#and what if the whole world ends in fire and ash before we even see the end of October.

[fortes-fortuna-iogurtum]

*sigh*

[scuderiahoney]

Every Second

charles leclerc x reader

masterlist

summary: the world is ending. you’re right where you belong. 2.6k words

warnings: major character death (apocalypse au, everyone dies), charles & reader have a daughter, talks of death/afterlife/end of the world, it’s mostly sad not gonna lie

a/n: had this idea a LONG time ago, finally finished it today. loosely based on the music video for Older by 5SOS. see also: Till Forever Falls Apart by Ashe & FINNEAS and I Know The End by Phoebe Bridgers. you get the vibes.

The world is on fire.

For once, you mean that literally. You’ve been saying it for years, in reference to politics and pollution and the general temperature of the planet. But now, the world is literally on fire.

Charles is pacing laps around the whole apartment. He’s unable to sit still, even now. The tv is on, the volume low, photos flashing by on the screens. There’s a countdown, ticking along at the bottom of the newscast, telling you exactly how many minutes you have left before the whole thing falls apart. You’re not sure how they seem to know. You won’t take the time to find out.

The next time Charles walks by you, you reach out and grab the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He stops in his tracks, and your fingers brush against his skin. He doesn’t look at you, hasn’t for hours. He stared at the ceiling, now. He’s angry, you can tell. It’s eating him up inside.

“Amour,” you say, calmly, quietly. “You will wear a path in the carpet.”

The irony of what you’ve just said doesn’t hit you until he lets out a bitter laugh. You realize, then, that by tomorrow there will be no carpet. There will be nobody to see the path he’s worn. Everything around you will cease to exist.

It’s funny, the end of the world. It doesn’t feel like you thought it would, though you’re not sure you spent much time devoted to the thought. You had worries, sure, but they always seemed so distant.

“We should wake her,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “I want… every second.”

“Okay,” you agree. “Okay, I’ll get her.”

“No. Not- I’ll go with you,” he says, twisting his hand to grab yours, then repeating, “I want every second.”

You stand up from the couch. He keeps your hands linked as he follows you to your daughter’s room. She’s asleep in the crib, barely one year old, head full of dark curls and a smile that bears his dimples. She looks peaceful. For a moment, you hate to disturb her. It’s the last time you’ll pull her from her crib. You understand, now, why he wanted to come with.

Charles walks over, reaches in with one arm, and scoops her up. It’s only then that his eyes meet yours, as he cradles her to his chest. The two of them make such a perfect picture. You’ve seen it before, after races when he’s tired and sweaty but always wanting to hold her, when he gets back from long trips and she clings to him for hours, when he gets her up in the morning and brings her to your room to wake you up.

He swallows tightly as she shifts in his arm, pressing her tiny round cheek to his neck. You tug on his hand, lead him back out to the living room. He squeezes so hard you think your fingers might fall off.

It won’t be long now before your daughter is fully awake. She’s already beginning to wiggle slightly, her eyelids fluttering. You don’t dare to try and let go of Charles, but you head for the kitchen and start warming up a bottle for her.

It’s what you’d do any day. It’s odd, because the apocalypse is breathing down your neck but your baby still needs to be fed. Other things, you’ve chosen to neglect- the trash will stay in the overflowing can in the kitchen. The mail will go unopened, bills unpaid. There’s a layer of dust on the fireplace mantle that will stay there until the mantle itself ceases to exist. You warm up your daughter’s bottle, though, and try to listen to the sound of the microwave instead of the sound of your husband’s crying.

She’s awake, now, and tugging at your hair with tiny fingers. Charles untangles your hands and wraps his arm around your waist instead, uses it to pull you into his chest. His grip is so tight it would almost be claustrophobic on any other day. Today, if you could melt yourself into one person with him, you would.

The microwave beeps, and you both jump. You grab the bottle, turn to your husband, your daughter. She’s yawning, her head on his chest, her hand still caught in your hair. She doesn’t know. She won’t ever know. There are so many things she won’t get to learn. You’ve dreamt of this your whole life- of love, a family, people to call your own and a home to spend your life in with them. In the end, your time has been so short lived. There are only so many minutes left. The clock on the TV counts down, and your chest aches with every second. You will lose them today.

Charles seems to sense your train of thought. He leads you back to the couch in the living room. He half sits, half lays with your daughter, legs up on the sofa, and holds his other arm out for you. She’s beginning to fuss, because she’s hungry- the most simple of human predicaments. When you sit down, he pulls you into his chest, to face him, your back to the tv. Even on the last day, he will try to shelter you. He curls his arms around you and your daughter while you hold the bottle to her mouth.

