt his word vomit “like I said a million times before, it was an accident, it’s going to be fine I promise. I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise with my mood, I swear I’m just pissed at all this damn corn. We’re never going to a maze again, by the way.” That gets a laugh out of him, and he loves you even more because you’re always there to lift his spirits. “I’m dreading these next months, the surgery, physiotherapy and all, but I know you’re there for me, yes?”

He nods, teary eyed, and you continue, “And I can’t lie, it’s been a while, I’m kind of excited to see everyone again, I mean except for Sam of course,” you say, as if he didn’t “live rent free in your head”, like Sam himself put it, “Jesus that man, how many of our trips has he invited himself on? I’ve lost count. ‘Member when we found him waiting for us in Phoenix? Fuckin’ weirdo.”

You both chuckle at the memory of Sam in your motel room, waiting on your bed with crossed arms like a disappointed parent, pissed off because you hadn’t called in a week and he was worried sick that something may have happened to you, a deadly sniper, and him, the Winter fuckin’ Soldier. Truth is, Bucky was so excited about your new relationship that he rarely let you leave the bed when you were in your room, and when you did you were in no condition to Facetime anyone, with your smudged mascara and swollen lips.

“I’ve heard Clint will come visit us with Laura and the kids. Nathaniel must be so big now.” you add, your eyes glazed over as you think of the little boy who was named after your Natasha.

“God, Morgan is probably all grown up.” he muses, a tinge of sadness in his voice. You squeeze his thigh again. “And the spider kid too, he’s a grown man now.”

“That he is.” you chuckle, “But to me he’ll always be the boy in the red spanx who knocked us on our asses in Berlin.”

He smiles and shakes his head at the memory, and you both fall in a comfortable silence. Now that he’s not consumed by fear anymore, Bucky kind of agrees with you that all this green is, in fact, nauseating.

“You know what, no more popcorn either.”

“Deal.”

-

A year and something ago

Arizona

“Can you believe there’s a city in New Mexico called Truth or Consequences? We should totally go and visit just for the hell of it, sounds like the type of place Steve Rogers should have been born into.” you state with all the seriousness in the world, and he snorts because after all this time you still haven’t found it in yourself to stop mocking Steve’s righteousness.

You’re walking ahead of him and he’s so distracted by your tiny denim shorts that he, the master of stealth, almost trips over a boulder. You’re always pretty but tonight, illuminated by the orange sky of Arizona, you look like a dream. And you’re so happy, snapping photos at everything you see, that even if Bucky hates the desert and the heat makes him uncomfortable, he won’t tell you, because the look on your face makes it all worth it.

“Baby, look at this big boy here, he’s like 20 feet tall. Oh my god, he’s so cute and beefy, just like you.” you gush at one of the giant cactuses of Saguaro National Park.

He raises his eyebrows skeptically.

All he sees are green spiky motherfuckers that he’s accidentally hurt himself with more times that he’d like to admit in all those damn ‘hikes’ you like so much, but to you cactuses are the most beautiful sight in the word. He genuinely does not see the appeal, but he understands now how you feel when he talks about all his ‘nerd shit’, as you call it.

“I’m cuter.” he says frowning.

“Of course you are.”

For some reason you don’t sound convincing at all.

-

It’s only spring but here in Tucson the temperature is 85 degrees today and he’s sweating buckets underneath the long sleeved t-shirt he’s wearing to conceal his vibranium arm. He’s long past the time when he was forced to hide from authorities or the general public’s judgement, but still he doesn’t want to be recognized and attract attention. He doesn’t do well with crowds, and he doesn’t understand how you can be so calm and collected when people stare at you and ask for photographs while you’re minding your own business.

As soon as you get back to the motel you’re staying at he takes off his soaked shirt, not caring that the air conditioning is probably going to end his old ass.

“What the hell happened to you?” you ask, scowling as you analyze the skin around his prosthetic.

He shrugs. “It happens sometimes.”

“Why?”

“No idea.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me James.”

You only call him that when he’s in big trouble. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose: why do you have to be so damn stubborn all the damn time? “It’s nothing sweetheart, just sometimes the skin becomes flared when it’s too hot.”

“Nothing?” you shrill, throwing your hands around animatedly, “Nothing? Bucky your whole shoulder is super red and irritated, don’t act like it’s normal. We’ve been in the sun for hours, for days really, why didn’t you tell me anything? I would have driven us back here immediately. Does it hurt?”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you, I didn’t want to ruin your fun, you liked it so much there. And no, it only itches a little.”

Your eyes soften and you move to cup his face in your hands, looking at him with so much love that he feels himself melt away into a puddle, “Baby you don’t need to do that, you know I care more about you than anything else.”

“Even more than the cactuses?”

“Well, now you’re asking too much of me.”

He snorts and playfully hits your arm, then he falls back on the bed and drags you down with him. You stay cuddled like that for a while before you pull back to look into his eyes.

“I appreciate you doing this for me Buck, but you don’t ever need to sacrifice your own comfort for me, okay?”

“I know, I’m sorry. But you looked so happy.”

“Don’t be, and I’m always happy with you, I promise.”

“I’m always happy too.”

“We’re such saps. Gross. Anyways, guess where we’re going next?” you ask him cheerfully, scratching his scalp the way that makes him purr like a cat.

“The plan was New Mexico, Texas and Louisiana, right?” he frowns. You’d made plans together ages ago and you were so excited about visiting Texas of all places for God knows what reason. He’s predicted already that he won’t stand the suffocating, humid heat of that whole area. At least Arizona was dry as hell.

You on the other hand, everyday he’s become more aware of how much of a lizard you are, seeking the sun and walking around in the scorching heat not even breaking a sweat.

“Guess again baby boy, we’re going straight to Oregon. I mean, it's not Alaska but it’s not as hot as the desert here, right?

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to overheat?” you state like it’s obvious, rolling your eyes, “We’ll do New Mexico and the rest next fall, and now Oregon and Washington because it’s a little cooler there. So what do you say?” You ask with a hopeful look in your eyes.

“Princess I appreciate you doing this for me, but I promise I’ll be fine. You don’t have to change plans for me, this is your road trip.”

“No you won’t Buck, you’re not doing good and I don’t ever want to see you suffer, you understand? By the time we get to Texas it will be summer and you won’t stand it, it’s better if we visit when it’s colder.”

He smiles softly. He knows he’d do the same for you. “Then Oregon it is.”

You get up from the bed and head to the bathroom to shower, “Oh, and baby?” you call out,  peeking your head from behind the door, “This is your road trip too, never forget that.”

-

Oregon

“Why does Thor get to have places named after him and we don’t? We were Avengers too.”

“But are we norse gods?”

“I mean, not yet, but I definitely deserve some nature’s wonder, or at least a star, to be named after me.”

“I’ll call WMO and get them to name a hurricane after you, princess. It seems more fitting.”

“Asshole.”

You’d been camping somewhere in Oregon’s wilderness when he came up with the idea of visiting all of the State’s so called seven wonders, starting from Thor’s Well on the Coast and ending in Mount Hood near Portland. You took a thousand photos of each attraction and sent a video of the water seemingly draining inside the famous well to the God himself, who enthusiastically expressed his appreciation.

Bucky’s cherished every minute of it, from the hot springs of Crater Lake to the chillier temperatures at night that force you to snuggle closer to him to warm up.

You’re in Portland now, and you’re thoroughly enjoying it, but what’s new about that? You’re always so full of life, so genuinely excited about everything the world has to offer that he’d be worried if you weren’t having the time of your life as you usually are.

He likes the city too, which is saying a lot.

“Blueberries are the superior berry and that’s the hill I’m willing to die on.”

You’ve been eating your way through Portland for weeks, and you’ve been discussing pies for a solid thirty minutes now. It’s raining outside and you’re cooped up in a small pie shop, eating more than an average human can and receiving weird looks from the waitress as you tell her to ‘keep ‘em coming’.

“I’m sorry but you’re wrong princess,” he states with a stuffed mouth just for the sake of aggravating you to no end, “blackberries are just so much better.”

It works as you grimace in disgust, both at his statement and his manners.

He’s found out you are weirdly opinionated when it comes to pies: pecan pies are an abomination, pumpkin doesn’t belong in dessert, lemon pie and key lime pie are only acceptable if someone’s grandma is kindly offering them to you, rhubarb pie without strawberries is a threat to mankind and cherry and blueberry pies are the absolute best. Apple pie is too bland to even take the time to discuss it, although the taste is likeable enough.

He on the other hand likes anything pie and anything sweet. And anything that gets a rise out of you.

“Please Buck, this isn’t even a blackberry pie, it’s some sort of inbred experiment that turned out kinda right.”

He shushes you, barely holding back a laugh when he sees the waiter side eyeing you as you disrespect one of Oregon’s most famous dishes, “First of all, it’s called marionberry and it’s a type of blackberry. And second, keep it down unless you want us to be kicked out, you’re offending a whole state.”

“Sorry.” you shrug, “But blueberry tartness level is where I draw the line, anything more than that is unacceptable.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re still a child and haven’t developed adult taste buds yet baby.” He does love his senior citizen card a bit too much.

This earns him a kick under the table and a scowl. “Stop it, grandpa.” you groan.

He grins and digs in your slice of marionberry pie. You resume to people watching.

God, he loves Oregon. And he loves you.

He really is a sap.

-

Wyoming

Washington was nice enough. You’ve taken him bar crawling most nights, and all of them have ended with him giving you a piggyback ride, per your request, back to the hotel room you were staying at.

It takes 13 hours to drive from Seattle to Yellowstone and you’ve driven all the way. You refused to disclose the destination of the trip and he’s fallen asleep the last 3 hours in the car. He’d mentioned he wanted to see the geysers somewhere in Pennsylvania two years ago and you remembered and took him.

Bucky couldn’t be happier.

He’s still describing the constellations above you when you fall asleep, and he’s so absorbed by the sky that he doesn’t notice until your head falls on his shoulder and he hears your soft snores.

He picks you up bridal style and takes you back to the fancy tent he bought on a whim in Ohio after you both slept in the SUV and woke up with major back and neck pain. He smiles as he removes your makeup with a wipe and does your skincare just the way you taught him, and admires your relaxed state.

He grazes your pretty face with his vibranium fingers, something so unimaginable to him before he met you, as he never thought his arm could bring anything other than pain.

Back when he was a semi stable 100 year old man thrust in another fight yet again, he hadn’t realized the extent of his feelings for you, believing he was only attracted to your beauty and youth. He hadn’t seen the way your smile lights up a whole room, nor the way you listen, truly listen, to anyone who may have anything to tell you, without ever judging them. He hadn’t witness your kindness and patience, let alone experienced them on his own skin. He hadn’t been lucky enough to watch you feed bird seed to the ducks of every pond of the country, or try to rescue a cat from a rooftop and almost falling off to save it.

Then Sam told him you were leaving and he felt like the word was collapsing on him. He’d found the sunlight and he never wanted to be without it.

Now he’s seen it all, all the little things that make you who you are, including your flaws, and he loves you not regardless of them, nor in spite of them, but because even your worst imperfections make you… you.

Bucky doesn’t know if meeting you was a way for the universe to fix all the wrongs that have been done to him, a sort of payback for all the shit he’s been put through, but in case it is, then he’s got no objections. And maybe he doesn’t deserve someone as good as you, but he’s a selfish man, and now that his sunshine girl is with him he never wants to plunge back into the the darkness ever again.

He tucks you both under the sleeping bag and snuggles next to you.

“Buck?” you mumble in a haze, tugging at his t-shirt, “Love you.”

It’s almost imperceptible, but his supersoldier hearing allows him to pick it up. He kisses the crown of your hair as he caresses your back.

“I love you too sweetheart.”

He wants to spend the rest of his time on Earth proving you how much.

-

New York

6 months later

The doctor wasn’t lying when she warned you that recovery would take 6 to 9 months.

You said the aftermath of the operation hurt like a bitch and that physiotherapy hurt even more. Today’s your last session and Bucky is glad about it for many reasons, like how you’re not in pain anymore for starters, and maybe because of how annoyingly fun, smart and hot your therapist is. Not like he’d ever admit it to you.

“Jesus,” you groan, “he turned me inside out like a sock, I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

“Sounds fun.” he deadpans.

“Someone’s jealous of the doctor?” you ask with a mischievous smirk.

“‘M not. He’s not all that.” he mumbles, blushing like a school boy.

You snort and drawl a ‘sure’. He sends you his best death glare.

“Whatever. I hope you don’t mind if we take a stop before going home.” he announces, helping you into the car. His palms feel clammy and he’s sweating despite the chilly winds of New York’s fall.

“Sure, where are we going?”

“Actually, that’s kind of a surprise, you’ll see.”

You beam at his words; he knows you love surprises and he hopes you’re going to like this one.

----

You look radiant as you lie on the blanket he’s spread on the grass, surrounded by colorful foliage. You’re sipping some of your favorite wine and nibbling on crackers as you admire a flock of birds migrating south in the sky.

You are the sun and he’s simply basking in your light. And he’s so selfish, he thinks as he holds the velvet box with the diamond ring inside of it, he’s so damn selfish we wants to keep the light all to himself for the rest of his life.

He’s prepared a long, passionate speech to tell you how much he loves you, of all the ways you’ve changed his life for the better and of all the reasons why he’d be a good husband.

But when you look at him with those bright eyes and beaming smile, he can barely remember his own name. He drops on one knee and holds the box out with shaky hands.

“Marry me, please.”

----

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, please reblog and comment, don’t be shy, feedback is always appreciated 🥺🤲

[shinycorvidae]

Character Study:

Tagged By: @smilepal

Tagging: @shitposting-for-the-soul

(Vic is in a relationship with @smilepal s Hiro and Johnny who survives and gets a body, and they are happily living together, because fuck cannon 😂)

Layer 01: The Outside

-Name: Victory (Vic, V mostly, only her dad called her victory) Devin

-Eye Color: Brown

-Hair Style/Color: Blue green curly hair, that's always up in a bun or a braid. She has the sides shaved until after The Heist. She lets it grow out to hide the bullet scar on her temple. She didn't really notice it herself, but it made the boys sad. Sometimes she will rarely have her hair down at home.

-Height: 5'11

-Clothing Style: Functional and comfortable clothing, reinforced with armor weave. Mostly wears browns, greens and blacks because she's used to blending into the badlands.

-Best Physical Feature: In her opinion? Her lean muscles/control over her body. In mine? Tall lady please step on me.

Layer 02: The Inside

-Fears: Failing her family again. Dying alone. Needles. Dogs. Loss of control of her body (bondage, drugs etc.).

-Guilty Pleasures: Explosives. They're so imprecise and generally not conducive to her fighting style but damn they're pretty. And actually physical books. Its not worth the extra money but ooo they smell so good.

-Biggest Pet-peeves: Hiro and Johnny taking hour long showers/leaving all the lights on. Improper gun/knife stance/holding. Food thieves.

hthr th door-Ambitions for the Future: For her found family to all be happy, safe and healthy.

Layer 03: Thoughts

-First thought waking up: Its not really a thought, but just taking in the soft emotion of being safe in a warm bed with her boys nearby. And then immediately "what's for breakfast" 😂

-What they think about most: Escape/fight plans. Food. Her partners.

-What they think about right before bed: Whether the door is locked and the alarms set. Then about the people she meet and interacted with throughout the day, mostly little things, like how she should fix the old lady down the halls A/C tomorrow or how she should bring Hiro to see Vik tomorrow about the slight twitch in his cyberware.

-What they think their good quality is: V see's herself as the protector/soldier since that was her role in her old clan before coming to NC. So she would probably say that her best quality is her fighting and battle planning abilities.

Layer 04: Either Or

-Single or group dates: Since V has two partners, group dates. Though its hard to call them 'dates', since its usually V tricking her two emotionally constipated boys into a nice day out that they only realize is a date when they get home.

-To be loved or respected: Loved. Vic is a soft soul. She wants to be loved. If you don't respect her she doesn't care at all unless you physically attack her.

-Beauty or Brains: Brains. Vic isn't materialistic or vain at all.

-Dogs or Cats: If she has to choose between the two, cats. She's started getting used to them since moving in with Hiro, but she didn't have any interactions with them before. Their aren't many cats in the badlands and if you do run into one he's probably a feral bastard. She's actively afraid of dogs, as she's been attacked by them before.

Layer 05: Do They...

-Lie?: Rarely. And when she does she's awful at it.

-Believe in themselves?: Mostly yes. Vic is pretty secure in who she is and what she can do. However she's had a rough couple of years in a row, and they've made her question herself a bit.

-Believe in love?: Yes. V believes in familial, platonic and sexual love. She falls in love easily and is very open about her love and tells her loved ones that she loves them often. Scared the crap out of Jackie when she told him she loved him. She didn't explain she meant platonically 😂

-Want someone?: Yes, previously and currently. She has an ex gf, Merrill, from her nomad years, and has been holding a torch/eventually dates her roommate Hiro Oda and Johnny Silverhand.

Layer 06:

-Been on stage?: Maybe once or twice she's dragged onstage by an enthusiastic Kerry or Johnny, but she hates it. She doesn't like people paying that much attention to her. She's a sniper for gods sake, she's used to quietly sitting in a corner unnoticed.