“My girls,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “My beautiful girls.”

You’d thought, when you had gotten pregnant, that Charles would want it to be a boy. A mini him, someone to teach karting and racing and follow in his footsteps. But before you even found out, he’d been insistent it was a girl, that she was going to be just like you, that he was going to be wrapped around her finger, same as he was around yours. And when she was born, his dark hair and your eyes and the tiniest fingers you’d ever seen, Charles had bawled his eyes out, holding her in his arms, pressing sweet kisses to your forehead.

He’d been so excited, told you all of his plans. There’d been days on the boat with her, days in the water, days at races with giant headphones to protect her ears. Her father had doted on her and loved her, had talked about her every chance he got. She was going to grow up with all the love the world could possibly have to offer and then some, surrounded by it, bathed in it.

It’s not fair. You’ve had years to live, you’ve gotten to be your own person, but she’ll never get that chance. You suddenly feel short of breath, chest tight, heart racing. Charles feels it and wraps his arm tighter around you. You stare at your daughter’s face, her tiny eyelashes, the little slope of her nose. She deserves so much more time. You rub your finger over her cheek as she drinks the bottle.

“S’not fair,” you mutter, blinking back tears.

“I know,” he says, murmuring the words against your forehead. “It’s not.”

There’s so much more you could say, but the words won’t come. How do you put that into words? The terrifying, all consuming fear of what is coming. There’s no stopping it now. Maybe it’s not worth dwelling on.

“You know,” you say with a sniffle. “She’ll never have to be afraid.”

Charles nods. “Nobody will ever hurt her.”

You reach out and hold her hand, her tiny fingers in yours. Her skin is so soft, unmarred by the world. She will never face heartbreak. She will never lose anyone. She will never have to worry. She’ll also never make her first friend, or have her first love, or her first job or first car, or… the nevers pile up and weigh heavy on your chest. The whole weight of the world is on you.

You press your cheek to Charles’ chest and let the tears flow. It’s silly to hide it. He holds onto you tightly.

There can’t be much time left, now. You can feel the seconds slipping away like grains of sand through your fingers. You have this uncontrollable urge to kneel on the ground and try to scoop them all up. The bits and pieces of your life together with him. You want to hold it all close to your chest, try and shelter it from the impact.

“The wine,” Charles says. “The wedding wine.”

You’d saved a bottle. It was meant to be opened on your tenth anniversary. It’s in the cupboard in the kitchen, a white bow around the neck, a label with a photo of the two of you custom printed by a friend. You’ve been married for three years now. At the time, ten years had felt so far away. Now it slips through the gaps in the cupped hands of your heart.

Charles passes your daughter into your arms and stands up. You cradle her to your chest and press your lips to the top of her head. You whisper to her, remind her how much she’s loved, how much you care for her. Charles returns with the bottle and two glasses, and the corkscrew you’d been gifted as a wedding present. You try not to dwell on it, try not to think about his brothers giving it to you, engraved with your new last name and with a note to accompany it- When you argue, or feel sad, or happy, or anytime, stop and share a bottle of wine together.

You take their advice- of all the times to take it, now feels like your best bet, though you’ve lived by little things like that your whole relationship. When Charles was gone for extended time periods for races, he always returned with a special bottle of wine, always made sure to set aside his first day back just for you, and eventually, for your daughter too. It was one of the things that bothered him most, he’d told you- he never felt like he had enough time. Stretched too thin between all the things and people he loved, everything that’s important to him. He pours you a glass of wine and hands it to you, and you wait while he pours his own. You clink the glasses together and take a sip. It tastes the same as it did on your wedding night, and fresh tears fill your eyes. All your family and friends, there to celebrate the two of you, and now it all comes to an end.

There are picture frames on the wall behind the couch. You stare at them, the tears in your eyes blurring the photographs, but you know what you’d find there. The wedding photo, when he’d kissed you for the first time as your husband. There’s the photo of the two of you on his first day at Ferrari, smiling bright and wide and happy and not having any idea how important you’d become to each other. There are family photos- just the three of you, and ones with your extended families, too. There are landscapes from your vacations together, pictures of you with friends out at parties, your whole lives, hanging up on the wall. All the photos will be destroyed, soon, along with the rest of the world.

Your daughter is dozing off against your chest. You turn to try and take a peek at the countdown on the screen, but before you can, Charles grabs your head and holds, firmly. It can’t be long now. Sometime this morning, just after sunrise, you think they said on the news last night. There’s sun filtering in through the curtains. Your breath gets caught in your chest. The dawn of a new day, of the very last day.

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, lips against your forehead. “Don’t panic.”

“The world is ending, Charles,” you choke out, voice frantic. “We- we’re going to-“

“I know,” he mumbles. He knits his fingers with yours, right on top of your daughter’s back. “I know. Stay with me. Feel me? Feel her breathing? Just stay right here, my love. You are safe here.”

You’re not, you’re the least safe here that you’ve ever been, but you know what he’s trying to say. You feel the soft rise and fall of her back beneath your hand, feel the way he squeezes your fingers. Stay here. Stay with me. You take a deep breath against his neck, wondering if you can breathe in enough of him that he’ll be a part of you forever. Forever. What does forever even mean, now?

“It’s not enough,” you mutter. “It wasn’t enough time. We deserved more time.”

He nods, and when he speaks, his voice sounds raw. “It wasn’t. We did. But it never would have been enough, my love.”

“If you had more time,” you start, and you hear him choke on a sob. “What would you do with it?”

He’s quiet for a moment. There’s a million different options, a million different answers, a million things still left to do. You wonder if he’s thinking of the same thing as you, though.

“I would spend it right here,” he says, and you fall to pieces. “Right here, with you in my arms, and our daughter with us, and I would tell you how you are the love of my life and- and how I will find you, in the next life, and we will spend forever together. Over and over and it will never be enough,” he sniffles, his tears falling against your forehead.

“Give me a million more years, and I would like to spend them all with you,” you tell him, voice thick with your tears. “Every second.”

There’s a loud noise from somewhere outside. Your heart should be racing, but it isn’t. Charles wraps you up closer, pulling you around your daughter, trying to cradle both of you in his arms. This is it. If there’s anywhere you’d want to spend your last moments, this is the place.

“I will see you soon, my love,” he says into your skin.

Neither of you are religious, and you haven’t talked about your thoughts on the afterlife in any serious sense, but in that moment, you believe it, and you know he does too.

“Nothing could ever keep me away. We said forever,” he adds.

“I love you, Charlie,” you say, leaning up to kiss him. “Forever and ever.”

As the world falls apart around you, you bury your face in his neck and let it happen. There’s nothing you can do, now, except spend every second with him, with your daughter. All the seconds you have left.

…..

The Ferrari factory is bright and shiny, full of people who stare in awe. They have a new driver today, a new prodigy who’s meant to bring victory back to Maranello. You’re feeling a bit overwhelmed by all of it, by the people staring, by the buzzing underneath your skin. It’s too much, but you can’t back out now. You’re being lead through the crowd, and you hope you don’t look as terrified as you feel.

“Oh, and this,” your new team principal says, “is Charles. Your race engineer. You’ll be working very closely together.”

Charles turns around, eyes already sparkling. He grins, a dimple divoting his cheek. He’s cute. He gives you a warm feeling in your chest, like something familiar. When he shakes your hand, you swear you feel a spark. You’ve never met him, you’re almost sure, but it feels like you know him, or maybe, like you used to. It’s the strangest feeling, but it’s a comfort in this sea of strangers.

“Welcome to Ferrari,” he says, and it’s the millionth time you’ve heard it today but you could cry, still. For some reason, it means more coming from him. “You’re going to love every single second.”

Taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @arian-directioner @racingheartsposts @sakuramxchii @mynamejeff5 @c-losur3 @casperlikej

[assumptionprime]

I need to rant about the Fallout show

Because this is the person I am. Full spoilers, so I’m putting it behind a Keep Reading:

I’m a huge sucker for Fallout (yes even 3&4). And I went into the Fallout show with some… trepidation. Amazon has been a mixed bag on adaptations, we could have been blessed with a Good Omens, or cursed by a Rings of Power. But early buzz and reviews seemed positive, so I slammed the whole thing in one night with my spouse (we were staying at my in-laws house and they have Prime. Time was a factor.)

And y’know? I was really enjoying it! The characters were fun, the plot was engaging enough, and the costumes and visual design were extremely on point. There were some minor lore quibbles to be had: Ghouls needing some kind of medicine to not go feral. Really, more Enclave holdouts? Timeline and date whoopsies. Wait are they in California? Where the hell is the NCR?

I made a face at Shady Sands being bombed and the NCR collapsing. But I wasn’t completely out of the story. Based on what I had seen so far, I thought it was building to a reveal that the Brotherhood had done it. That the more zealous turn they took in Fallout 4, which has clearly carried to how they are portrayed in the show, lead them to bombing the NCR. War never changes, as they say. Maximus even says when asked what happened to Shady Sands: “The same thing that always happens.” Yeah, it leans into Bethesda’s weird desire to keep the Fallout world in a state of perpetual wastelands full of raiders and no civilization, but it wasn’t so terrible that I couldn’t still enjoy the show.