-Done drugs?: Not really. Has smoked weed occasionally with her sister as a teen, but that's it. She has a crippling fear of needles so its a literal fight to even get her to take an airhypo. Johnny usually ends up holding her down while Hiro injects 😂

-Changed who they were to fit in?: No. V is charismatic and just so fucking oblivious to social roles? rules? that she wouldn't even think of the need to change herself. Her nomad clan was a mishmash of a complete clusterfuck of personalities so she never really would get the idea of different being bad. She's also just generally awful at lying/faking 😂😅

Layer 07:

-Favorite Color: Green, like the bright luscious plant green. It was a rare color in the desert.

-Favorite Animal: Hawks. It was her old family's nickname for her, and she loved to watch them soar above them while they drive across the desert.

-Favorite Book: Watership Down. Vic loves the classics and often stays home reading while the boys go out clubbing. Watership Down is her favorite because it's about protecting clan, vicious battles and cute bunnies.

-Favorite Game: The 'pretend you don't see or understand Hiro/Johnny's blatant sexual come ons/flirting until they snap' game

Layer 08:

-Day their next birthday will be: She'll be 29 some point in November. Unsure in the exact date.

-How old they will be: 29

Layer 09: I...

-I Love: Food. Her Rifle. Her Knives. Hiro. Johnny. Viper. Michael. Vik. Misty. Panam. Judy. Mitch. Their cats. The wind in my hair. Barry. The food cart guy outside their apartment. Delamain. Oh that chinese place down the street- I'm just going to cut her off there.

-I Feel: Happy. Content. (Guilty. A failure.)

-I Hide: From needles. Hiro and Johnny are always trying to stop her from eating 'perfectly safe' food. So she hides that from them. Her sadness. Her nightmares.

-I Miss: Viper, Michael and Jackie. My clan before we joined Snake Nation. Not living in any fixed place. It was nice not being tied down to one place.

-I Wish: that I never have to find a new family again.

There you go @smilepal I finally finished 😂 you only tagged me three days ago.

[frogmentarii]

QUESTIONS FOR OC CREATORS

Haaaa ok so I am doing this cause i saw @fallout-lou-begas steal it from @tarberrymentats and they both looked like they were havin hella fun so i am commandeering this for my own purposes. So lucky for yall its Emi time (art by the dearest @yesjejunus because yall need to see more of her work)

A) Why are you excited about this character?

Because she's an older woman (57) that breaks a lot of moulds and I love to see it. Aside from just enjoying older characters, Emi isn't a sweet old lady and she isn't here to try and mother anyone. Her drives are entirely her own and while she prioratizes herself and her sister before anyone else, its not always due to complete selfishness and just due to growing up in the wastes (I try to keep her character true to a fend for yourself setting as possible). I think Ill go into detail in another question with this, but I went through a lot of concepts and personalities for Emi before settling on someone who was seasoned and very much a product of the wastes. I think after seeing a lot of other couriers I finally figured out what I wanted to do differently, and that sort of helped guide her to become what she is today.

B) What inspired you to create them?

I think my last line there sort of short answers this. I wanted someone different from the other couriers I saw, and wanted to make one that was distinct or even juxtaposed against some tropes. She's a woman in her late 50s that doesnt try and play mom/granny to the companions, she very much has no stake in what happens to the Mojave, she doesnt care about Benny or that he shot her in the head (such is life in the Mojave, but she did have a job to complete so ripperoni him), and a lot of her motivations are selfish or exist to benefit her sister. She doesnt act 'old' in the fact that she isn't a wise caring soul or a grumpy old man, but rather her age is shown through her experience, and this also shapes her personality. She's never had to formally 'grow up' so she can come off as immature and irritating for her own entertainment, but she doesn't have youthful ignorance for how the world works. She knows how to be responsible but she doesnt have to act like it outwardly, even with her Tragic Caregiver Backstory.

C) Did you have trouble figuring out where they fit in their own story?

To a large degree in the beginning, yes, and to specific degrees now, also yes. Writing in general isnt my strong point though I did know what I wanted for her. The main image is there but the details are funky, and Ive been slowly hammering those out as I work along with her and Camila's stories. There's been some huge changes along the way that help push both of them towards an ending I like and that fits them, and even if it takes forever and I never actually write a fic, I'll be happy when she finally feels completed in New Vegas.

Aside from that, she kind of fits in anywhere in regards to AUs. My friend @yesjejunus and I have probably like 40000 fucking aus for our OCs and all of them feel just as organic and their canon stories.

D) Have they always had the same physical appearance, or have you had to edit how they look?

So I know I have an 'original concept Emilia' art on here where she looked like Laura Croft and had aviators but that wasnt even her first concept. I had originally wanted to make a petite southern belle type from Louisiana who used a shot gun and had a mean streak, but as I kept playing with concepts Emi really started to lean other places. Another huge change was her personality. Even when her concept got settled as a sniper from Mexico, she was suppose to be an early 30s caravan guard who was way too sure of herself. While there are reminents of that concept still in her, she has a lot more experience in the wastes and in think-on-your-feet situations to back up her attitude. Another thing she required was dropping her "take me seriously" personality with more goofy "i do what i want cause why not" traits.

E) Are they someone you would get along with? Would they get along with you?

Emi can get along with anyone at a surface level, for a small while, if it will benefit her or she wants to pass time. She really doesn't have interest in folks who arent interesting or beneficial in some way. Since I don't really offer her much, and am a bit of a wet bag, she might yank my chain for her own funsies or she'd have no interest.

And while I did indeed give Emi my go with the flow attitude, I think I wouldn't be able to keep up with her. Emi is very fast paced and doesnt necessarily have regard for those she decides to pick up as drinking buddies for the night. Def dont trust her with my life, and knowing the shit she gets into I'd def want to steer clear of it....like a trainwreck its much better to watch her from a safe distance, lol.

F) What do you feel when you think of your OC (pride, excitement, frustration, etc)?

A lot of affection from a meta standpoint? I've worked with Emi and Cam a lot since creating them, and they've def come a long way since their original concepts. I wouldn't say their story is quite where I want it yet, but I am quite happy with it overall.

That, and Ive met so many awesome writers along the way with Emi. Not all of my friends have posted fic but the amount of world building and having our characters interact and talking OCs ive done with them has placed both Emi and their OCs in a special place for me. Sure her having her own story is fun but I much more prefer the bonds Ive created with people over OCs and I think thats a bit more of a cherished component to character creation for me.

G) What trait of theirs bothers you the most?

Literally? That she likes to be irritating if she feels she can get away with it (or even if she cant). Actually? That she has a very "I shelter you and feed you therefore I make the rules, period." stance on how she takes care of her charge. She lets a lot of shit slide with Camila but things get very Rapunzel-esque at times.

H) What trait do you admire most?

How sure of herself she is. Even if its to a fault, she trusts herself and her judgements. That sort of confidence is something I strive to have haha.

To a lesser degree, and more of a meta point I wanted to make with her, just...her appearance I suppose? To me she's attractive, but she also has a lot of traits that aren't conventionally attractive and that's played a lot into how Ive wanted her to be. Again she's 57 years old. She has age to her body, her skin wrinkles and droops, her tits sag, she has the body of someone who uses chems, and yet despite her age and breaking of beauty standards ive made it a point to show that she is desired or thought of as attractive in non fetish specific circumstances. She herself, while aro, also still has an active sex drive and I really wanted this to be a backseat part of her character, as I feel like fandom in general shafts older women in this department (this also goes for a lot of her non 'old lady' traits I give her too). She still has sexual needs and is still very much sexually active, and she is still found to be a regular sort of attractive and is desired by those she gets involved with.

J) Did you have to manipulate or exclude canon factors to allow them to create their character?

Yes? Ish, to a degree. I didnt have to but I wanted to. I also did a lot of headcanoning with post Mexico for her early life which, afaik is free real estate for lore/nothing super detailed has been given in canon.

Given that she and Camila both shape their stories as individuals, I did have to split up some canon elements to follow two seperate characters, but other than that I really just had to make sure Emilia's story wasnt "boring" in the fact that she again, has no real stake in what happens to Vegas/the Mojave.

I) Do you prefer to keep them in their canon universe?

Cackles in 'which au will I obsess with today'

For the most part yes, however I love placing her in new things or different stories. She may be 'my courier' but really shes just the frog granny that goes into whatever au I am feeling at the time.

[gold-and-rubies]

Companions and Sturges, Proctor Ingram and the Minuteman Radio Freedom guy (we call him Saxon in this house) react to Sole giving them a gift on a special day, please!

I decided to go with a mix of anniversaries and birthdays. It’s a bit long, so I’m doing this in two parts, and everything is under the read more thing. It’s in alphabetical order from Cait to Dogmeat. Don’t worry, MacCready will be in the next one.

Part two can be found here

Cait: Cait sat on the couch of her and Sole’s shared home, unwrapping her hand wraps. Sole had insisted that she use them when she fought or practiced. Cait had scoffed at that. Bruised knuckles were the least of her worries, but she complied. After all it was to protect her, and Sole was the one who asked.

She hummed quietly as she inspected her hands. She looked up as someone opened the door, ready to fight. She calmed when Sole walked through. No one but them ever just walked in, but she was still getting used to that.

“Hey, I got something for you,” they greeted, holding up a somewhat long box.

She raised an eyebrow at them. Sole getting her stuff wasn’t out of the ordinary, but there was never an air of mystery to it.

Sole stepped over to the couch and sat beside her. They set the box on the coffee table in front of them.

“Open it,” they smiled, “but be careful. It’s sharp.”

Cait sat forward and took the lid off of the box. Inside was an aluminum bat with metal spikes welded to it. It looked like it was brand new. She picked it up by it’s leather wrapped handle. It was heavy in her hands, but not too much. It felt like it was the perfect weight to do some real destruction.

“Happy birthday, Cait. I hope you like it. Took me a while to find what I need, and to make it. I was worried it wouldn’t be done in time,” they explained.

Birthdays. She never understood why someone would want to celebrate them. Just another year they survived in the wasteland, but this...

She set it back in the box, close to tears. She fought them back. They were happy tears, but tears nonetheless. In her mind she had spent enough time crying. So instead she enveloped Sole in a bone crushing hug.

“Thanks, love. I’m sure it’ll be put to good use. Raiders will regret lettin’ me live this long.”

Codsworth: Codsworth floated around the kitchen in the old home in Sanctuary. Although the definition of clean changed, his job had gotten a bit easier now that Sole was living in it again. He actually had things to clean up now.

Sole poked their head through the glassless window. They had installed shutters to keep out critters and the elements, but it was a nice day so they were open.

“Hey, Codsworth. You know how you were complaining about some of your joints needing work, and your thruster needing an upgrade,” they said.

“Yes?”

“Well I found the parts, so If you want, I can do those repairs now.”

He paused, unsure how to respond, “Now? But I am in the middle of cleaning the dishes.”

“Yes, now, that is if you want. The dishes can wait. Especially today.”

“Today?”

“You don’t remember? Today is the day I brought you here,” they explained.

Codsworth swore if he was a human or synth he would have blushed.

“That is very kind of you. If you don’t mind, I will finish the dishes, then we can get started on the repairs”

Curie: Curie stood in her makeshift lab trying to get some work done, but her mind was elsewhere. Sole had been gone for about a month with Mister Valentine. While she trusted him to keep them safe, she still missed them dearly.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Come in,” she said. 

Maybe it was someone who needed help. Maybe she just needed to try to focus on a different task.

She did not look up right away. She tried to make a final observation on the stingwing venom she was working with.

“What? Giving me the cold shoulder?” a familiar voice asked.

She looked up to see Sole Standing in the door frame smiling at her. She gently set down the vial of venom, then rushed over to greet Sole with a hug.

“I’m sorry, my love. I did not know it was you.”

“It’s alright. Looks like you were in the middle of something. I got you something, by the way.”

“What? A gift for me? Oh, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I felt like I needed to. I was gone for a while, and today is a very special day.”

“Special day?” she repeated.

They reached around to one of their back pants pockets and produced a small box that made a rattling noise as it moved. 

“Happy anniversary, Curie. They’re aster seeds from Far Harbor. I know it isn’t much, but I thought you’d like to study them, and some living flowers.

“Oh my love, they’re wonderful,” she gasped, “I’m sure they will look beautiful as well.”

She smiled fondly at the box. Observations, discoveries, and experiments were waiting to be made.

Danse: Danse sat at the weaponry workbench at the Red Rocket just outside of Sanctuary. It had been a little over a year since his departure from the Brotherhood. Most of the people there had come to accept him now, but he still preferred to be alone most of the time. Well, alone with Sole.

But Sole was not there at the moment, instead it was just him and the project he was working on. Sole had talked him into joining the Minutemen, and he had some time off so he decided to make some adjustments to his personal laser musket.

He was so focused on his work that he did not hear Sole approach. He jumped slightly when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see them smiling at him.

“Hey,” they said, cocking their head to the side. A soft smile was on their face.

“Hey,” he said back. His voice cracked slightly. He was still adjusting the casual affection. 

“How’s the project going?” they asked.

“Good. Luckily, I think we already have the parts to make a stronger beam. How’d the trip to Diamond City go?”

“It went well. I got you something.”

He raised an eyebrow at them. They produced a small box, and handed it to him. He opened it and his eyes widened. Inside were old school dog tags. They looked brand new. His eyes started to tear up as he picked them up. He looked up at them.

“I know your old holo tags meant alot to you. There’s a jewelry maker in Diamond City now, so I got him to make these for you. I hope you like them. Happy anniversary.”

He put them back in the box and set it down on the workbench, before standing up and pulling them into a hug. He kissed the top of their head.

“They’re great. Thank you so much.”

Deacon: Deacon was sitting in their current hideout that doubled as a sniper's nest. He was up against the farthest wall from the vantage point, so the glowing end of his cigarette.

He heard someone starting to approach the door to his right. As he reached for his rifle he heard the knocking pattern that he and Sole had agreed upon as to not startle each other. 

Sure enough, they stepped through the door, but they were carrying a box they had not left with. It was somewhat flat and medium sized. It didn’t seem to be heavy. He wondered what was inside. 

“A present? For me? Aw you shouldn’t have,” he joked.

“Actually, it is a present. For you,” the responded, mimicking his tone. Despite that they were completely serious.

“Wait, what?” he blinked. It was hard to surprise him, and this certainly did the trick. 

“Here,” they handed it to him, “open it”

He took it, suspicious of what they were up to. While he didn’t think it would hurt him, neither were strangers to playing pranks… on each other.

When he opened it, it took him a bit to realize what he was looking at. For a terrifying moment he thought it was some sort of dead animal, but when he picked it up he realized it was actually a rather high quality wig. It was dark brown styled into a simple hair style.

“What…?” 

“Figured you could use a new one. One that doesn’t stand out as much.”

“Uh thank you, but why do I think there’s more to this,” he narrowed his eyes at them.

“I don’t know when your birthday is, so I figured I’d use the anniversary of us meeting to celebrate you surviving another year,” they shrugged. 

“You know, today is actually my birthday,” he said. He kept his mask up, but he was incredibly touched. No one had gone out of their way for him like this in a long, long time.

“I don’t buy that for a second.”

“I taught you well,” he laughed.

Dogmeat (From Soles perspective): Sole picked up the leftover brahmin meat, and put it in a bowl. It was the good stuff. Stuff that cost a lot that they hardly ever got to have. They placed the bowl in front of a very excited Dogmeat. They had never seen such a happy dog.

“Happy birthday, buddy.”

“Is it really his birthday?” MacCready asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I have no idea. Today’s just the day I found him. Rather celebrate that than think about the War.”

“Right, well I think celebrating his birthday is a great alternative,” he laughed.

[witharsenicsauce]

Chosen Stories From The War #43: A Secret Place to Pray

The ice on the ground created a blanket of glass that broke and splintered as they stepped over it. Parysatis led the way, sure-footed after years of hiking these treacherous trails. Gur-Rai followed, almost as confident but with the dexterity of a child taking their first steps. He watched the girl in front of him with silent curiosity as she raised her arm and let Tyche land.

“How much hunting do you get done with her?” Gur-Rai finally broke the silence. “Tyche’s a sweet old girl, but it seems like a bow or a rifle would be faster.”

“I catch as much as Aisha can in a day.” Parysatis said without looking back at him. “And that is what got me my seat at the left hand of the Khatun. She saw that I have many skills, not just good aim.”

“What exactly is your job for her?” Gur-Rai’s arms shot out as he slid backward on icy ground, and he barely managed to steady himself.

“I am her eyes across the steppe.” Parysatis said softly. “The Khatun cannot be in all places at once. But with Tyche’s wings, I can see the edges of our kingdom and the crevices under rocks.”

“She’s got good eyes.” Gur-Rai noted.

“As she should. I see through those eyes” Parysatis stopped and turned to him. “We shall start simply. You need to learn how to call your eagle.”

“Can I text instead?” Gur-Rai chuckled at his own joke. 

Parysatis did not laugh with him. “Your eagle is not a machine, you can’t just plug a code into it and make it obey. You need to learn to speak to it in ways it understands the way it respects.” She pointed down into the ravine beside them. “Go down there about 200 yards, and face me.”

Gur-Rai silently complied, looking back at Parysatis only once. She was watching him closely, and he saw the purple glow of her eyes in the low morning light. She was beautiful, but in a reserved kind of way. The type of girl to admire from afar, to wonder about briefly, and then to never to see again.

He finally stopped where she told him and turned to face her. She held out her other arm, and he mimicked her with his. From far away, he saw her stroke her eagle’s head softly, and then the glow of her eyes disappeared as she closed them.