But then.

BUT THEN.

Episode 8, and the reveal of Vault-Tec apparently being the ones who dropped the first bomb in the Great War.

I was surprised to hear that some fans have apparently been debating over who fired first? Some even asked Tim Cain about it?

That’s really odd to me because, in the games, there is already a pretty definitive answer to which side sparked the Great War:

Who fucking cares?

The world ended. What does it matter who shot first?

There is no China, no United States, no communists or capitalists left to fight about it. 

It's a powerful little bit of lore.

For all the posturing, all the promises from each nation that their way is the true way, all the nationalism, the militarism, and blind loyalty to flags over humanity, they both lost. Everyone lost. All that remains of the ideologies and nations that were so important to the people of 2077 is faint echoes over vast expanses of radioactive ash.

Who started the end?

No one knows. No one cares.

It only matters that their conflict was so bitter, so all-consuming, that one of them dropped their bombs, and the other dropped theirs in return.

The truest legacy of the old world is the devastation left by their final, most horrific war.

Can we do better?

Then the show says "Nah, Vault-Tec did it. It's not a commentary on human nature and the futility of self-destructive conflict, it was actually these guys, these mustache twirling villains huddled in a darkened room literally plotting to end the whole world so they can rule what's left."

And I can see the attempt to make this a critique of capitalism. I actually paused the show to praise a bit of writing when Coop is talking with Charlie before the war, when Charlie tells him that the “cattle ranchers are in charge” to illustrate how capitalism and corporations hold too much sway over the government, it felt very in line with how in New Vegas one of the recurring critiques of the NCR is that all the real power is in the hands of the “brahmin barons.” Nice parallel, spot on!

But “we’ll set off total thermonuclear war so we can rule the ashes and have a True Monopoly” isn’t capitalism. It’s just dumb “we’re the baddies” writing.

And then Shady Sands was also Vault-Tec?! Forget any meaning in the NCR falling to the same corruption and/or factional fighting that consumed the old world, they were literally just bombed by the evil shadow conspiracy that apparently also killed the old world. Hank gives this speech about factions fighting and the futility of it all while we see the Brotherhood fighting Moldaver’s NCR remnant, and like, no! You can’t say that when you’ve made it so neither the old world or the NCR fell to war with another faction! It was you! You and your band of cryogenic supervillains!

I don't care that they changed it. Timelines and dates and little retcons don’t bother me all that much. I care that they changed it to something so much worse.

[janaknandini-singh999]

Being a king was a lovely business.

But it was also a lonely business.

How can that be? If you are surrounded by all people chanting your name from the top of their lungs like a war cry?

But what if you never wanted a war?

Any of that separation, agony and a cycle encompassing all of that just going on?

"Dharma" Ram told himself, closing his eyes

When Kaikeyi exiled him, he had looked at the dawn raising his hand to the sun, as if to reach out to the new life awaiting him now.

When Dashratha wept rivers, Ram had never seen his father this vulnerable. He wanted to console him, to cry with him, but he was bound to go away for his sake.

When Kaushalya, despite being the mother and the pain she'd face by her son's separation, she had blessed Ram to go, to do what he was meant to do.

When Shurpanakha's nose was cut off by his brother, Ram had closed his eyes tighter and sighed, knowing a war was inevitable now.

Before that, however, during the exile he was quite happy. Braiding his wife's hair by the river, pausing to look at her with loving eyes as he smiled.

"What is it?" Sita asked him, smiling back "Don't worry, swami. We will be back at our home before you know it. This exile is just by default."

"My love, for me any place with you is a honeymoon. Who cares about any exile?" He paused again to tug a stray hair behind Sita's ear "Just let me cherish this moment. Who knows when it will come to pass again?"

Sita cupped Ram's face which made him tear up a little bit "Nothing can separate us. Even if the world does, you shall be the only king and God to rule my heart forever."

"A king's duty is to serve. So, let me serve you, not rule." He whispered and kissed her hands

"As a king?" Sita raised her eyebrows in amusement, grabbing an opportunity to tease her ever solemn husband.

Ram shook his head, laughing "As your righteous and rightful darling lil husband, of course" and tickled her as the sounds of their laughter blended in with the gurgling of water and singing of the birds.

"What must it feel like to be the king, dada?" Bharat had asked him with dreamy eyes once when they were kids. Only if they knew.

"Everything ever." Ram would answer in the future

"Everything one would think they'd want.

In the end only to be a martyr,

Deemed by all as a God."

"Dada, please don't leave us alone!" Bharat cried and cried, finally taking his big brother's sandals to be placed on the throne.