Tyche leapt off Parysatis’ arm and came swooping down the ravine, her caw echoing in the high hills only once. Gur-Rai flinched a bit as she came close, but forced his arm to stay steady enough for her to land. 

And land she did, digging her claws into his sleeve, and he was happy he’d worn his armor for this. She ruffled her feathers and adjusted herself, and he saw the eagle’s eyes were glowing purple, like Parysatis’ had been.

Gur-Rai blinked, then reached out and gently patted the eagle on the head. “Good girl.” He said softly.

The glow faded from Tyche’s eyes, and he looked back up the hill to where Parysatis stood, her white hair blowing in the brisk wind. She held out her arm and made a noise like the coo of a pigeon and the screech of a fox all at once, and Tyche leapt from Gur-Rai’s arm and soared back up to her mistress.

He lowered his arm slightly, and saw that she had not closed her eyes this time. Tyche’s dark eyes remained so as Parysatis looked out towards where Gur-Rai stood, as though she were waiting for him.

He took a deep breath, thankful his siblings weren’t watching this, and pursed his lips, replicating the coo-screech he heard Parysatis make. For a moment, the eagle did nothing, so he tried again, and again, and again.

Tyche leapt from Parysatis’ arm again, and this time Gur-Rai knew to brace himself. He caught Tyche, letting her stabilize herself in his grasp, and when she finally did, he patted her head.

“There’s a good girl.” He said as he looked back up to Parysatis. She nodded to him slowly, gesturing for him to come back up the hill.

.

.

Senuna shifted her weight onto her left foot and crossed her arms, looking up at Drakaina as the Khatun stared into her glass of vodka.

“Have you been pleased with what you see?” Drakaina asked. “My ancestor built this city, and his son, Ögedei Khan, fortified its walls. It has stood against all odds, even those from off-world

Senuna bobbed her head. “It’s impressive what you’ve done here, I’ll admit that.”

That made Drakaina look up, curiosity in her eyes. “Impressive…is that all?”

“I haven’t seen more than the city.” Senuna said. “And you told me you have much more territory than that.”

“The rest of it lies in villages and Elerium mines.” Drakaina added quickly. “They are relatively scattered, due to their natural geographic location.”

“Fair enough.” Senuna still refused to sit, instead shifting back onto her right foot and putting a hand on her hip. “But I assume this means they get your protection, such as it were?”

“Of course.” Drakaina stood up, tipping her glass back and draining the remainder of it. “Until their children can be trained to fight for us, we send our own to protect them. They repay us by sending their warriors when they are grown, who then fight to defend us.”

Senuna bit her lip. “Do those kids get a choice?”

“They all choose to serve us.” Drakaina said curtly. “I give them food, shelter and protection. In return, they give me their sword arms.”

“And I thought I was a shitty boss~” Senuna chuckled.

Drakaina glared at Senuna. “I care for each of my warriors as a mother cares for her children. Do not accuse me of being callous.”

“I’m a mother too…” Senuna hesitated before she uttered the last word. “...Well in any case, far be it from me to tell you how to do your job. But all my soldiers go onto the field having chosen to carry a gun.” 

“Is that why you sought help?” Drakaina retorted.

“You called me here, remember?” Senuna giggled. “I sought their help because, the Reapers, Skirmishers, Templars, and us? We have a common goal.” 

Drakaina moved back up to where her throne stood, but didn’t lower herself, instead opting to just stand in front of it. “I am not here to debate ideologies with you. The last raid was very successful, but the rewards were minuscule compared to what we require.”

“Okay.” Senuna raised a brow. “And that is what, exactly?”

“There is a small outpost just south of Bürd, where we believe ADVENT is looking to build yet another city center. The people there have set up a small village and are receiving supplies. They are guarded by hybrids in armor.”

“Oh how scary!” Senuna chuckled. “This almost sounds like one of our havens, and ADVENT attacks those all the time. This should be easy.”

“Should be.” Drakaina said. “It never is. I would like to borrow two of your Chosen this time.”

“I knew you’d take a liking to them.” Senuna giggled. “Konnie, again?”

“Her and her brother, the sniper. He can set up with my archers and offer range support.” Drakaina hesitated. “Commander, how much do you know about her?”

“Who? Kon-Mai?” She sighed. “I didn’t have access to her files when I was plugged in, if that’s what you’re asking. ADVENT had me thinking I was still back home, fighting aliens and taking numbers.”

Drakaina sat down and leaned against the armrest of her throne. One of the skulls shifted under the pressure. “I thought you were used to manage all of ADVENT’s network.”

“I was.” Senuna bobbed her head. “But it’s…like a dream. Someone could call a file up from my brain, and in my sleep I could interpret that information as something completely different.”

“So you knew nothing about the Chosen?” 

“I didn’t say that.” Senuna stopped, then looked away. “I heard her speak to me a couple times, but I interpreted her voice as something else. Someone else. They were always connected to someone I knew once. Dhar-Mon…well. His voice is pretty distinct. But Konnie, not entirely sure what I saw for her.” Senuna admitted. “The first time I really saw her was when she carried away Mox to one of ADVENT’s torture facilities.”

“So they do still participate in abductions.” Drakaina nodded. “That is valuable information.”

“Have you lost many to that method?” Senuna asked.

“No.” Drakaina picked up her empty glass and held it up, the light refracting through broken crystals. “…Only one.” 

.

.

“Mai!”

At first, Kon-Mai didn’t even realize someone was calling her, until she heard footsteps directly behind her. She turned, and then slowed her brisk trek, allowing Aisha to catch up to her.

“Mai?” She raised a hairless brow.

“Yes, sorry. It…slipped out.” Aisha bowed. “Kon-Mai. I wanted to check on you; are you doing alright after that lesson?”

“I am fine.” Kon-Mai said curtly, turning away.

“You seemed really distracted after that first demonstration.” Aisha continued.

“Perhaps I was. But it should not concern you.” Kon-Mai scoffed. “I simply need a place to rest. Clear my head.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so?” Aisha chuckled. “I know a place actually. Come on.”

Kon-Mai watched Aisha take up a long stride in front of her, leading her westward toward where the sun was setting. She hesitated, but then the woman turned back and waved her to follow. In the low light, the gentle embroidery along her hijab glowed a soft blue.

Kon-Mai followed her silently, the smaller woman keeping up a fast pace that Kon-Mai kept time with easily. Once outside of the city, she looked back once toward the blue glow, and the barren land around it.

“Do you not farm here?” Kon-Mai asked. “The only vegetation I see is the animal feed…” 

Aisha shook her head. “As much as I would like to--I much prefer vegetables to meat, if I’m honest with you--it seems edible plants don’t take well to this soil anymore.”

“Anymore?”

“I heard they used to.” Aisha elaborated. “When my parents were fleeing ADVENT they briefly settled down around here, near Khorgo, and there was some arable land there.” She hummed a bit. “Sometimes I think about going back there and seeing if anything is left but…I have my new family here. As much as I want to look back.”

Kon-Mai remained silent, musing on this for a moment. “If you did go back…” She finally said. “What would you hope to find?”

Aisha didn’t answer her, and Kon-Mai abandoned the question when she looked around at the line of trees they suddenly stepped into. Larch trees with thick, needled branches reached out, covering the pale sky in a curtain of green.

“What is this place?”

“I come here to pray.” Aisha said. “The other warriors, they don’t mean to be rude, but they don’t really understand why I still practice. I come here so they won’t hound me for answers when all I want is a spiritual connection.”

“I can appreciate that.” Kon-Mai chuckled. “I often find my brothers in particular like to bother me when I am trying to meditate.”

Aisha chuckled. “I’m curious, your eldest brother seemed like he was at least interested in religion, but what exactly does ADVENT practice?”

“Practice…is a strong word. I suppose the religion of ADVENT centered around the Elders, and thus any customs were woven into their government.”    

“But what else?” Aisha kept prying. “What do they teach you about how the universe works? Where do you think people go when they die?”

Kon-Mai thought for a moment, trying to recall old teachings from almost a decade ago. “They never told us.”

“Never told you?”

“No. They never taught us of an afterlife. They only said there was the void, and if we failed them, they would throw us into nonexistence.”

Aisha stopped walking briefly at that, faltering in her steps as she looked up in surprise. “Oh…like Buddhism? Was there rebirth?”

Kon-Mai shook her head. “If there was, it was not attainable for us.”

“So you…would just die?” Aisha blinked. “That’s…terrifying. I’m sorry.”

“The idea of nonexistence never troubled me until I was staring it in the face.” Kon-Mai retorted. “And even then I would have chosen that over what my parents would do to me for failure.”

“And what would they do?” Aisha kept prying.

Kon-Mai’s silence served as an answer, and the two came to a silent stop in a small clearing, where the trees formed a small circle. 

Aisha settled down on her knees, facing Southwest, and Kon-Mai settled into her meditation pose beside her. Instead of closing her eyes, though, she watched Aisha instead, observing as she bowed, touching her head to the ground. Something tugged at the strings of her heart as she witnessed it, and soon she too closed her eyes.

They held that silent vigil until the sunlight fully faded, and the dim glow of orange clouds was the only light remaining. Surprisingly, it was Kon-Mai who broke the silence. As she heard Aisha get back to her feet, she asked “How does the Khatun feel about you practicing still?”

“The Khatun doesn’t mind.” Aisha shrugged. “Generally all her warriors are allowed to practice any religion they want. Many adopt Shamanic beliefs because, well, that’s the majority and it’s just easier.”

Kon-Mai followed her demonstration and stood. “And you did not adopt them as well?”

“That’s a long story, but no, I kept my own faith.” Aisha chuckled. “When I first came to Karakorum, I had a really rough time assimilating. It may sound counterintuitive but keeping to the traditions I was raised with helped me during that time.”

“This was after your parents…” Kon-Mai trailed off.

“Yes. I don’t remember the event really well. My clearest memory is after it was all over, and I was on a black horse, and Monkh…” Aisha broke off again, her voice shaking as she said “M-Monkh was carrying me.”

“Monkh?” Kon-Mai asked, suddenly blinking as though something was in her eye. Her temple stung for just a moment, and a shiver went up her back, all in such quick succession she herself hardly noticed it. “Who is Monkh?”

Aisha took a few steps, and then leaned back against one of the trees so she faced Kon-Mai. “She was the Jinong before me.” She said. “I might have mentioned we were close but…it was more than that.”

“More in what way?”

“She was almost grown up when they found me, and I was really young, extremely young. I had such a hard time adjusting to Karakorum, new people and language and food and it was all so overwhelming, I threw fits, I lashed out, and nobody would take me in, not even those who knew me.” She crossed her arms over herself. “Nobody but Monkh.”

“She adopted you?”

“She was more like a big sister than a mom.” Aisha admitted. “But…yes. She took care of me. She encouraged me to keep praying because praying helped calm me. She never forced me to, she wasn’t Muslim herself but…she always said it was important to remember the roots, especially those that gave me nourishment. She arranged for my meals to be caught, she sewed all my clothes and beaded my jewelry with her own two hands, and she taught me riding and archery and sword fighting. Nobody else believed in me. Monkh…Monkh believed in me.”

Kon-Mai swallowed, and realized she was holding back tears. “Her loss must have been very hard.”

Aisha nodded. “I regret so much from my childhood, but I most regret how much I took her for granted. I didn’t realize how precious life was until…” Aisha bit her lip, and when she spoke again, her voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”

Kon-Mai took a step toward the young woman, holding out a hand but hesitating to touch her. “I…I know how it feels to lose someone you loved, without ever being able to tell them goodbye, or how much they meant to you. It is a pain that sent me spiraling, I cannot imagine experiencing it as a child.”

Aisha stepped forward and grasped Kon-Mai’s hand, squeezing it. “Thank you…” Tears were streaming down her face now. “I just wish I could have thanked her.”

“Perhaps you still can.” Kon-Mai said. “If I have earned another chance, perhaps you will too.”

Aisha shook her head. “It’s a silly thing to hope for. And yet, I still do.”        

.

.

The inside of the mine was not dark, but lit up in a rainbow of soft, glowing light. Dhar-Mon closed his eyes and felt the familiar hum of Elerium crystal radiating off his skin. Like a babe being swaddled, he felt comfort in this early memory.

Then he opened his eyes and composed himself, looking around at the miners around him. Most only payed him a few glances before squaring up their shoulders and returning to their work, running wheelbarrows full of sediment out and in and dumping them onto an assembly line, where more workers, smudged in dirt, sifted through the sediment and broke open geodes to get at the crystals inside.

He approached one of the miners, and they turned and gasped, startling backward and scrambling away, yelling something in Mongolian or…maybe Kazakh? He could not tell. Dhar-Mon only raised his hands in response, trying to demonstrate he was not there to hurt them. 

Luckily, one of the others, an old man who looked as though he had seen years in the mine, seemed to understand, and stepped forward. Dhar-Mon slowly lowered his hands, and bowed low to the person who was by all means his elder.

The old man smiled a toothless grin. “Sain uu, khüü mini!” The man chuckled, and upon realizing that Dhar-Mon didn’t understand him, broke into a sympathetic laugh. Dhar-Mon smiled awkwardly, looking around at the other miners that were still watching his hesitantly.

The old man beckoned Dhar-Mon over to the assembly line, where the others continued to sift through the silt and dirt, removing the Elerium from its earthen shell. He watched in curiosity as it was then sent down the line to be washed and sprayed, the dirt splashing over a young woman’s face as she cleaned the glass-like rock.

“This is difficult work.” Dhar-Mon said. “I sincerely hope the Khatun rewards you well.”

The man either didn’t hear him or didn’t understand him as he led Dhar-Mon farther along down the line, where the clean Elerium was taken into mortars and pestles and ground into shining, powdery dust. Each time the pestle struck the glowing rock, sparks would bounce away, and Dhar-Mon would flinch.

The glowing dust, pulsating with irradiated energy, traveled along the conveyor line to the end, where two others began re-mixing it with a soft, white powder, almost resembling dry clay. Their careful hands mixed the sparkling Elerium with this clay, before it was shoved off the table into a vat of liquid that began to boil. Dhar-Mon was at first nervous about this unknown reaction, until he saw the fire burning under the vat.

“They are stabilizing the Elerium. To keep it from degrading.” He rubbed his chin. “Fascinating. It seems to dampen the raw energy available but…” It made sense, if they were using it in things like jewelry, they didn’t really need the Elerium to pack that much of a punch.

The old man patted Dhar-Mon on the arm, chuckling as he returned to his post, leaving Dhar-Mon to either stay or go. The Hieromonk wandered around the vat for a few moments, watching as the water boiled away, leaving a paste of glowing blue rock that settled heavily in the bottom of the cauldron. The mix was not perfect, but he figured it would be further distilled and refined and sure enough, a thin looking lad came over, dragging a wheelbarrow and stopping only to reach in and scoop the rock-paste into the wheelbarrow.

Dhar-Mon raised a brow as he saw that the boy, who looked no older than a teenager, was not wearing cloves around this hot metal. And with that exhausted look in his eyes, that was absolutely asking for trouble. Dhar-Mon reached out, and the boy startled a bit, but looked up at Dhar-Mon almost like he was in a trance. Dhar-Mon did not have to pull hard to get the spade away from him, and he rolled up his sleeves and began doing the boy’s assigned work for him.

“I have many more scars than you.” Dhar-Mon said. “And I would like that to remain the truth.”

He wasn’t sure that the boy understood him, but he did begin tearing up. Once the wheelbarrow was full, Dhar-Mon took hold of it himself and pushed it along, the boy leading him to where it needed to go.

They approached the yawning mouth of the mine, and inside he heard pickaxes ringing against stone, and felt the pulsing radiation from the barely exposed rock. He stopped for a moment, gazing down into the black mouth that continued on seemingly forever…

A scream echoed from down the tunnel, and for a moment all the miners stopped, but when Dhar-Mon dropped the wheelbarrow and began to run toward the noise, the boy stopped him, crying out in Mongolian and shaking his head quickly.

“Someone could be hurt!” Dhar-Mon insisted. “I must help them!”

“No!” Was all the boy said, looking up at him with pleading eyes. “No. No. No.” 

.

.

Pratal Mox stared out at the sun setting over the icy mountains and yellow grass, where the horses stood and picked out what little bits of vegetation they could pull from the ground, and he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“You aren’t going to be able to sleep until you face this.” His wife said, moving her hand from his shoulder down around his waist.

“I am naively hoping it will not need facing.” He said. “Vox Prima…I mean. Kon-Mai has not shown much interest in her past, and I am hoping we can leave this place before it shows interest in her.”

“Even so. She has a right to know. And you have the power to tell her.” Elena moved to stand beside him. “Look at how much good it’s done Gur-Rai to have old friends and new friends again.”

“Gur-Rai is…” Mox twiddled his thumbs. “He is different. His memories were not completely overwritten by Camazotz, he remembers things the others don’t.”

“And maybe Kon-Mai remembers too.” Elena crossed her arms. “Or at the very least, I think someone in this camp does.”

Mox sighed. “That is what I fear. What if they tell her?”

“Tell her yourself.” She took his hand. “You’ve taken hold of your own fate time and time again, my love.”

“I know, and I’m tired.” Mox sighed. “It is not just my fate anymore. How do I tell Kon-Mai that I was the ferryman who led her to hell?” 

.

.

.

.

.

Summary: The chapter begins with Gur-Rai and Parysatis going out to open field so Gur-Rai can train to become an eagle hunter. As it’s his first lesson, Parysatis starts him off by just teaching him how to land the eagle on his arm, which he does with some difficulty. Back at Karakorum, Drakaina is meeting with Senuna to talk about the next mission, and Senuna briefly chastises Drakaina on her leadership methods.

After the training, Aisha catches up with Kon-Mai and invites her to a secluded spot, where she likes to pray. She tells Kon-Mai that her devotion stems from her parental figure, Monkh, encouraging her to maintain that which connected her to her happiness. Aisha also clarifies that Monkh was the previous Jinong before her, and that one of her earliest memories is waking up in her arms.

Down in the Elerium mines, Dhar-Mon meets several of the miners, who are all diligently working on mining Elerium to be used recreationally and in warfare. One old man shows Dhar-Mon around, and he sees the process by which Elerium is stabilized. While helping a young boy bring the processed sludge in for refining, Dhar-Mon hears a scream from deeper in the mine.

In Karakorum, Pratal Mox reflects on how much he knows about Kon-Mai’s past. Elena encourages him to tell her, but he hesitates.

(Hello everyone, I know it’s been over a month and I’m so sorry I kept you all waiting. February just completely kicked my ass, starting with my cat passing away and ending with a slew of health problems that have left me pretty much out of commission until now. I’m not 100% better yet, but I am recovering and recovered enough to get this to you. I have NOT given up on the shark babies, and I’m still in this for the long haul!

Thanks to my buddies in the discord for helping me get my motivation!)

[teaaavis]

a little something (and happy new year!)

Heyo there, @royaidaydreams! I’m your secret santa, and I apologize for the extremely late gift; I hope that I could have sent this earlier. You preferred Royai and nothing else (lol) so here goes! I hope you enjoy!!! (I don’t use AO3 or anything but if I did I would link it for you, sorry.) Also, huge thanks to @fmasecretsanta2020 for organzing this unbelievable event!!!

six battles fought and one battle won 1 ( one ) : young.

The floorboards creaked and whined under his feet as he walked across the vast room, two pairs of footsteps melodically echoing throughout the house. The only thing that stood in his way of leaving the Hawkeye estate and the military was the blank wooden door. The pleasant breeze of air that slipped in through the crack of the door warmed his feet as he put down his trunk with a muffled bump. Mustang had stopped walking and placed his hand on the numbingly cold brass doorknob; then he twisted it, the door swinging open, and nearly bumping the wall like its squeaky hinges did nothing to prevent it. Mustang turned around and almost toppled his leather case holding his belongings over, but he righted it before picking it up again. Gentle steps sounded behind him, and he slowly looked up to see a blonde girl with coppery brown eyes staring at him with a delicate hand on the door. 

"You'll come back, won't you, Mr. Mustang?" she questioned, remaining her hand on the door as she took a step closer to the crow-haired young man. Her brown eyes scanned his face as if searching for a reasonable answer, "Will you?" she repeated after she took notice of the uncomfortable pause between him and her.

"I- uh," Mustang opened his mouth and closed it twice before planting a small frown on his face; he knew that there was no point in returning here; Berthold Hawkeye was dead and gone from the household. "I- maybe, think I will." he glanced a soft, worrisome look at the smaller figure, and she continued to stare at him. 

"Where will you go now?" Hawkeye asked, a gentle breeze brushing her pale hair across her face.

But damn, did she look so beautiful in that pair of clothing, blond hair barely reaching her shoulders; he wanted to draw her closer to him and wrap his sturdy arms around her fragile figure and tell her that he never wanted to leave her side. But Mustang had already told her- and his passed teacher that he would commit his time to the Amestrian Military, and there was no turning back now. 

"Miss Hawkeye, I do believe you know where I'm heading next, so there is no need to ask," Mustang rubbed the back of his head and dropped his arm back to his side with a lengthy sigh. "I plan to help the military with the use of my flame alchemy; if you ever do see me again, it will be a long time until I rest my eyes on you again."

She continued to lay her eyes on him for a long time, then crossed her arms in front of her and put a solemn look on her face, "Then just stay safe, would you?" 

Roy felt the heat creeping up his neck, which spread across his face, resting on the tips of his ears and his cheeks; he certainly wouldn't have expected that to come out of her mouth. "Of course, yeah," he diverted his gaze to a small crack in the floorboards, which caught his eyes, "I'll try." Mustang cast his glance towards the pale-haired young woman standing before him, and it was that he knew he had owed his former master's daughter more than he could give. 

"I, uh," Mustang stuttered; he knew this sentence wouldn't come out the way he intended, and if it did, the young alchemist knew he would certainly be on the sinking ship; there was no way that she even thought of him more as a mere friend. "Nevermind."

He raised a hand to her; his frozen hand remained there for a fleeting few seconds, but he decided to drop it then, "Goodbye, Riza Hawkeye."

Mustang watched as her penny- pecan colored eyes softened just a tad bit, and she gave a quiet sigh that silently spread over the rustling of the bare branches and the gradually dying grass that was slowly turning a grey-green color. She cast a somber look at her passed father's apprentice, and a sad smile soon filled her expression. 

"Goodbye is too permanent," she murmured while crossing her arms into a v- shape in front of her frame, "Until next time, Mr. Mustang."

He turned around. 

The last thing he saw in color beside her beautiful eyes was a small blade of green grass in the middle of a barren patch of dirt. 

2 ( two ) : battles and burns.

The Flame Alchemist. The three words that she'd help create, and now the soldiers of Amestris on the Ishval- Amestris battleground tossed it around as if it were something to be proud of- unquestionably, it was something that the Hawk's Eye of Ishval wouldn't take in. She wasn't sure if revealing the secrets on her back was worth it; Hawkeye knew that she intended the destructive flame alchemy was for the people but right now, her once sturdy thoughts were crumbling before her. 

Left and right, the scarring of the pale Ishvalan grounds and the annihilation of the citizens who lived there was to be permanent, and even though she hadn't been here for long, she knew that the alchemists, especially the Flame Alchemist, had reached a high death toll. 

The Hawk's Eye sighed and peered through the sniper's scope, watching as a small burst of brilliant orange, yellow and red flames erupted into the air; she wondered what it was like to kill so many people at a time just with the snap of the fingers. It wasn't until long after another man that she'd never seen before, this time with glasses, which she scrutinized through the lens of the sniper; he turned around and faced the Flame Alchemist. She watched them closely with light interest, positioning herself so she could watch every last movement, and Hawkeye wondered if pulling the trigger on him was a good idea; and it was easy, too easy to pull the trigger back a little more, but instead, she decided against it and put down her sniper with calloused hands. 

"I trusted you," she said to him, later that day, her hands tightly fisted in her lap, nearly torn- up, pale coat and near navy uniform covered in wrinkles, "I trusted you, and this is what happened?"

He reached an arm out to her, and in the dim light of the lantern beside her, she saw that part of his tan coat was partially scorched black, but what drew her eyes to his hand was the unmistakable red of a fresh burn. The small ebb of warmth radiating from his arm faded away as he pulled back his arm; his other hand brushed the healing wound, and he dropped both his arms on his lap. 

"I told you to be careful, Major Mustang."

"And I was; this wound barely distracts me; besides, this only a minor wound, it hardly hurts."

"Well, you should have known to be more careful," she shot back, eying the fresh red of his skin, "And I doubt that you even treated the wound."

Mustang rubbed the back of his head with his uninjured hand, sighing, "Yeah," he huffed, pulling a face, "But as I said," he eyed the sniper with onyx- colored eyes, "I don't need it."

She plastered a "do you seriously want to play this game with me right now" look on her face but then stood up and opened the flap of the large tent, stepping outside into the rocky terrain. She popped her head back into the tent, looking at the Flame Alchemist sitting on the near- broken wooden crate, "Who was that man with the broken glasses and black hair just like yours?" 

"Oh, you must have seen him," Mustang paused and turned to look at the Hawk's Eye, "Hughes," his eyes turned slimmer than they usually were, "His name is Maes Hughes."

3 ( three ) : rain.

"Colonel," she whispered from behind him, handing him his midnight- colored military coat, which he wrapped around himself, and watched the lieutenant stop, the grass flattening under her shoes, blue uniform ruffling in the soft wind.

He watched the stone grave with the name Maes Hughes engraved into it so intently as if it might move, but when the grave did not, he gripped the uniform cap tucked between his arm tighter, "Alchemists as a whole, we are horrible creatures, aren't we?"

The lieutenant gave no reply, and he carried on quickly, "There's a side of me that's desperately trying to crack the theories of human transmutation right now," Mustang paused, trying to burrow whatever feelings and thoughts he had for his dead friend right now, "I think I understand what drove those boys who tried to- " he cut himself off abruptly, "bring back their dead mother."

He kept his eyes on the grave, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lieutenant Hawkeye shift, "Are you all right, Colonel?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he mumbled in reply, taking his cap by his right hand and setting it on his head, "Except," he tilted his head upwards, the brim of the hat just almost covering his eyes, "It's a terrible day for rain."

At first, he knew she wouldn't get the statement, hearing her, "What do you mean? It's not raining." 

He felt the sleeve of her coat brush lightly against his, and that word useless that she'd always called him when he fought in the rain just suddenly got to him, and he felt a wet substance sliding down his cheeks. "Yes, it is."

She directed her gaze towards him and responded, "Oh, so it is. Why don't we head back? It's getting chilly out here."

Soon, Mustang felt the small of her hand on his back as she directed him to his car in silence; desperately, he wanted to believe the truth was just a dream; one of his most valuable subordinates and a treasured friend ripped away from life so quickly. Running his fingers through his neatly pulled back hair, he let it fall back to its usual unkempt state; he sighed and crossed his arms. 

Gazing at Lieutenant Hawkeye, he wondered how she could keep the same emotionless look on her face- not daring to let a flicker of movement dash across her face. Focusing on the darkest brown of her eyes, he noted how she concentrated on staring ahead of her, hands firmly gripped on the steering wheel. He didn't know what he looked like at that moment, but, god, he must have looked so desperate at that moment. 

Desperate to hold her, to take her into his arms, tell her everything he wanted to, but of course, he scolded himself for thinking of such an idea- and would she even let a man with bloodstained hands hold her? A man in which he wielded a dangerous power that had killed so many? Emptying the thought from his mind, he blew a loud exhale, which attracted a glimpse from the lieutenant, which only lingered on him for a second or two. 

But Mustang knew he needed to find Hughes's killer quickly and avenge his death, knowing that the killer could notice the lieutenant and take her away, just as they did to Hughes. He would still protect the lieutenant at all costs, but inside, he knew that she didn't need his protection; that she would be just fine on her own. 

What he didn't know was that he would be completely wrong. 

4 ( four ) : sorrow.

There was no way. She refused to believe it- but after all, they were facing a Homunculus. The Homunculus had told her she had killed a sacrificial pawn, and if Alphonse was still alive, the Colonel and Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc somewhere else, then that meant she had already dealt with one of them, meaning that it was either Colonel Mustang or Second Lieutenant Havoc. Or maybe she was dead, and she was the sacrificial pawn, and this was all a nightmare because, of course, it would be impossible that Roy Mustang had perished so quickly; and killed by this monster of all things. 

She told herself to remain calm like she always would, but Hawkeye couldn't dream of the fact that she would have to carry on without him, missing out on everything they could have had together; but instead, grief, fury, and boiling rage channeled through her veins. She pulled the trigger of her handgun as bullet after bullet hit the Homunculus; echoes of screaming bounced around the vast room of Laboratory 5, and she didn't know if it was her or not, but it didn't matter. 

Her comrades in the military knew her as the Hawk's Eye, earning that name from the fact that she never, or once in a blue moon, missed her target. Usually, she would make sure that perfection and accuracy came in her shot, but her mind was so jumbled, one of her bullets only grazed the monster's shoulder. She threw aside another of her handguns and continued firing, hoping, pleading, for this creature to die before her, and maybe he just wasn't dead yet. Ignoring the shocked Alphonse Elric at her side, maybe confused at her sudden rage and her crazed behavior, but she didn't care who saw her at this moment or not. 

But the fact that she'd failed to protect him, something tremendously crucial that he'd trusted her with from the very day she became enlisted under his command; it tore her apart. Down to her last bullet, she pulled the trigger with great force, lowering her arm slowly and reluctantly, then collapsed on the cold floor, hands clenched together firmly. She didn't know at that moment, but there was a part of her eager to end her life right there and join him; the Homunculus, still alive, uttered something which sounded like static to her. The floor, blurry between the tears forming in her eyes, warped and pathetically fell to the ground; and when she heard a clacking sound, grey metal stepped in front of her, she knew the younger Elric brother was trying to save her. 

They both bickered for a moment as to whether to run or not and of course, she remained there, slumped over, hearing the sound of strange material piercing through metal. Telling Alphonse to run for the last time, he'd fought back, telling her that he had seen so many people die before him, and with this chance to protect her, he would. And when a new voice entered the room, she was suddenly yanked to the side by cold metal; that wrapped around her body; but no, how could it be? 

Flames engulfed the air around her, heat rising quickly from abrupt and large flames near her; the wall that Alphonse Elric had transmuted earlier shook as something from the other side rammed into it. Painful shrieks and screams reverberated through the room as she imagined the flames created by his hand submerging the Homunculus. It took time for it to be over, and when it was, an enormous cloud of smoke blew in front of her eyes, with the following, quiet sound of something like sand blowing into the air filled the room. Behind the transmuted wall, she heard something clatter to the ground and the familiar grunt of pain from the colonel. 

Released from her spot, she dashed over to the colonel, not caring to wipe stray tears on her cheeks; and at that moment, she was glad that Alphonse had saved her back a few moments ago. Asking about her superior's wounds, he only responded with a question if she was unscathed and a thanks to Alphonse, quickly adding in to fetch the injured Havoc. 

After the sound of metal faded away, she turned back to the colonel, who gave her that crooked, small smile that she was fond of- a smile that filled her with the feeling of reassurance. Feeling raven eyes lock on to her, she gave a small smile; and maybe, she thought, he had stared at her a bit too long.

The understanding silence between them was interrupted by the return of Alphonse and the colonel's voice, so quiet it was like a whisper, "Help me up, would you?"

She stood up, brushing one of her hands briefly across his before planting her hands on his broad back before hoisting him upwards. 

5 ( five ) : color.

"Your precious woman is dying."

Chasing the shape-shifting Homunculus, Envy, the one who had killed Maes Hughes, down the winding tunnels was a real game to play, and after he'd blasted that creature to a despicable green worm, she just had to step in and prevent him from going over the edge. And what an idiot he was back when they were still in the tunnels, when he had told her to end the burden she carried around every day, her response was already a bullet to the head. He remembered the flames that had come with his anguished cry, and he hated, despised, loathed, what this woman could do to him. Then she had saved him again. 

But now, all he could do was watch her die in front of his eyes as he called out her name, no, her rank, frantically. 

As he strained against his captors, he watched as her precious lifeblood smoothly and swiftly flowed out of the deep gash in her neck; her hand on her crimson, bloodied neck did nothing to hinder the bleeding. He watched as her eyes dulled, her beautiful blonde hair starting to stain red from the blood that spilled on the stone floor, a red puddle spreading farther and farther from the lieutenant and closer and closer to him. Trying to shake the two men holding him down off of him, they held him tightly, the anonymous man with the gold tooth speaking again, but with fear coursing through his body, the man's words were unintelligible. 

Hawkeye, looking so vulnerable and weak, mouth slightly open, body limp against the ground; he wanted to embrace her with unwilling ferocity, even if it was the last time. A flare of hope grew as she saw movement in her eyes- a signal, which informed him to buy a bit more time, and after a short while, his saviors appeared, the youngest throwing some weapon at one of the führer candidate's head. Taking the sword of the stunned- and hopefully dead man, he stabbed the other man holding him captive, and dashed to the lieutenant, pleading, praying that she hadn't left him yet. Usually, stepping on something during a full sprint would have tripped him, but the urgency flooding through him kept him going. As one of the other candidates raised his sword to cut him down, he snapped his fingers, releasing an explosion of fire, blowing him away. 

Letting out a panicked cry, he supported her weak body in his arms, not daring to let her go; he was with her, and everything was going to be all right, and why wasn't she opening her eyes? He watched, powerless as she twisted and turned in his grip, the warmth from her body fading, blood still slowly oozing out of her fresh wound, and god, was she slowly dying in his arms? 

Then, a flurry of pink, purple, and white entered his vision, accompanying a small voice, and in seconds, she had patched up the wound. Thankful, he told her, "I owe you one," and turned his attention back to Hawkeye, who had slowly woken from a daze; he watched as a pair of eyes opened. 

And suddenly, his world was in color again, pale skin against the black and blue of his uniform, red against the yellow of her hair, and he found himself wondering for the first time how her stunning eyes were that shade of brown. 

But color or her eyes didn't really mean much right now; there was only one thing that he really fancied at this moment, the only thing that comforted him; but right now, he loved that smile she gave him. 

6 ( six ) : dark mornings.

She wondered what it would be like for it to be pitch black in the middle of the day. The thin curtains did nothing to filter the sunlight pouring through the open window, which made shadows that danced across the floor. And of course, he wouldn't be able to see those either, but as she described the way the beams of warm light hit her skin and the tiny view of the leaves blowing this way and that in the wind, a feeling of commiseration flooded through her. 

Beside her, he pawed his face dramatically with bandaged hands and hung his head in defeat; black strands of hair drooping. Standing up on uneasy feet, she padded over to the colonel, who must have heard the creaking of the hospital bed and the soft shuffling of her feet. Sitting down on the soft mattress in front of him, she reached out for his bandaged hand, knuckles brushing gently across the palm of her hand. 