The heart that breaks to keep everyone else's from breaking. Did the people love the king because of who he really was or just because of the sacrifices he made for them?

But there was one who loved him for who he really was.

Hanuman

He was moved by his devotion so that the warrior monkey soon became his family

He looked up now at the fireworks that burst in the sky

Fire

He had a strange relation with it

Fire, that ran in Lakshan's veins like rage. The fire of poison that almost took him away. Ram's world would've been long gone into darkness if he had lost his brother. But Hanuman rescued him, because of which Ram would forever be indebted to him.

Fire, that danced on Hanuman's tail. With which he set ablaze the whole kingdom of gold to ashes. The arrogance of a vast emperor defeated by the piety of "Jai Shri Ram"

Fire, that devoured Raavan's body with the flaming arrow launched by Ram. A festival that would be celebrated for eons to come.

And finally, fire that Sita had to enter for the agnipariksha. Ram knew nothing could touch her wife but for a brief second, he recalled Sati's trial and the grief Mahadev went through. He gripped his heart as a tear lingered by his eye, burning as intensely as the agni Sita was so calmly going into. But she emerged unscathed and Ram finally breathed relief.

What does it feel like to finally come home?

Ram looked around

Diyas lit up houses as far as the eyes could see

An inviting, slow flame of love, not violent fire

Rangoli adorning every doorstep in welcome

He could finally see his family, his brothers as they used to be when they were young, his parents desperate to see their son back, his people longing to touch his feet, Hanuman hugging him fiercely in between sobs and lastly, his wife's eyes numb with the happiness of reunion.

"Swami" she breathed as tears rolled down her cheeks

If he had cried earlier, they would've seen him as a weak king. Hanuman would've set the world ablaze if he saw his Ram upset. So would Lakshman. And Sita would even set herself on fire, all over again, a million times in a million births if that would ensure his happiness

But now Ram let go, all the tears he was holding back since what felt like forever

So? How does it feel?

"Prem" Ram told himself, closing his teary eyes and smiling, swaying his head silently to the tune which was on everyone's lips

Ram aayenge toh angnaa sajaungi

Deep jalaake diwali main manaungi

Meri jhopdi ke bhaag

Aaj khul jaayenge

Ram aayenge

[zukosdualdao]

i know there’s a lot to be said about the ember island players in general, but the whiplash at the ending is SO intense in such an interesting way. katara brings up the fact that it might not be a good idea to go, but they insist it’ll be fine and even when they’re upset with the performance for the insecurities it brings out, it’s all still very mundane upset.

but in the scene where zuko gets killed by azula, suddenly, everything shifts. they all look HORRIFIED. it is a stark reminder that they are in enemy territory, surrounded by people who would cheer their deaths. i think it’s actually very notable that zuko dies first, too, and that this is what triggers the change in tone, because he is FROM THIS NATION, HE USED TO BE THEIR CROWN PRINCE, and now, because they see him as a traitor, because he is on the other side, his death is something celebrated. if that’s how they think of HIM, what will they do when it’s everyone else’s turn?

the answer: nothing good. people are similarly celebratory when aang dies, and then there’s actor!ozai’s whole big speech about how nothing can stop him now and the fire nation’s glory and burning the world to ash, etc. and once again, just, sheer horror on all of their faces. which, fair! who wouldn’t be horrified in their shoes?

it’s also a reminder to our heroes (and, in fact, to the audience) of how deeply-ingrained the proganda in the fire nation is. because that’s fundamentally what this play is, despite the silly overtones. entertainment isn’t actually the point, even before the ending. it’s a byproduct, certainly, but if you look at how every character and interaction is performed, there’s a very clear intention: make these people look incompetent and ridiculous. why the hell would you want to root for these guys when you could root for the honor and glory of fire nation victory? is the point.

the arts can be used this way, to spread dangerous propaganda that warps information, as much as the lessons we see in a fire nation school aang goes to in “the headband.” there are kids YOUNGER than even aang or toph at this play, all internalizing these messages early. and it’s been this way for a long, long time.

it’s, imho, very important to understand that these are the stakes the characters are ending on before the finale.

[neonovember]

Bruised Knuckles

Mafia!au x Steve Rogers

CHAPTERS: 1 2 3

summary: your escape to Brooklyn was harboured by secrets and a harrowed past, left abused and betrayed, you accepted your destiny of being swallowed by the crowd. Until the King of New York showed up in front of you and wanted a piece of you for himself.

9K words

a/n: this one is a really long chapter, I went a little overboard, maybe this makes up for my procrastination

The whizz of a snowball blurs crystal white from the corner of your eye as your feet crunch across the gravelled road, the breeze of melting ice from the summer heat just misses you, and for a second you think- he's going to hit you for real

You can hear the barrelling of shoes behind you, and you know he’s advancing. He makes it really obvious when he tries to send an outstretched hand towards you, attempting to trip you, you laugh maniacally as you slip past wavering fingers.