He lifted his head and looked in the direction he thought she was sitting, which was the wrong way, so she cupped his cheek, turning his head towards her. Pale grey, blind eyes widened, and he gripped her hand tighter, and was he blushing?

Thin sheets and a blanket wrinkled as she leaned backward, whispering small sentences that went back and forth between them. She did not manage to exchange many words between them before silence filled the room, and they sat there, enjoying the company and the silence. Mustang stared at her, maybe staring at nothing, then blurted out, "It's a shame I can't see you." The colonel repeatedly and quickly blinked as if he was embarrassed but showed no signs of being so. 

Fidgeting with a bedsheet with her free hand, as her other hand was still occupied by the colonel, who was now running his thumb across her knuckles, she only smiled in response. Avoiding his comment, she started unwrapping the bandages on his left hand for him, which the doctor had instructed to do every morning. "What is the first thing that you want to do with your sight back?" she questioned, pulling away from his firm grip and strolling over the small medical cart left at the other end of their shared room. She started reaching for the new roll of gauze and the ointment when he replied, a bit too quick. 

"Probably spend some time with you," he replied, smirking at the sound of Hawkeye sighing in response, "or maybe hurry over and see what Alphonse looks like."

"You most certainly won't be traveling anywhere until you get you're completely healed and have your sight back."

He nodded as she sat back beside him and lifted his unwrapped hand, applying the ointment, then covering his hand in the fresh, clean covering. Tranquility filled the room as there was nothing more to be said, and the only thing she could hear was the ripping of the old bandage stained a dark red with old blood. It took a while, treating both hands, but after she finished, she threw away the used materials and took a seat next to the colonel. 

"Sir-" she started but was interjected by her superior by, "I told you that you don't always have to refer to me formally." 

Continuing, she crossed her legs, "-what is it like to be blind?"

He looked at her, scoffing, "I guess it feels like you're drowning in darkness, never seeing the moon or the sun that rises every day. I  constantly feel lonely, as I can not see anyone," he paused, reaching for her hand, but instead found her leg but gripped it, "and I can not see you."

"They're always dark mornings."

[iscariotsdeputy]

Staci Pratt’s Lines From The FC5 Script

THE SCRIPT IS FOUND HERE ON THIS POST GIVE THAT POST THE ATTENTION IT DESERVES

now to our regular scheduled staci content under the read more!

[Surprise reactions, yes I’m naming these]

Good Lord! 

What the- 

Jesus! 

God almighty! 

Christ almighty! 

Whoa!

What was that? 

I heard something. 

You hear that? 

What? 

What's that?

[FUN BATTLE CRIES]

Enough! 

No more! 

I'm done with this!

Goin' in! 

Cover me! 

You're dead! 

You're mine! 

Kill them! Let them die for the Father!   (ZOINKS)

Kill them all! They don't deserve to live! 

The weak must be culled! 

We've got this! 

Mercy is for the weak! 

Show them no weakness! 

Cull the herd! 

You don't deserve to live! 

You'll pay! You're all gonna pay! 

You're all gonna die! 

You don't deserve to live!

Is that it? 

You started it! 

I didn't want this! 

We don't forgive unbelievers! 

This didn't have to happen! 

[That feel when the grenades hit]

Move, move, move! 

Move, go! 

Grenade! 

Grenade, move! 

[This boy is on fire!]

Oh God, the fire's gettin' bigger! 

Fire's growing! 

The fire! It's out of control!  

Good Lord that fire's getting big! 

The fire's spreading!

[Lad on the run]

Moving, cover me! 

Runnin' for it! 

Hey, cover me! 

Movin' positions! 

Gonna try to get higher up. 

Gonna climb higher. 

Cover me, I'm heading down. 

Moving down, cover me! 

For sure! 

Better go fast! 

Got it! 

Okay! 

Got ya!

[When he wants to run but he’s like me trying not to infodump: suppressed]

I can't move! 

They've got me pinned! 

I'm pinned down! 

I'm taking fire over here! 

They've got me pinned down! 

[Staci hearing threats]

Jesus! Where was that?! Damn!

Lord! Jesus, what was that? What the hell! 

[Staci underfire]

Damn! 

Dammit, dammit! 

Lord Jesus Christ! 

This is bad!

God, no!

Ah shit! 

[Staci when he sees them enemies]

Look, over there! 

Over there! 

There they are! 

There! I see them! 

Gonna do some Cullin'...      (staci excuse me?)

Don't move! 

Dammit, watch out! 

Hey, watch out! 

[Wounded Staci]

Ah. 

Ow. 

Ah! 

God! 

Jesus! 

I'm hit! 

They shot me! 

They got me!

[HE’S RELOADIN’]

Reloading! 

I'm reloading! 

Reloading! Cover me! 

Gotta reload!

[SALUTATIONS FELLOW NORMAL NOT BRAINWASHED PEOPLE]

Hey. 

Hi there.

What's up. 

Hey, man. 

Hey sister. 

Hey there.

Hey!

Hey Brother.

Brother, how are you?

Miss. Nice to see you. 

Hey there Miss. 

[Sights on Staci, a sniper with the same values as me]

Sniper! 

Sniper's got me in his sights! 

Got a sniper on me! 

[Funky Fresh Idle Filler]

Gotta look after your gear, keep it clean. Out here your weapon is your life. 

The Father keeps all the best stuff for his Chosen. Leaves us the scraps. 

No one is going to take anything from me again. Ever.

The night hides many sins. 

It gets cold at night. 

Even in the dark, they can see ya. 

[Sneeze] [Clear Throat] [Sigh]

[Happy sigh. Like the Blue Jays won another world series recently.] (I shit you not this is how it’s in the script)

I'm not weak. I'm not weak. 

They're gonna pay. 

No mercy. Show no mercy. 

Some say the sun is life. In the cages it brings only death. 

I wasn't sure I'd ever see the sun again. 

[Deep breath] Just smell that fresh air. 

Jacob took me on one of his hunts, only we weren't huntin' any animals. A couple of prisoners had escaped... they didn't get far. I had to help round up the wolves.. you know... to be made into Judges. They were so scared... so scared. I had a dream once that Jacob took me on a hunt. We shot some deer and he asked me to skin them. As I was cutting them open they changed... it wasn't deer. I... I don't think it was a dream.

Good idea to be ready for anythin'. From what I saw Eden's Gate isn't foolin' around.

I was locked down in Jacob's Gate for days. I can't imagine living down there for years. 

Jacob had one thing right. Things are only goin' to get worse and you gotta be ready for it.

[Friendly Fire]

Watch it!

We're on the same side! 

Watch where you point that! 

Do you mind? 

Don't test me!

You trying to kill me?! 

You tryin' to make me angry? 

I wouldn't do that, if I were you.

You doing that on purpose? 

Trying to get me killed?! 

Watch it! 

Be more careful! 

Careful! 

Hey! Watch it!

[DON’T LET HIM USE THE MOUNTED GUN]

Goin' for the machine gun! 

Gonna take the machine gun! 

Cover me I'm going for the machine gun! 

I'm taking the machine gun, cover me! 

Leave the machine gun to me!

[If a friend is down I think, or maybe you, who knows?]

Good lord! 

Jesus! 

God, no! 

Father save us! 

[SO IF STACI KILLS YOU???]

Now who's weak? 

I'm sorry. I really am. 

[Staci death pleas]

Father! Forgive me! 

Oh God oh God! 

[Filler after Staci kills someone AKA post-combat]

Culling the herd. It's just culling the herd. 

Did you see that Jacob? Who's weak now? 

For sure. 

You okay over there? 

You can't let it get to you. 

It.. It'll be okay.  (i love him,,,,,,,,,,)

[Battle Filler!]

They deserve what they get! 

Show no weakness! 

Kill them all! 

Death is too good for them! 

[Reviving]

Going to help! I got 'em! I'll get 'em! I got this! 

Hold on, I got you! Be right there! Don't die on me! 

[You Revive Him! Gold Star!]

It just wasn't my time. Thanks, friend. 

You are a God-send. Thank you. 

You're like my guardian angel. 

[Battle Taunts]

Whatta you gonna do? What, having trouble standing? What's wrong? How do you like it? 

[Staci asking for help]

Oh God! Save me, please!

Oh god, it hurts! Make it stop!

Please, Father. No more!

[If you aim your gun at Stace oh n o]

You don't want to test me.

That's enough.

You wanna see what happens? 

You're not gonna like what comes next... 

You think that scares me after what I've been through? 

Don't be testin' me, Brother. 

Don't push me. Not now. 

I'm warning you. 

I'm not goin' to put up with this, Miss. 

[Staci and Boomer]

You got that dog under control, right? 

Yeah, I'm not sure I'm good with dogs. 

Dogs remind me too much of those damned Judge wolves. 

I don't like the way that dog is looking at me. 

Just keep that dog away from me. 

[Staci and Cheeseburger]

I don't trust bears. 

Keep that thing away from me. 

Bears are dangerous. 

Bears should be in the wild. 

Bears are killers.

[Staci and Peaches]

Now that's a cat.

Big cat.

Big claws on that sucker. 

Nice kitty. 

Beauty coat on that cougar. 

[More Filler, But Longer And Contextual!]

Sometimes it's all just too much...then I remember my purpose. Our purpose. 

Jacob, he's knows everything that I'm thinking. He's got the key to my mind and he twists... and twists... and twists. 

Jacob... he's in control. He controls everything. 

I don't know how much more of this I can take. 

I would've rotted in Jacob's Gate if it wasn't for you. 

Good to see things gettin' back to normal. 

Jacob has got eyes everywhere. He knows your thoughts, before you think 'em. He's inside your head right now. 

Jacob's plan worked. I tried to warn them. I told them not to go back. 

I don't know how much more I can take of this. 

If Jacob gets his way, we're all dead. 

I... I don't know what to think anymore. It's.. it's so hard to keep it straight. 

That goddamn cage, it's like my wires are crossed. 

I can't believe he's really dead. 

No more sacrifices. No more. 

No one can take Jacob on. It's just not possible. 

Jacob's going to win. He always wins. 

Whitetails are honest, decent people. They're fightin' the good fight, and they deserve any success that comes their way. No place is safe, but the Wolf's Den gives you a good chance at livin'. 

Empires fall. The weak.. the world is full of them. They're going to to cull the weak.

I... maybe we shouldn't waste time talking right now.

There's no time. No time!

Jacob... his experiments... he takes us... owns us, speaks to us. He hears us.

They'll find us. They always find people. We gotta leave... before they find us! Before they punish us!

No... keep goin! We move or we die!

Jacob knows. He knows!

You're strong. You're not weak. That's good... good.

I'm alive but I'm weak.. weak. Need to be strong. We are meat. We are all meat.

We could have died. And maybe... maybe I deserved... no, stop, stop! The weak... must be culled!

I... I don't know what we're supposed to do now. Protect and serve? Out here? There's no law anymore, Rook. Look around. Someone should have been here by now. Nobody gives a shit about what's happening here. We're on our own. Survival of the fittest. The weak and strong...

Maybe we didn't survive that crash. Maybe all this is purgatory. We have to atone for all the shit we've done before we can leave this place... we have to suffer before God will grant us salvation.

The whole time I was locked in that room I just kept thinking about how I got here. You know why I became a cop? To get laid. That was it. It was a whim. And then... after awhile, I tried to convince myself that I did it for the greater good. To help people. But I can't. I know that now. Jacob taught me that... I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore... I don't even know who I am.

[STACI DIALOGUE WITH PHIL, THE PEGGIE, IDK]

Stace: I.. I was told to feed the Judges but I didn't know where their food was.

Phil: Jesus, Pratt. Does nothing stick in that brain of yours? Over there, where it's always kept.

Stace: Right! Th..thanks Phil! It won't happen again!

Phil: It better not.

[Also there’s no confirmation this is Staci, but it was right under the above dialogue]

Stace: Hey... I need to get in.

Peggie: Seriously? Didn't I just let you out?

Stace: There's a new prisoner. I got to go get him. For Jacob.

Peggie: Fine. Get goin'. Just leave me the fuck alone.

[chickensarentcheap]

Never Gonna Be Alone

A Tyler Rake/Established Female OC fic

Summary: A lot changes in five years. Now a family of nine, the Rakes are splitting their time between Australia and New York City. With Dhaka nothing but a distant yet still painful memory and the dirty work mostly behind him, Tyler is healthy and thriving. Not only as a husband and father, but as the acting founder and boss of his own mercenary business and co-owner of his wife's well loved and flourishing bookstore. But while love and domestic happiness abound, the past and its secrets are never far behind.

Huge thanks and tons of love to @tragiclyhip​ for never letting me give up! It’s thanks to her I ever actually finished off the last fic, or started this one.  And she also made my incredible banner! <3 <3 <3

Warnings: none

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​, @alievans007​, @innerpaperexpertcloud​, @tragiclyhip​

Prologue

FIVE YEARS LATER

******

The stand sits fifteen feet above ground and wraps halfway around the gnarled and twisted trunk of a centuries old Kapok tree. No hunter has made use of it in years; the stairs leading upwards weakened by harsh weather and neglect, wood cracking and bowing under the soles of well worn combat boots. Despite the added weight of gear and a kevlar utility vest, long legs and a wide stride make it easy to navigate the missing steps. His movements are purposeful and quiet; careful to avoid even the slightest snap of a twig or the rustle of dried and fallen leaves or the scratch of dirt and pebbles against the pitted and fragile wood. Any sound is a detriment in this environment; the lush and dense landscape so eerily still and silent that even a hint of noise would seem deafening. The slightest of movement has the potential to stir up the wildlife, which in turn would draw unwanted attention upwards from the banks of the Mekong River.

Even under the thick and expansive umbrella of the forest the heat is stifling. Humidity oppressive and choking. A thin layer of sweat gathers on his brow; errants droplets burning his eyes and gathering on the ends of his lashes. His shirt -long sleeved to not only provide cover in the jungle but protect from scrapes and cuts and the burn of the sun- nearly soaked right through; darkened patches under the arms and at the small of the back, the fabric clinging to dampened and slick skin. Fine beads settle around his mouth, and when he drops into a crouch at the top of the stand, he swipes his tongue over his top lip in an effort to clear away the sweat. It had been an hour hike through the jungle; moving swiftly and silently as he listened to directions being given through a transmitter he sports in his left ear. It’s sweltering and he’s thirsty; head pounding and his hands begin to tremble as the beginning stages of dehydration begin to settle in. He takes the time to remedy the situation. Shrugging off the rucksack slung over his left shoulder and dropping it onto the floor of the stand; hands shaking yet able to tear open the zipper. There’s two bottles of water packed in amongst the gear; extra pairs of socks in case of treks through swamps and marshes, two full clips of ammo that will only be used if someone on the other side is able to pinpoint his location and launch a full scale and fully armed search.

He hopes it doesn’t come to that.

Downing half a bottle of water, he uses the remains to cool himself down; splashing a handful of the liquid against his face and then dumping the rest over his head. Ten years ago, the elements wouldn’t have bothered him as much; he would have been thirty seven years old and still in relatively good shape. Physically AND mentally. And despite a consistent and punishing routine of heavy lifting, core training, and cardio, he’s definitely feeling the effects of both age and decades of hard and often dangerous living. Knees stiff and aching from the brisk hike over rough terrain and then through mud and thick brush; the arthritis that takes up residence in the small of his back and the right hip making its presence known. He’ll be sore tomorrow; every step he takes will send pain shooting through him, and for the next week he’ll wonder just why the hell he ever said ‘yes’ in the first place. Each stiff movement and slow step and aching muscle will remind him of just how things HAVE changed over the years. Gone are the days when he could skip a few days sleep; able to function on both little rest and minuscule amounts of food and drink. There’s no way he’d be able to do THAT now; push his body to the limits he’d been testing for so long. That man no longer exists. The one that would take the most dangerous and unpredictable jobs in hopes of catching a bullet. Who’d almost pray, beg and plead each and every time he went out that it would be his last; one sniper’s shot away from finally being put out of his miserable existence.

Things changed, of course. When he’d been least expecting them to. There’s way too much to lose now. It’s why every decision he makes now...every movement...matters so much. Even the smallest of mistakes can change the course of the future; one misstep potentially blowing his cover and leading to his untimely -and likely extremely brutal and bloody- demise. An hour away a helicopter waits for him; on standby to whisk him back to Vietnam and that little ‘hole in the wall’ hotel he’d been staying in. A quick shower and he’d back in the air; rushed to the nearest backwoods airport where a private jet would take him home. It’s been four days now; two spent in the planning stages before his first ‘hit’ in Laos and then the trek to Cambodia. Two for the price of one, Anil had said, although money matters very little now. These kinds of gigs are more a service; wiping out the dregs of society more of a gift to humanity than anything else.

He normally doesn’t take on jobs. A total of three in the past five years. This is the fourth AND fifth. The skills and the mindset quickly and effortlessly returning, the first kill a lot easier than he’d thought it would be. It’s like riding a bike; once the gun is in your hand and you’re peering through that scope, your finger easily finds and pulls the trigger. And this job had been impossible to turn down; the dirty and vile details hitting home and preying on his ‘human side’. Anyone in his position as a husband and father would have been enraged and disgusted. Drug runners and weapons smugglers that moonlight in abusing and torturing their wives and exploiting children. Sometimes even their own. People that evil don’t deserve to live; even a bullet between the eyes considered too kind. But it’s all he has time for. No ‘face to face’ meetings. He can’t be seen or even identified by name in order to protect his OWN family. He has to remain a ghost. An urban legend of sorts. Talked and gossiped about in drug circles and even among the local police and military who’d either been paid off by the criminals or had been hopeless and hapless when it came to stopping the activity. Nothing will be known about him. No glimpse of his appearance, no chance to hear his voice or even know his name. He’ll be known for just those ‘lucky shots’ he’d gotten in. Turned in to nothing more than rumours and speculation that will continue spreading long after he’s gone.

***

“T...you there?” Yaz’ voice through the earpiece. The reception is spotty; words broken up by heavy static.

He uses a forearm to wipe the mixture of water and sweat from his face, then lays a finger against the transmitter clipped to his vest. “I’m here.”

“Hot out there today, isn’t it.”

He smirks, then begins pulling pieces of a semi automatic rifle from the confines of the rucksack; hands moving quickly and efficiently as they snap and twist the weapon together. “I don’t want to hear your bitching. You’ve got air conditioning. I’m the one out in this shit.” His voice is low and quiet as he speaks. Even the smallest of sounds can travel great distances; echoing through the jungle and making its way down to the banks of the Mekong.

The river sits fifty yards to the south; muddy and heavily polluted and dotted with boats belonging to local fisherman. One vessel stands out from the crowd. A large and expensive houseboat; the chrome that lines the powerful motor and makes up the railings on the top deck sparkling in the sunlight. His mark is inside; meeting with some of Anil’s people acting under the guise of weapons buyers. When the time is right, the man in question will be led out onto the bottom deck and he’ll have one shot to get the job done. It’s another reason Anil had personally sought him out; his marksmanship impeccable, no other employee coming close to possessing that level of skill.

“You good?” Yaz inquires.

“Yeah…” he snaps the magazine in place and then switches off the safety. “...I’m good.”

“I’ll let you know when there’s movement. Going silent for now.”

He tears off the lid of the second bottle of water and takes a single sip before setting it down; using his sleeve to wipe both the opening and every side of the plastic. He can’t leave any trace of himself behind. Not a drop of sweat or a hint of saliva or his fingerprints. He’ll wipe the stand down before he leaves; methodically cleaning anything he may have come in contact with. IF his location is discovered, money talks. Anyone remotely related to his mark will pay to get answers, and the police will take what’s offered and collect every shred of possible evidence. He can’t take that chance. A single, unattached person may not care. Had he still been the guy living in the rundown and beaten up shack in the outback, he wouldn’t have thought twice about covering his tracks. But lives depend on him. A wife and seven beautiful little humans that count on him to protect them and keep them safe.

He CAN’T fuck this up.

Up in the stand he’s well hidden; camouflaged by the abundance of thick, lush greenery. It’ll be a tough shot through twisted and tangled branches; not even a foot of clearance between wood and leaves. Depending on exactly where his mark is led, he’ll compensate for that; pulling to the right or left in order to prevent the bullet from getting too ‘dirty’. He’s made tougher shots; mostly in his SASR days. And there’s no doubt he’ll make this one.

He bunches up the ruck sack and places it near the edge of the stand, facing the river. He’ll use it as both a ledge and a form of cushioning; balancing the long barrel of the rifle will provide stability and muffle the sound of the shot, disguising where it had originated from. He winces as he gingerly lowers himself onto his stomach; the cracking in his hip and the soreness in both knee and shoulder reminding him that he’s not as young as he used to be. Forty-seven is ancient in mercenary years. Most never make it that far. The odd few get to retire peacefully, but the majority are taken out by a bullet; one too many lapses in judgment and the smallest of errors leading to their deaths.

But most never get to have what he does either. A normal life with a family that loves him ; thousands of miles away, anxiously awaiting his return. It’s why he’s so careful; every decision he makes and every action he takes is done with them at the forefront of his mind. And he thinks about them now; warm and safe in the confines of a townhome in New York City. Four days ago they’d travelled from Australia and he’d promised to meet up with them as soon as the job was finished. It’s their third Christmas there; an eight bedroom brownstone in Gramercy Park. The kids especially enjoy spending the holidays there. Quickly falling in love with the idea of a white Christmas and enjoying all of the outdoor activities; sledding and skating and seeing the tree at Rockefeller Centre and visiting Santa and the reindeer in Central Park. And while life in the Big Apple had never appealed to him, the draw of Gramercy had been impossible to resist. Quiet and quaint; tree lined streets and a private park and neighbours that mind their own business and don’t ask too many questions. He’d initially worried about standing out like a sore thumb; tanned skinned and the array of tattoos and scars and the ‘Down Under’ accent. It turned out to be everything he HADN'T expected. The feeling of small town life within an enormous city.

The back of his hand swipes at the locusts and mosquitos that hover close to his face; their buzzing and humming both tickling and irritating his ears. The right isn’t as good as it used to be; hearing slightly muted and distorted thanks to years of both firing and coming in close contact with weapons. It’s another drawback to getting old. Along with his eyesight. Needing glasses to read or to spend anytime staring at a computer screen.

“They’re on the move.”

He blinks sweat from his eyes and wipes his lips and chin on the sleeve of his shirt. Then he settles in; bending his left leg at the knee and wriggling his stomach against the wood beneath him. The latter is mind over matter; as if the simple movement and the way he presses the toes of boots against the stand will improve both shot and stability. His finger hovers over the trigger; other hand lightly supporting the barrel of the gun, allowing the rucksack to bear the majority of the weight. Anil’s people come out first; identified by the tan linen suits he’d been told they’d be sporting. The ‘Mark’ is a middle aged man, clad in casual attire; olive green cargo shorts and a simple white golf shirt. He’s short and stocky with greying hair and a noticeable limp; a run in with a rival drug crew years ago resulting in the amputation of his leg and the acquisition of a prosthetic device.

His jaw clenches and his lips settle into a thin, pursed line. His heart hammers in his chest and both his shoulders and his chest tighten. It’s adrenaline. That unmistakable rush that comes before an imminent strike. He remembers it well. And it’s both surprising and disheartening how much he’s actually missed it.

As they chatter and laugh, one of Anil’s men places a hand on the Mark’s back and ever so slightly turns the other man in Tyler’s direction. It’s all he needs; just enough of the Mark’s forehead to ensure a ‘kill shot’. And he takes it; the sound slightly muffled but still deafening as it echoes through the jungle and stirs birds from their perches and wildlife from the safety of their nests and dens. The bullet easily tears through layers of leaves and bypasses branches; finding its target and sending the Mark sprawling backwards and then down into a pool of brain matter, fragments of skull, and quickly spreading blood.

“Target’s down.”

The words are simple. To the point. And as chaos erupts down by the river, he calmly begins his retreat; pushing himself up onto his feet and slinging the rifle over his shoulder. There’s no pressing need or rush; Anil’s people have made their quick escape and the screams and shouts are coming from startled fisherman and colleagues of the Mark that had been inside the houseboat. He has time; methodically cleaning every inch of both the stand and the stairs and making sure he’s left nothing behind.

“I’m heading back,” he says, shouldering the ruck sack and taking the stairs two at a time. He’s suddenly anxious to get on his way; feeling the relief that sets in as he begins his hour long trek.

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Not from the success of the mission or the satisfaction that comes with ridding the world of yet another monster. It’s one of happiness. One of peace.

The realization that each step he takes brings him closer to home.

[tanyawritesstories]

Sons of Kamino | An OC story

I wrote this little piece about my OC Clone Battalion and their General just for fun and thought I'd publish it. I'm extremely nervous about posting OC stuff because I don't think it's that good, so please be nice 🥺 I hope y'all like it, if not, I finished writing a sequel to Frozen Miracles that I should have published soon 😊

Word count: 1.7K

Warnings: none just post-Order 66 angst

•••

It was silent. He had never been in a ship that was pure silence. All that could be heard was the whirring of the thrusters and occasional footsteps as one of his brothers got up to walk around. He looked up from the floor for the first time in half an hour, glancing around he saw only pain and anguish. So many of his brothers lay on the floor of the ship in pain. Not all of their pain was physical, in fact most of it was mental. They had all just gone through the biggest betrayal they would ever see in their lives.

The entire army, every single one of their brothers, the Republic they fought for, their own bodies, had betrayed them. They were all still struggling to comprehend it, some doing better than others. He had known about it before it happened, but it was still horrifying to see a brother of his raise his weapon against him. They hadn’t killed anyone, not a single soldier of this battalion had died and for that he was proud, relieved.

Their battalion was one of the best out there. He remembered all the adventures and missions he had gone on, remembered how happy civilians were to see the droids gone and the clone soldiers in their place. The 607th Elite Stealth Battalion. He huffed in amusement. To think that name would never be heard again was haunting. He was brought out of his reminiscing by a tap on his pauldron, he looked up to see their medic looking back at him.

“Are you alright, Commander?” He asked. Concern could be seen in his brown eyes that were a shade lighter than the rest of his brothers. “I’m fine, Chance. Just tired,” he answered, before chuckling, “The war is over, I’m not technically your Commander anymore.” Chance sighed as he looked over his brother. He’d never seen his Commander look so broken and vulnerable before. “I’ll get you a stim, sir,” Chance said, turning around. “No,” he stopped him, “I don’t need one. Save them for everyone else.” The medic sighed again but left to check on the others.

He didn’t feel like their Commander right now, he felt like a failure. The battalion was small, only about 100 men and every single one was on the mend. The chips had been removed and destroyed along with all their comm devices, no one could contact them, the General had made sure of that. They were ghosts right now and that was exactly what they needed to be safe.

He forced himself to look up and take in the sight of his men. He knew every one of their names, it didn’t matter if they were shinies or the first few men in the battalion that had managed to survive the entire war. His eyes landed on his two ARC troopers, Trigger and Ace. They were tough men and amazing soldiers, batch mates and two of the closest troopers he’d ever seen. The two war hardened men sat next to each other hugging, both looked tired and lost. Trigger was the more talkative of the two, loud and boisterous, almost always seen with a smirk on his face and his beloved DC-15LE slung over his back. He was probably one of the best snipers in the GAR with that thing. Ace was more quiet and observative, he preferred to listen and watch. When he did talk, not a single pointless word came out of his mouth. He was just starting to open up a little, finally coming to terms with his sexuality and the fact that he preferred men over women when everything collapsed again.

The medic, Chance, was doing his best to stay strong for his brothers, and for himself. He had confessed a dangerous secret to his Commander two deployments ago. He was surprised to learn that his Commander stood for it as long as it stayed a secret. Chance had a family in progress, he had met a woman on Coruscant almost a year ago and fallen in love with her. He had learned not too long ago that their attempts to have a child were a success, he had a wife and unborn baby he wanted to spend the rest of his days with.

The Commander’s eyes panned over to one of their newest troops. Hotstuff was normally always joking, laughing or flirting with someone. Also, usually a pain in the Commander's ass. Now he sat on the cold floor, head in his hands, stone faced and silent. A few feet away, Arrow sat watching everyone around him, helping where he needed to. He appeared to be the one taking this the best, Arrow was used to trauma. He used to be in the 327th until he was discovered one night by the General of the 607th, tied to a wall, bloody and bruised having just been sexually assaulted. The General had saved his life, killed his abusers, and had him transferred to the 607th after spending a month of recovery in the General’s private apartment in the upper levels of Coruscant.

The Commander sighed again, his head lowering back to the floor of the ship. They’d stolen the ship from the Separatists and were now headed Maker knows where, as far away from the core worlds as possible. He reached up and ran his hand over the shaved sides of his head where he knew the wing tattoos lay on his skin. He had been thinking of growing his hair out in those spots, this would be a perfect time. He wanted to forget who he was.

“Commander Finch!”

He closed his eyes and stood up, looking to see who called him. It was Track, their explosives expert, another usually fun and energetic man who was now drained of energy and enthusiasm.

“What is it, Track?” He asked the man currently jogging towards him. “General Akana wants to speak to you,” Track informed. Finch looked towards the cockpit doors, the General had been locked in there for the past hour, only checking in on them over the ship speakers. He sighed, “thank you, Track.”

Finch made his way to the cockpit door and knocked. “It’s me,” he said softly. He didn’t need to speak loud or specify who he was, his General knew it was him. He heard the door unlock and it slid open, he entered and made sure it closed behind him. He saw the outline of the General against the bright lights of hyperspace. Finch noticed that the autopilot light was on.

“How are they?”

He sighed and walked to stand behind the pilots chair. “How are you?” He asked. “You haven’t come out of here in almost two hours.”

“I’m fine, how are the men? Do they need my help?”

Finch walked closer and swiveled the chair around to face him. The blue lights of stars blurring by cast light on the General’s face. Even in this state, Finch thought she looked beautiful. “The men will be fine. How are you feeling?” Finch knew it was a stupid question, given what she had felt through the Force and the reaction she had when the Order struck.

“I’ll be fine, I knew it was coming,” she said briefly. “Just because you knew it was coming doesn’t make it hurt less,” Finch told her. “I’ll be fine, Finch, trust me. I’ll get through it,” she tried to assure him with a fake smile. She swiveled the chair back to face the controls and aimlessly pressed a few buttons.

“I’ve been your Commander long enough to know when you’re lying,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?” She looked up at him with a sad smile on her face. “No, Finch, you’ve already done more than enough.” He sighed and watched her stare out the viewport, the minimal light letting him see the dried tear stains on her face. “You felt it all, didn’t you? Through the Force,” he questioned. She closed her eyes and he knew he had asked a bad question. When she opened them again he saw the light reflecting off her once again glassy blue eyes, filled with tears.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, turning around to leave. "Wait," she turned around and stood, grabbing his arm to keep him from going. "I'm sorry, I should have told you what was happening when I collapsed," she said, letting go of his arm and blinking back tears.

"It's just...I could almost see that red lightsaber as it cut through his stomach," she was barely able to finish her sentence before breaking down in tears, covering her face with her hands. Her knees gave up and Finch caught her, lowering her slowly to the ground beside him. He just held her in his arms whispering comforting words to her and rubbing her back. She was young and had lost so much, first her parents, then her adoptive mother, then her best friend, and her lover, she was broken.

He knew she’d lost people to the Order by the names she had called out. Kit. Anakin. Cody. Plo. Rex. Jesse. Aayla. Ahsoka. Those were just a few.

Finch held his General until she stopped crying and got up to return to her seat. “Tell the men we’re stopping at Florrum to pick up a few things, then we’ll be heading to Coruscant to rescue Chance’s wife and Zip’s girlfriend,” she informed, her steel stern walls already back in place. “Yes, sir,” he said.

She had promised her men everything, a new life wherever they wanted doing whatever they wanted. Chance was planning to live on a desolate planet and raise a family where the Empire couldn’t reach him. Trigger wanted to become a bounty hunter once everything settled down, most likely Ace would go with him. Zip wanted to marry his girlfriend and become a writer. Neil wanted to try and start a school with Flanker and Nash as teachers. Arrow wanted to start a shelter for victims of sexual abuse. They all had wants and goals, only they looked attainable now that they were free. Finch wanted something too but he was almost certain his wish was unattainable.

He was sure he wasn’t the first clone Commander to fall in love with their General.

He looked down at his hands, the armor covering the back of them engraved with the Republic symbol. This was not his symbol anymore. He was free, not property, he could do what he wanted. He may have been born in a test tube, a clone with millions of look-alikes, but he would always be a soldier. Only now he didn't have a leash.

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Mercenary Chapter 7

Maul x reader

Word Count: 1849

Summary: So Qi’ra exists, and you’re not happy about it.

“Dryden Vos is coming tomorrow to introduce us to his new pet,” Maul informed you as soon as he came storming out of the room that housed his holocom.

Earlier that morning, it had been the incessant ringing of that exact holocom that woke the two of you from a peaceful slumber. It was housed in the room immediately next to your bedroom so no one would be able to eavesdrop without having to go through your private quarters. And no one would live through trying to do that. So already, neither of you was in a good mood.

“Why is his pet our problem?” you complained from your place still lounging on the (admittedly luxurious) bed. Making the bedroom as nice as possible was your top priority after security after returning to the fortress on Dathomir. You were not blind enough to miss the way Maul’s eyes trailed up your form, clearly liking the sight of you lying partially exposed on the blood red, satin sheets.

“Apparently, he sees a future for her. He’s been training her in combat, and she’s proven to be quite bloodthirsty.”

“She’s using him,” you deadpanned. “I know her type. She’ll use him for power until she gets the chance to get rid of him; then she’ll kill him.”

“Which is precisely what I said, but he argued that I haven’t met her so I couldn’t know that. According to him, she is a ‘dancer’ while fighting.”

You giggled a little at the way he rolled his eyes while quoting Dryden. “That doesn’t mean she’s not going to kill him one day.”

“If Dryden is that fooled by her, he deserves his fate. We do not have room in this organization for such idiotic behavior.”

“He wouldn’t be the first to have his brain sucked out through his dick by a woman.”

The zabrak raised a brow. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Yes, I’ve been fucking you for years just to take your place at the head of an organization that I helped you build.”

“Except you fell for my sparkling personality in the process, and hoped that I’d never find out about your original plan, right?”

“Oh, exactly,” you grinned. “Come here,” you demanded, reaching a hand out towards him.

Entertaining you, he offered one of his hands to you as he stepped forward. “Yes?”