“You gotta be a lot faster than that Rogers!” You howl it into the wind as it takes it, and the grunts of running are heard behind you as you slip through the alleyway into the trail that leads to the pine forest on the edge of town.

“C'mon, that’s not fair!” Steve shouts after you, turning your head you catch his staggering frame, hands pressed into his knees as he bends over, huffing and puffing as if the world didn’t have enough air to fill his lungs.

“Hey, you’re the one with the so-called impeccable aim” You tease

You slow down your pace as you feel the wind ruffle your hair, it’s summertime and you drink in the syrupy goodness that comes with evenings in daylight. The broad pine trees tower over the both of you, leaves and sprinkles of birch fall from the tops and settle around you as you lean against a tree. You would never get used to this, the earthy smell of some thousand-year-old monuments, the laughter of Steve’s voice. Never.

“God, I wish I could just stay here forever”, You whisper to him, eyes glossing over the clearing you both arrived at, an ingrained letter of your initials in one of the trees to the left, a fire pit surrounded by rocks, now ashes and dirt.

“We could, you know we can” Steve’s voice comes back, between awkward breaths of lung-filled air.

“Yes we could, we could, but then we’d just be like our parents, stuck in a town that’s stuck in the past. God, I know my father would never forgive me if I ended up like him” You say solemnly, kicking a stone at the base of your aged converse.

“Come with me,” Steves says suddenly, and you look up to see his staggering form leaning across a tree. His breathing seems to be back to normal, as he walks towards you. Suddenly though, it's your heart that has begun to thump loudly behind your ribs.

“Huh? What- What do you mean?” You ask bringing up a hand to wipe the perspiration settling uncomfortably on your forehead.

“Let’s go, me and you, right now. Let's leave this town and everything in it for good. Your mom, my father, fuck, everyone” Steve urges, his hands wavering around his words, he's never been afraid to look you in the eye, but now his focus is anywhere but you. God, he couldn't do this without you, he needed you, and now he was praying to the heavens you needed him just as bad.

“I-“ You begin to form your reply, before forcing Steve's chin to face you, he had grown a whole foot taller over the winter and it was awkward to reach up at him at such a low angle.

“Look at me Stevie” You plead, and all it takes is the sound of your calling for him to do anything you ask him to. 

Steve’s cerulean blues watch you closely, the burning feeling of anxiety and trepidation spilling into his stomach as waits on your every word.

You begin mouthing words, your eyes shining with an expression his only since one before, but he isn't able to understand. Like his dove into the deep end, your words are muffled and unintelligible, you look at him then, confusion lacing your features. You look at him like he’s turned into an alien, and he can't fucking hear you goddamnit. You mouth those same words, yet they don't reach Steve, hitting the surface, unable to penetrate and find him.

The edges of his vision begin to burn a dirty orange, and the pine trees surrounding the both of you begin to melt. The bright orange storm of a wildfire burns behind you, lighting up your features like a beacon. Steve begins to scream, he tries to scream, he fails to scream, he reaches for you, shaking as he nudges your shoulder to look behind. The confusion on your face increases as your eyebrows furrow and a shivering fear wraps itself around Steve's spine, as the fire edges closer and closer.

You're not listening, acting as if nothing has happened as the heat drips down Steve’s back, a feeling of grief washes over Steve as he realises your going to die out here, in the town you hate, you're going to be buried 6 feet into the dark dirt of this place for eternity. 

And for the first time, Steve panics. He can't speak, he can't move,  he can't save you. He's a little boy again, hanging onto the last bar of the monkey bars as you cheer him on from below. But no matter how far he stretched out his hand he can't reach it, he can't reach you. And those same hot tears spill down his face, dripping down his neck, dirty and humiliating and fucking weak. The flickering tongues of the wild forest fire wraps itself around the pine trees, and before Steve can reach for you, before Steve can even scream, you're engulfed by the formidable inferno, and like a flame to a photograph, you’re gone.

Just like that.

-- -

Steve wakes with a shivering sweat, his internal furnace staining the sheets as the glistening perspiration slides down his back uncomfortably.

The sun is just peeking through the fluttering linen curtains, and Steve reaches around to place the fallen alarm clock back onto the side table. It seems it was knocked during his slumber, his slumber. You had begun to seep into his mind until you began to stain even his subconscious, confronting him with past memories that seemed like mirages all these years later.