“Tell me, did he realize that you were wearing a bathrobe?”

Maul snorted. “No, he believes that I wear dramatic cloaks like he does.”

“If I recall correctly, you used to wear things like that,” you teased.

“That was a long time ago.”

“So was the last time you laid with me.”

“Now, that is a lie considering that I left you less than twenty minutes ago.”

“See? Forever.”

~

The next day saw you and Maul in the central area of the fortress, dressed to impress while waiting for Dryden’s ridiculous ship to arrive. Maul was wearing his usual attire: black clothes fit for combat at any moment, lightsaber hanging from his belt. You were in full armor for the first time since you reclaimed the fortress two months prior. Beskar pieces decorated your right shoulder and left thigh--raided from a Mandalorian settlement long ago--while strong, flexible leathers guarded everywhere else. You prioritized mobility with your armor given your fighting style, so full metal like the Mandalorians wouldn’t do. A staff was strapped across your back along with a sniper rifle, a knife at your calf, and a blaster at your hip. This was to be a show of power to an extent; the object of the presentation showing Qi’ra who was truly in charge.

Every other guard was in standard armor derived from a mixture of old Nightbrother and Mandalorian in looks. The people that worked directly under Maul in the fortress were the most trusted in the entirety of Crimson Dawn, and they were sworn to secrecy about the nature of your relationship with him. Neither Dryden or Qi’ra would be seeing any sort of attachment that could be seen as a weakness today.

“Relax,” Maul muttered under his breath after you shifted for the too-many-ith time. “You’re a professional.”

“Yes, but she isn’t. I don’t like the idea of someone like her claiming the same position I hold; makes it seem less . . .” You couldn’t come up with the word.

“She is the bed-warmer and bodyguard to a figurehead. I would hardly call that the same as your position.”

“There are those that would disagree,” you grumbled.

Finally, the door opened, revealing Dryden Vos and an admittedly beautiful woman you assumed to be Qi’ra. She was dressed to impress, that was sure, in a simple yet stunning dark blue dress that looked completely impractical for any sort of combat. Apparently, she assumed that since they were going to visit Dryden’s boss, protection would be insured. Your eyes narrowed when you noticed how her dark eyes trailed over your lover’s frame.

Foolish. Never trust people you haven’t met, and then still don’t trust them.

“Dryden,” Maul greeted cooly, “and Qi’ra, I assume?”

“That she is, a true marvel wouldn’t you say?” Dryden grinned, clearly proud of his second-in-command.

“Beautiful, I’ll give her that,” you decided. You didn’t miss the way Dryden’s facial markings flushed with his anger, but even he wasn’t bold enough to speak out against you. “Matches the rest of your collection.”

“Excuse me, who are you?” You had to respect the level of control she displayed over her facial expressions. “I’m afraid I’ve heard nothing about either of you.”

“Such caution is the reason any of us are alive,” Maul spoke up, glancing at you over his shoulder. The warning in his gaze was clear: ‘calm down.’

“Darling, this is Lord Maul, the true head of Crimson Dawn. I run the face and keep everything clear with the other Syndicates; he provides the backing we need.” You gritted your teeth at Dryden’s overinflation of his job. “This is his bodyguard, Y/N. She’s been in the position for at least as long as I’ve known him. You’ll probably never see him without her.”

“That’s how bodyguards work,” you muttered.

“And she’s worked for me since the Clone Wars,” Maul informed both of the guests. “You’d do well to respect her, and better to get her to train you. Dryden has mentioned that you’ve been training with him.”

“That would be lovely,” Qi’ra said respectfully. “Perhaps while we are here?”

“That is unlikely,” Maul replied. “Your visit was so short-notice that we couldn’t adjust our schedule accordingly. We are leaving in the morning on a business venture.”

You resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. We don’t have any such plans . . .

“You will stay for dinner, rest here for the night, and be on your way shortly before us.”

“We would love to,” Dryden lied.

Truth be told he and Maul rarely saw eye-to-eye, and it showed at that dinner. While Maul enjoyed decadence in certain areas, Dryden was far too greedy to get along with the zabrak. Dinner was a far more simple affair than any of the parties you had seen on the First Light, you never attended, but you saw the footage for various reasons. The silence was tense. The long table was covered in just enough food for all four of you. You were at Maul’s left hand like always while he was at the head of the table; Dryden was on the end opposite with Qi’ra on his right side.

Telling, was all you could think. If he’s already that comfortable with her, he might be worse off than I thought . . .

Conversation was stilted, but you were hardly surprised. Maul was rarely conversational with other people, so Dryden and Qi’ra entertained themselves by flirting among themselves. As soon as the dinner was over, you and Maul retired to the training room for your nightly sparring session. Feeling particularly malicious, you invited them to watch. The better to show them proof of your prowess.

Once the fight started all thoughts of the onlookers went out the window. The fights were always all-out; neither of you pulled punches, never had. The only thing you were cognizant of was keeping the usual level of flirting through the floor. And based off the split-second glance of Qi’ra’s face you managed to catch while falling, she clearly didn’t expect the zabrak to pull such a cheap move as headbutting you with one of his horns. Dryden apparently wasn’t going full-tilt with her training . . .

By the time you ended the fight (you lost) and called it a night, you were both sporting bloody injuries in various places on top of new bruises. You and Maul escorted the other two to their separate rooms and left them for the night.

“I don’t trust her,” you muttered as you two walked to your rooms.

“You said as much to the idea of her, my dear,” he replied simply. “I didn’t expect you to change your opinion.”

“She’s a presumptuous little snake, and don’t think I missed the way she eyed you up the second she saw you.”

“She would not be stupid enough to try it yet.”

“Yet being the operative word.” You reached the bedroom door. “Goodnight, sir,” you said formally. 

Maul’s brows furrowed, but fortunately he was smart enough to catch on quickly. There’s someone watching, he realized. He now sensed Qi’ra’s presence in the Force far too closely to be her in her room. He was mildly impressed that you noticed when he did not; granted it wasn’t that surprising since he was generally distracted when you were around. “Goodnight. Be ready in the morning.”

Qi’ra frowned. She snuck out of her room as soon as your voices sounded like they’d rounded a corner, hoping to gain more information on the pair of you. Unfortunately, all she learned was your distaste for her was genuine and accurate. She lingered long enough to see if you would do anything after he retired, but you simply crossed your arms and waited. A hard life if she remains here all night. Her exhaustion may be my advantage, was what she thought as she slunk back to her room.

As soon as you heard her door shut in the quiet of the hallway, you snapped your fingers. Instantly, another guard took your place. “Keep an eye out for uninvited eyes,” you ordered quietly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

And then you could finally retire.

Upon entering the bedroom, you were greeted by the sight of your lover lying nude among the freshly changed, black silk sheets. Already, he was dozing, giving you ample time to enjoy the site of him relaxed and beautiful in a way he rarely was. As quietly as you could, you stripped down yourself and crawled onto the bed with him. He roused enough to share a sleepy kiss when you pulled the sheet over both of your bodies, but otherwise remained asleep. While you were not content with the whole guests situation, you were more than content with your position and quickly drifted off yourself.

[katcadecascade]

New Qrow fic WIP

It’s a bit of a character study but mostly RWBY/JNOR/more doing shenanigans.

The only problem, I can’t think of a name for this fic.

Anyway here, Chapter One/Round One: Throwing Down the Gauntlet

Blake will admit, she’s a sucker for romance.

How could she not be?

In a world where morbid emotions attract monsters, where injustice breeds from hatred of culture and birth traits, something as simple and layered as love is beautiful and strong and can power people through their darkest moments but also bring them to their knees.

She should say she just learned this all from her books but honestly in the last year or so, Blake has certainly lived through some crazy shit.

But let’s not get into that right now.

Sure her tale begins with her people’s suffering, her parent’s pacifism, a poor boy’s spite, and her own frightful shadows. She could go write to great lengths on how the journey gained her treasured friends, bonds forged through fire, and how it lead them to the coldest place of the north.

That’s where this game begins.

Yes a game indeed or maybe a war by the sharpness in the Valkyrie’s eyes or the telltale song notes of glyphs charging up.

It began with a series of events that piqued the interest of the eight (and later on more) charges under the wings of Qrow Branwen.

The first thing they noticed took place on their very first night in Atlas, where one General James Ironwood hugged the scythe master. The two thought they were alone but the nieces back tracked to get their uncle.

While they made the wise decision to leave the men alone, the girls immediately blurted their findings to the rest of their friends.

Their reactions were of surprise and cooing but it only trigger their radars to look out for more of these moments. None of them could recall ever seeing Qrow be so vulnerable with anyone else. Granted they didn’t spend the most time with him but even Yang and Ruby were caught off guard.

This was their uncle so ultimately this was under Yang’s and Ruby’s discretion or wonderment.

That didn’t stop the rest of them from being curious to see what else will happen between Qrow and Ironwood.

Small and subtle were the ways of the General, lingering eyes or the quietly inviting the huntsman into his office. Ruby’s sniper skills were used for observations like these. Her skills in stealth could’ve been better to muffle her cooing.

Things were going steady, slowly seeing the man underneath the steel. Maybe then the kids could decide to trust him with the truth from the Lamp. Not that Qrow’s compromised in anyway, but seeing this spark between them certainly helps the kids trust the general a little bit more.

James Ironwood appeared to be able to offer up his heart to Qrow.

So imagine their surprise when Clover Ebi entered the game.

There’s that word again: game.

It’s a little immature to describe it as so but Blake couldn’t think of any other word.

Blake and the others keep noticing certain events focused on Qrow, usually engaged by one man or the other.

Small side glances, a brushing of hands, coffee treats and many more that can be listed as intimate or thoughtful or purposeful. Although, Clover’s flirting are rather forward. Most importantly, Qrow’s happiness is the growing outcome.

And pray tell what game is this? Where two men woo a common thread that is slowly becoming enamored by these actions?

A courting game.

Hands slam down on the kitchen table. “Everyone, place your bets!”

“We are so not betting on this!” Weiss crossed her arms, perfectly poised and unmoved.

“Come on,” Nora whined, “There’s nothing else to do here.”

“Aside from doing our jobs and brainstorming how to save the world?”

“All I’m saying is that we need a break from all the seriousness and focus on Team Dad.”

On the couches, only Blake noticed the resident nieces share a glance. They don’t argue against their uncle’s title, instead they quirk their lips in a knowing look.

(Blake later understands their silent exchanges when a game changer occurs)

“Nora’s right,” Jaune agreed, “and I usually never want to say that.”

“Hey!”

“You’re the one who broke the coffee machine by trying to fix it,” Oscar pointed out. Behind him said device has a despairing groan.

Ruby follows up, “And then got the rest of us blaming each other for it.”

“Enough, enough,” the redhead shouted, “We’re getting off track!”

“We are not conspiring on Qrow’s love life!” Weiss proclaimed.

“She’s right,” Ren said with the composure of a sage, highlighted as he sipped his tea, “There’s no need to.”

Yang raised an eyebrow, both curious and surprised, “What do you mean?”

Everyone waited for their resident ninja to finish another long drink, for dramatic effect Blake must note.

Then simply enough, he answers, “Qrow would fall for the General.”

That was clearly not the answer Nora wanted.

She’s a sputtering mess while next to her, Weiss holds her head high.

“Thank you, someone else sees my point,” the ex-heiress nods.

Sharpness in Jaune’s voice catches her off guard, “Your point? You think Ironwood’s gonna get with Qrow?”

“Is it not obvious?”

Nora butts in, a strange tension in her shoulders, “Sure yeah but look at Clover!”

Her team leader listed off, “They’re mission partners but also hanging around each off in their downtime.”

“Yes,” Nora nods enthusiastically, “Just like Jaune with Marrow.”

“H-hey wait-“

“You haven’t seen Qrow with James alone though.”

Again, everyone is quiet as they stare down their resident cute wizard boy.

Oscar squirms a little under the attention, backtracking, “Oh, um, I only mean um I would see them right before James tutors me? And Qrow would sometimes be there too and,” he sighs heavily, “honestly it’s like my aunt’s romance novels.”

Blake immediately guesses the classic tropes of longing, quiet vulnerability, trust and intimacy. She doesn’t voice her thoughts. No need since Weiss happily regales her own findings.

“Winter says that she’s never seen Ironwood so relaxed before. Sure she’s a little teed that it was Qrow’s doing but the results are still good.”

“But what about Qrow’s ‘results’ when he’s with Clover,” Nora argued.

Ruby does her little head shake, musing over her thoughts, “He is a lot calmer or relaxed.”

Nora cackles at the fuming Weiss, affronted at her girlfriend not on her side.

That’s rectified as Ruby taps her chin, scholarly and not noticing Weiss’ heat, “Although he is a lot more teasing around Ironwood.”

“See!” Weiss grins as if this is victory. Her current rival is unbothered.

“He’s the same with Clover,” Nora counters and honestly Weiss can’t possibly argue with that.

Too many times have the kids witness Qrow becoming a bumbling, blushing mess when Clover compliments him. There’s so much bi/gay tension there to even think of denying.

“Qrow must be taking his time then,” Blake voiced. “With both Ironwood and Clover, maybe he’s a bit overwhelmed.”

Next to her, Yang sighs, “Knowing him, he might not realize what’s going on unless someone tells him.”

“Or he’s aware of all of this happening and dismisses it as something that can’t actually happen to him,” Jaune painfully accurately describes as what is probably going on.

This type of denial of happiness, this consuming pit of numbness and pain, people who loved and lost and felt guilty for even loving and losing need to be told they’re deserving of love.

Maybe Jaune’s speaking for himself or maybe Blake’s interpreting for her own experiences.

But one shared glance with the knight confirms her thoughts. Qrow must have talked to him too about this type of grief.

The blame and the guilt and the responsibility of losing someone, be it person of goodness or of spite, it’s a heavy feeling that Blake, Jaune, Qrow and possible the others too have carry.

So while the huntsman tries to assure the two kids of their grievances, there hasn’t been an opportune time to ask how he’s coping. As the young adults under his care, they all worry about him, especially his nieces. At first he was the mysteriously cool uncle as proclaimed by Ruby and later on the secretive and paranoid uncle explained by Yang but in their shared time together, each kid gotten to know the crow by their own definitions.

It’s like that little thing Blake does, associate a word with a person.

She told Sun about her girls, Earnest, Defiance, and Strength.

Then there’s team JNPR, Tenacity for Jaune, Zestful for Nora, Ascendancy for Pyrrha and Acuity for Ren. It took some time but eventually Oscar became Perseverance.

As for Qrow, well, she jokingly thought Mother Hen but now she’s satisfied to call him Memory.

It’s mostly because of all the Muninn parallels but there is just so much history behind Qrow Branwen. Carried in the creak in his bones, dips in his scars, the grey of his feathery hair, the surprise in his laughs, like he’s relearning how it is to walk with ghosts and angels.

So yeah, Blake sometimes worries about him and then she and Weiss worry about Ruby and Yang getting worried too.

But maybe there’s no need to.

From the soft gazes he sets on James and Clover, maybe they’re the ones making sure their Team Dad/Uncle is doing okay.

Now if only Qrow’s love life can move to the next stage.

Their conversation during breakfast was more than enough as food for thought, analyzing everything they know of Qrow Branwen and how he interacts with two men in particular.

Early mission meetings are obviously designated Clover Flirting Time as they get to their seats.

“I wouldn’t mind having another match with you,” Clover said casually as if it didn’t take weeks of near begging for a one on one fight.

“Really? You enjoy falling on your ass that much, lucky charm?”

“Sure do,” Clover slides close, letting his hip press against Qrow’s. “But I like seeing you down on the mats just as much.”

That flirt was meant to be whispered, low and teasing and it definitely sends a blush down Qrow’s neck. It’s a real shame that Blake has an extra set of ears to hear this.

Then from the sight of Marrow almost choking on his coffee, he probably heard it too.

The dog faunus and the cat faunus exchange silent misery.

“Ooh, another match?” Nora, being her glorious self, pops right at Qrow’s side and the two men nearly jump. “Hah, that’s a bit boring by now.”

Clover raises a brow, slightly wary and challenged, “Boring?”

Nora nods her head as Ren-like as possible, “Yep, I mean, training doesn’t have to be combat does it?”

Qrow blinks at her, and so does her teammates because hey, this is Nora complaining about combat training. “Nora, you got something else in mind?”

This encouragement, openness and trust, Blake wouldn’t have noticed it before but Qrow has been putting a lot more faith in them since Argus. It’s really nice to have an adult take them seriously. Then again this is Qrow. He encouraged Yang and Jaune to start a prank war.

Their resident lightning in a bottle had a million volt grin, “Parkour and freerunning! We all saw the Ops jumping around in the mines and that time Qrow and Winter destroyed the campus.”

“Miss Valkyrie,” hissed the ice queen, “I advise you to refrain from telling that anecdote.”

“What, feeling sore since you lost?” Qrow grinned.

“I did not lose, Qrow,” she glared, “it was clearly a stalemate.”

“Wow, now I’m really curious,” Clover said.

“I’ll tell you all about it then,” Qrow winked, “like how I clearly would’ve won.”

Next to Nora, Jaune added in, “There was a recording of it going around campus, like from the moment Qrow bushed back his bangs to the end where the General stopped the fight.”

To Blake, it’s a little odd to see Jaune gush about this since majority of them choose to ignore the usually mushiness of Clover Flirting Time. But then she notice the way Jaune subtly elbowed his teammate.

“Brush your bangs?” Clover’s focus on that little detail had him reach over to do said action, “Huh, you don’t look that intimidating like this.”

Like this, as they all observe, is Qrow blushing madly at the close contact and gentle action, the way Clover’s fingers glided through his dark hair like water.

Oblivious to the two men, everyone else in the room saw Jaune and Nora fist bump each other. They don’t even hide their smugness. No they toss it over at Weiss and Ren.

Ren is slightly alarmed.

Their resident ice princess on the other hand is silently fuming.

Like Blake mentioned before, this is a game.

It may be petty, invasive, and a tad immoral.

And yet it has begun.

-

So yeah, I need fic title suggestions and ideas

pls

[arcadianambivalence]

World on Fire, Episode 4, or How We React to “Normal” in a Crisis

Spring 1940

Months have passed since the last episode, and characters have had time to steady their nerves.  Kasia’s previous reservations about killing Germans is largely gone, Lois has decided to have the baby and not involve Harry in her life, Webster and Albert have resolved to stay together, and Nancy has repeatedly tried to sneak her discoveries into her broadcasts (or to smuggle her research out of Germany) despite blackmail.  

Other characters have started to lose their determination.  Claudia and Uwe’s marriage is falling apart over their differing ideas about how to protect Hilde, Harry is struggling with his responsibilities in combat, and Grzegorz is grappling with his empathy and endurance.

(More under the cut)

The Winter of 1939 – 1940 has ended, and with it, the illusion of peace for Western Europe.  Stationed in Belgium, Harry’s group retreats closer and closer to the French border as the German army arrives with far more resources.  

Meanwhile, the American hospital in Paris receives wounded soldiers from the front.  Refugees fleeing the war need attention too, like a Jewish emigree couple attacked by Anti-Semites, much like Albert was attacked by fascists in the first episode.  Henriette, a nurse and Webster’s friend, confides in him that she is Jewish and had hidden that fact when she applied for work at the hospital.  

Albert and Webster count their days left together.  Webster is happy just to be with him, but Alfred is afraid of being seen.  They’ve been together for half a year, and the closest Alfred can get to public displays of affection is a brief kiss after a furtive look around.  The reasons for this become all too clear when they return to his apartment to find a swastika on the door and a severed pig’s head on the doorstep.  

“I’ll never be safe anywhere in this world,” he tells Webster.  “People have got plenty choice of what they might hate me for.”

(I would like to take a moment and appreciate this show for pointing out the fascist movements and rising acts of intolerance all over Europe in the late 1930s and 1940.  This is especially visible in the Paris subplot, drawing attention to the wide swath of cultures in the city without entirely romanticizing it as a place of absolute refuge from prejudice.  It makes me think the show is laying the foundation for exploring Occupied France and Vichy France next season...)

The German gains in the invasion bring new worry to the Rosslers.  “The better the war goes, the worse for Hilde,” Claudia says.  Uwe is not happy that Nancy and Claudia continue to meet.  Claudia discovers Uwe has registered as a Nazi to cover the family after his conversation with the workers last episode.  She is horrified, and the two have a big argument with Nancy uncomfortably caught in the middle.  “The Nazis are going to win,” Uwe says.  They must appear to be on their side.

Claudia refuses to take the same course of action.  She brings Hilde to Nancy to say goodbye, perhaps permanently.  Mother and daughter will be staying in a little cabin far away from the city and its watchful denouncers.  

Uwe will not be joining them.

Nancy gifts Claudia a bottle of spirits and Hilde American candy, then asks them to listen to her radio show and toast to a better future.

The way Nancy makes sure to place her hand firmly over Claudia’s hurts.

Douglas has concern for his own children’s safety.  Tom returns home on leave and confesses that he is thinking about deserting and becoming an official conscientious objector.  His father has reservations.  Tom could be executed for desertion, and then there are the political ramifications of a pacifist letting his own son into the movement.  Hurt and betrayed, Tom leaves home as if he does not plan on returning.

Things fare little better between Douglas and Lois.  Although Lois adamantly states that she does not want Harry or his mother involved in her life anymore, Douglas tells Robina that Lois is pregnant in the hopes that Robina’s sense of social (and financial) duty to her grandson will override any qualms about class. 

(The cautious back-and-forth between Douglas and Robina is great, as always, and if Harry and Lois don’t get back together, can their parents have something?)

In the middle of these life-changing historical events, characters continue to talk about relationships and their social lives.  Lois can’t bring herself to sing one night because she’s heartsick over the realization that her feelings for Harry was a love for a person that never truly existed.  Robina and Douglas still have small talk while the latter spoons cubes of sugar into his tea.  Stan teases Harry for his two girls back home.  Thomasz and Kasia’s interactions are sweet when they get to act like two young adults who aren’t in an occupied country with their lives at risk every minute...then they casually discuss killing a soldier like it’s a fact of life.  

Moments like this feel like a kick in the teeth.  

On one hand, you could argue that the characters are too blasé about the killings and the risks involved.  At one point, Thomasz arrives late to a rendezvous and gives “There was a round-up” as his explanation, almost as if it’s a regular occurrence.  On the other hand, wouldn’t it have been?  Poland had been occupied for half a year by this point, and maybe Robina was right last episode (to a degree), you do get used to it...or at least, you continue to live alongside it.

All characters undergo a great change in this series, but it’s still startling to see how they react to their circumstances, especially when their reactions are so different from who they were before or how we expected them to be.  

Kasia, Harry, and Grzegorz are all placed in perilous situations that ultimately lead to the decision of whether or not to take someone’s life.  

Kasia lures an SS officer to a secluded part of town with the expectation that Thomasz will kill him, but when Thomasz has not arrived and the officer starts to go too far, Kasia draws a gun from her purse and kills him.  In retaliation for the death of an officer, a new raid is carried out, leading Kasia to come face-to-face with the family of an innocent woman executed for what she did.  

The moral quandary in her storyline returns: if killing the enemy results in the death of innocents, do you kill the enemy?

When Harry kills the German sniper, he does it to save his own life, but he also does it to save the lives of the men in his troop.  It is one of the few sequences in this show that has the kind of heroics expected of war depictions.  But what could in other hands be cathartic violence against non-character antagonists in battle is undercut by Harry’s emotional reaction after the skirmish and the way he freezes at the beginning of the conflict.  

He’s not calm-under-fire war hero of fiction, but he’s not exactly a romantic hero, either.  Yes, he is the romantic lead of the show, but unlike last episode, he spends his few moments of quiet dealing with his deep-seated familial issues brought out by his powerlessness.

On the run from a death squad, Grzegorz holds a German soldier at gunpoint. The soldier, barely an adult and crying in fear, lowers his jammed weapon.  But instead of killing the soldier like Kasia and Harry do, Grzegorz offers his hand.  Despite all of the atrocities he has witnessed in the past year: his father’s death, people burned alive in Danzig, narrowly escaping execution, the massacre on the farm, the starvation and sleeping in the woods...and there is still a kind little boy thrown into something much bigger and meaner than he is underneath the exhaustion and self-preservation.  

It’s Konrad who kills the soldier, to Grzegorz’s horror.

“I killed one German, just like a German killed your dad.” “Not that German.”

The landscape of the woods around them changes.  Snow dusted ground gives way to moss and mud.  A spring fog cloaks their journey.  And just as the natural landscape subtly changes, so does their luck.

The two stumble across a troop of British soldiers (wait, where are they?) and quickly join the men.  Their relief is short-lived, though, and they are soon back in combat.  Konrad is shot through the head.  

In order to air with a certain rating, World on Fire has to clean up some of the images of violence.  You don’t see blood spurt out of people when they’re shot.  The scenes of death are not drawn out. 

But the image of Konrad, dead before he hits the ground, blood covering face, with a stunned Grzegorz kneeling over him shocked me.

When Grzegorz grieves, the loss of his family comes out, too, for his father Stefan and father figure Konrad.

In Grzegorz’s final scene, he stumbles through a forest, the British soldiers long gone.  Spring is here and beautiful, the snow has melted away, the birds are chirping, and green has returned to the Earth.  Grzegorz seems unaware of the world around him, only the journey ahead in the middle of anywhere and nowhere.

Spoiler

The next episode’s promo places him on a beach.  Is he transported out of Poland by a ship on the Baltic sea?  Or are we supposed to believe Grzegorz and Konrad have spent all winter and spring walking through Poland, Denmark, Germany, the Netherlands, Belgium, and finally into France?

Notes

Konrad calls Grzegorz son...

After a disastrous cup of tea with Douglas, Robina makes sure to pay for the both of their orders before leaving

Tom brings the canary home, a visual connector between Jan and his bird in the pilot and Tom now

When Kasia breaks the news to the Polish family of the executed woman, Thomasz notices a German officer kissing a Polish woman next door, which indicates that not all Poles consider Germans the same way they do (and raises the threat of someone recognizing them later)

Robina casually mentions the newly-appointed Churchill to see Douglas’s reaction

[nitewrighter]

idk if you’re still taking the winter/holiday prompts but if you are how bout a 15 spiderbyte uwu

15. “You Clean Up Nice”

This fic also references my old Spiderbyte ficlet “Touching the Ground.”

—

In Talon, one had to be used to one’s coworker’s popping out of nowhere. Between Moira’s fade, Reaper’s shadowstep and wraith form, Sigma not even making footsteps, Widowmaker’s silent, slinking gait, and Sombra being, well, Sombra, Doomfist was used to being pretty much the only one people could hear coming–which he didn’t mind, of course. He made a point of turning heads when he entered a room, but he didn’t bat an eye when Sombra materialized in his office in a burst of pixels. 

“Hey. I need your help with something.”

Doomfist didn’t even glance up from his tablet. “We brought you on this team with your insistence on your own independence in your work,” he said, sipping his espresso.

“It’s only semi-work related,” said Sombra, “You know this stuff better than me.”

Akande would be lying if he said he didn’t find pleasure hearing that sentence coming out of Sombra’s mouth. He glanced up from his tablet to see Sombra projecting two purple-tinted screens over her outstretched palms, each screen displaying a dress. Both were perfectly decent dresses, on the left, a cocktail dress of opaque pink silk in origami-esque folds with black sequins starbursting out from a black sequined belt at the waist cut a few inches above the knee, the other a lavender tulle confection of equal shortness. 

“Is this for the New Ye–” Akande started

“It’s for the New Year’s party,” said Sombra, shoving the two screens forward a bit more insistently.

“Pink,” said Doomfist glancing back down at his tablet, “The lavender one runs a bit too close to ‘loofah’ territory.”

“I knew it,” Sombra hissed under her breath, her brow furrowing as she waved the screen with the lavender dress on it out of existence.

“I find it amusing that one who makes a point of getting in and out unseen would be so concerned with her–”

Sombra disappeared in another purple pixelated flash.

“…appearance,” said Akande before sighing a little and sipping his espresso.

He choked on that sip as Sombra suddenly reappeared in another flash. “One last thing,” she said, presenting two new screens now displaying two different shoes. “Pumps or strappy?”

Akande coughed on his coffee, “Pumps,” he managed, his voice hoarse.

“I knew it,” Sombra hissed again before disappearing.

Akande slumped back in his seat, set his espresso cup down, then started rifling through his desk for his heavily dog-eared and highlighted paperback copy of Managing the Unmanageable (47th Edition).

–3 Weeks Later–

Maximilien really did like his ‘Statement Parties.’ A skyscraper-top party in New York was daring, even by Talon’s standards. Widowmaker stood out in the cold, outside of the crystalline viewing room where most of the party had amassed out of the cold. Strands of her hair loosened by dancing and drink and wind rippled and wafted about her face and collarbones. The light pollution of the city turned the sky the color of dirty steel as snow flurries fluttered down. It was freezing, supposedly. The skyscraper they were in was high enough for them to see the big gaudy ball ready to drop and hear the din of the crowd below. 

“Hoo!” she heard a voice behind her and glancd over her shoulder to see Sombra stepping out of the viewing room, holding two cocktail glasses and clearly flinching in the wind, “You really mean that ‘I don’t even feel the cold’ stuff, don’t you?”

“…You dressed up,” said Widowmaker, arching an eyebrow.

“I dressed up,” said Sombra, turning around demonstrably, “All by myself.”

“Akande helped,” said Widowmaker, smirking a little.

“…Akande helped,” Sombra admitted, stepping up alongside her, “Here take this.” She held out one of the cocktail glasses to her, filled with a what looked to be a cosmopolitan garnished with a curled orange peel and gold edible glitter. Widowmaker took it.

“I’d say it would warm you up but… y’know,” said Sombra with a grin and a shrug.

Widowmaker just smiled and sipped it. “You look good,” she said after a few beats.

“Really!?” Sombra’s face lit up then she tried to play it off coolly, “I mean… I know.”

“No toe-leggings,” said Widowmaker with a wry grin.

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” said Sombra, looking down at her pumps, “I danced for like, two songs in these things and they’re already killing me.”

“You danced?” said Widowmaker.

“I’m a good dancer!” said Sombra. She kicked off her pumps and her shoulders bunched up with the cold as her bare feet touched the concrete of the roof. “Hoo! Cold!” she sipped her drink. Widowmaker looked at Sombra’s bare feet against the concrete. She remembered tossing her shoes off the night she and Gérard first met, the way he let her lean on him as she toed them back on before heading back into whatever party they were just in. Unconsciously,  Widowmaker languidly brought an arm around Sombra.

“…no offense, but you’re not that much warmer, Araña,” said Sombra.

“Consider me a windbreak,” said Widowmaker.

“I can live with that,” said Sombra, leaning against her a little more. Widowmaker’s own shoulders bunched up as she felt something tickle up the back of her sheer black stockinged leg, and glanced down to see Sombra was mindlessly playing footsie up her calf. Sombra’s own expression wasn’t at her–Sombra’s purple neural implants were glowing slightly as they did when she was deep in thought, but Sombra wasn’t looking to her for a reaction. Obviously she was a few drinks in, to be expected on New Years–not gone, but the defenses lowered–enough for her to ignore the cold this long, anyway. This wasn’t one of Sombra’s games, it was a mindless intimacy that frankly bewildered Widowmaker. She didn’t flinch away from it. She didn’t want Sombra to stop.

There was the blast of an airhorn and cheering from streets below and both of them glanced down. Not too long until the ball dropped now. “Always roofs with us, huh?” said Sombra.“How many cities have we been in where we haven’t touched the ground?”

“You’ve asked that before,” said Widowmaker, sipping her drink.

“And the answer is ‘too many,’“ said Sombra, ��So let’s fix that before I get shot again.”

“…Don’t joke about that,” the words fell out of Widowmaker on instinct.

“I’m fine, you know,” said Sombra.

“You represent too much of Talon’s intel network to joke about it,” said Widowmaker a bit stiffly.

Sombra just made a ‘never mind’ expression, glanced off, and sipped her drink. 

“You sure you don’t want to see things on the street level?” said Sombra.

“More of this cold? Loud crowds?” said Widowmaker, “Cheap beer being sloshed on you? Vomit on your nice high heels?”

“Those heels deserve it for killing my feet,” said Sombra, grinning, then she shrugged, “But… can’t argue with sniper logic. Can’t argue with the view either.” Sombra sipped her drink again and looked at the Times square ball.

“It… is beautiful,” said Widowmaker, looking out over the city.”

“Any resolutions?” said Sombra.

“Talon made me perfect,” Widowmaker said on reflex and then she seemed genuinely perplexed by her own statement. She sipped her drink and looked down, thinking for a few moments, “I… I used to read more,” she said, “I liked it. It was… relaxing. I don’t know why I don’t read like I used to.”

It’s because Talon shut down those neural pathways so you literally can’t be bothered to, thought Sombra, but she sipped her drink and said nothing. She wondered if all the time Amélie used to spend reading was being used to put Widowmaker in suspended animation now. The thought depressed her.

“I’m going to read more,” said Widowmaker, firmly, “A book a month. That is my resolution. What’s yours?” 

“I’m going to eat better,” Sombra said a little sullenly.

“…really?” said Widowmaker, “You look fine though.”

“Yeah but… I forget to eat, or I eat crappy food, and then Moira goes on about the neural implants doing some shit to my metabolism, and whenever I stand up too fast and get lightheaded I just… I feel her near, you know? Like she can’t wait to inject me with something horrible that will ‘solve all my problems.’ So I gotta solve those problems first. Which means… eating food. Apples and carrots and whatever.”

“A noble cause,” said Widowmaker, smiling a little.

“15!” the call suddenly thrummed up from the crowd below, “14! 13!”

“Oh mierda– it’s happening–” said Sombra, looking over at the ball. They could hear the crowd of Talon and Talon shell company executives count down from within the viewing room as well.

“5! 4!” 

Sombra quickly knocked back the last of her drink and Widowmaker did the same.

“3! 2! 1! HAPPY NEW YEAR!” The city seemed to throb with the words and Sombra whooped, sticking her empty cocktail glass high in the air.

“FELIZ AÑO NUE–mm–” Sombra was cut off as Widowmaker cupped her face in her hands and kissed her, hard. Hard enough to be a ‘Okay you’re a few drinks in’ kiss, but not so hard as to be unenjoyable. Sombra leaned into it and the cheers from the crowd below and the pop of fireworks above turned to a hum around her before Widowmaker broke away.

“Happy New Year,” said Widowmaker, her breath fogging a little.

Should her breath be fogging? thought Sombra, Or did she just rob me of some body heat?

“Y-you too,” Sombra said a little breathlessly.