There were ginormous, those pine trees that towered over the edge of town, he remembers how they seemed like giants compared to his sullen form. In a sense, Steve admired them, they were resilient, to man-made destruction, against the forces of nature, they stood still and remained unchanged, he doesn't doubt they would be the same even now when the both of you had changed so much. He doesn't doubt those engraved initials would still feel the same against his thumb, even if Steve felt something akin to betrayal when you had scraped both your initials into one of the birch trunks.

Those pine tree roots that sprung beneath the surface that travelled for miles, seemed to interlink the both of you, wrapping themselves around you until you both would be forever joined, somehow, even thousands of miles away. Steve would never escape their grasp, he could never escape you, no matter how hard he tried he was nothing against the monumental giants of nature. 

A burn of nostalgia and regret begins to unfurl in Steve's stomach as he begins to piece back the fractured parts of the dream that had slowly begun to slip between his fingers. He's reaching desperately, hopelessly, reaching for them, grabbing at scraps of years where he wasn't always so mad, so exhausted, so indifferent.

It had been years since his mind had reopened the memories from his childhood, and it is with caution, those times were locked in a chained drawing cabinet, filed impeccably and thrown into the Mariana trench and left to rot. There wasn't time, and money to waste on nostalgia, not in the life Steve had chosen for himself, not after those same hands reaching for that chest were blooded and raw with sin. No, no, those memories were long tainted, there was no point in digging up old graves.

The bleeding red digits indicate it's far too early in the morning, and therefore just the right time to get up, for Steve Rogers, at least. The crumbled and sweaty sheets are left haphazardly on the bed for the in-house maid to clean, and Steve wastes no time jumping into a cold shower to wash off the uncomfortable reality of his past.

The activities from last night still seeped into his blond locs, across his chest, and between his fingers, and Steve grumbles as he recalls the waste of space and energy that informant had been. Steve turns the water a scalding hot and the nostalgia, memory and fevered dream of you is washed down the drain along with the dirty red specks of blood and dust that were still stuck to the edges of his skin.

He just needed to talk to you today, and use this poorly organised meeting to clear his head. If he set boundaries, if he set an endgame then it would be easier to de-attach himself from the grasp of contingencies. Steve wouldn’t make you a liability, he couldn’t, he doesn’t think he could live with himself if he did.

The clank of Steve’s cuff links roll across the chestnut drawer and they remind him of the years with his father. The red and white pills rolling across the rotting wooden floors of the home you wouldn’t call home. His snake eyes and silvery skin seemed to pale and scale each day that passed. Steve shakes his head, muttering as he clicks them into his cuffs. As far as he knew, his father was as good as dead. To him at least.

His fingers grasp the keys to his car, they jingle in his broad palm and he pockets them swiftly, the ring of his cell phone resounds through the quiet room and Steve reaches for it quickly. A call this early in the morning meant one thing and one thing only, what had occurred in the night was not yet finished, seeping into the safety of the morning light.

Steve nods along to the gruff voice sounding from the receiver, a hand coming to push back his fallen locks, leaving the room Steve enters the Manor's kitchen space.

Bucky is perched on one of the silver stools, sipping on a glass filled with what seemed to be orange juice, but with closer inspection was clear to be all parts liquor with a splash of the citric acid. God, alcohol this early in the morning? Steve ought to get Bucky a therapist.

Bucky senses Steve's presence before he even steps into the room, eyes trained on his figure practically hugging the cell phone perched between his ear and shoulder. A puzzled expression fills Bucky’s face as if to say ‘What are they saying?’ And Steve waves him off as he takes the steaming cup of coffee waiting for him on the ceramic countertop.

The kitchen is soundless this early in the morning safe for Steve's peaceful sips and Bucky’s fervent gulps, and a few minutes pass before Steve ends the call abruptly, a grim expression overtaking his features.

Bucky stands at attention, his eyebrows raising as he awaits steves explanation for such an early call.

“Got some trouble from the east end, some low-level goons messing with some of our men. One of the guys wants to meet up to talk ownership over the east side docks.” Steve replies, throwing the cell phone onto the granite counter, it clatters and bounces for a second before it settles in the corner.

“Isn’t that owned by, ya know, our runaway girl's husband?” Bucky replies, pushing against the counter to get up and walk towards Steve.

Steve nods, hands bent across his chest as he leans against the counter.

“That’s what’s confusing, Micheal, you know the guy? Short stoic and always a little on edge? He’s saying that Matthews is willing to talk about some sort of alignment. Make that area some fort of peacekeeping, owned by the both of us” Steve replies.

“It’s not bad, both of our men up there would mean the problem of those pocket-picking gangs would be solved, less of a strain on us” Bucky nods along, before adding

“But, Micheal, he’s-, he isn’t really known for being the most reliable ya know? Gets you caught up in the details, blows them out of proportion and leaves too many loose ends” Bucky reasons, his body now across from Steve.

“It makes sense though, those rising groups haven't just incapacitated our operations, Matthews is suffering from their outstanding resilience to incapacitate them. But you’re right, Micheal can’t be completely trusted, that’s why I need to talk to some contacts and see what’s been seeping into conversations underground. Either way, I need to check on our men up there, see if everything alright” Steve sighs, mind reeling over the impending tasks on his mind, but most importantly you.

“You were meant to see her this morning, right” Bucky smirks as if reading Steve's mind from across him.

“Told her we’d iron some things out in the morning, promised to pick her up. This thing I’ve done, I don't want it to be for nothing Bucky, and I don’t want to go back on my word” Steve says solely, checking his phone for the 3rd time for your call.

“I need you and Sam to fill in for me,” Steve begins

Bucky nods before whipping his head to face Steve’s

“Sam? Why does he have to come, I'm perfectly capable of talking to her by myself” Bucky grumbles, and just like clockwork, Sam comes strolling in, his shirt rolled up to his forearms as he dusts off the specks of blood littering his chest.

Bucky looks towards the man in disgust, eyes rolling at the displays of violence clearly sprayed across his body. 

“Really? Do you have to walk around the house looking like you've just come from massacring a family of 5?” Bucky groans, going to plunk his glass into the sink.

“Who’s to say I didn’t” Sam replies, a mischievous grin pulling at the corner of his mouth, as he bumps into Bucky, pushing him to the side with his hip as he washes off the grime covering his fingers.

“Let's face it Bucky, you’re a bit…intimidating.” Steve trails off, amusement on his face as he watches Sam groan at the discovery of a stain ruining his dress shirt.

Bucky swirls his body to face Steve’s, his eyebrows raised in shock.

“Inti-intimidating? There’s a man in this room with blood-stained cuffs, and I’m the one who’s intimidating?” Bucky sputters

Steve shrugs his shoulders, a whisper of a smile etching itself on his face.

“You just have this lone wolf thing about you, it scares people off” Steve murmurs thoughtfully as if he’s been analysing Bucky’s palatability before.

“C'mon, she was practically telling me to piss off the last time I talked to her, she out of all people can handle a Barnes”. Bucky replies, an annoyed expression on his face.

Steve bristles at Bucky’s comment, for some reason, a fuelled hatred fills his chest at the mention of you having to ‘handle’ anything.

“She’s already agreed, there’s no need to intimate date her further, besides,  from what I’ve heard it seems she’s the one intimating you both” Steve lets out a comical laugh, swiping his phone from the counter and shoving it into his suit pants.

“Guess it’s a road trip?” Sam replies, before dodging an incoming plate thrown at him from the hands of Bucky.

“I swear to god…” Bucky replies gruffly, shouldering in his suit jacket before pushing past a snickering Sam

“Hey-“ Steve calls, his voice a little lower than moments before. Bucky’s stiff back turns slowly at the sound of Steve’s suddenly baritone voice that bounces through the swallowing hallways.

“Don’t scare her, try and be- just don’t show her your daggers or pull some stupid shit, I mean it. She’s different, I mean she was practically inducted into this life but she was always kept hidden, ya know? Never knew how deep it got” Steve says, the icy expression that morphs his features into the dark formidable creature he turns the air around them a frosty cold.

Both Sam and Bucky nod, they understood a command when they were told one, and this one seemed as if Steve’s entire being was hanging onto it.

— -

It's well into the morning light when you finally rise from your slumber, the beating heat slipping through the cracks of your blinds. A sense of anxiety rushes through you as you realise you’re late to work, clamouring out of bed and ending up on the floor.

However the sound of the neighbour kids bustling footsteps through the apartment complex eases your worries, it’s Sunday. Your well-earned, and only, day off.

You lay there, on the dusty carpet of your bedroom floor, and drink in the bliss of a day without a multitude of tasks that needed to be completed. Your legs ached from the turbulent labour you’d that had been forced on you daily for a job you knew didn’t pay for the work it took. You couldn't let yourself dwell on it, you'd only just ends up in a spiral of depression and regret you don't know you could pull yourself from. What you did need was coffee, you think you might collapse back onto the floor if you don't get that liquid gold in your body.

What can you say? Old habits die hard, for you, it was caffeine and for your husband it was knuckles on skin.

-- -

Your shower lasts less than the amount of time you have warm water, which is about 15 minutes. Not nearly enough to wash the grime and dirt that was always stuck to the back of your ears or other inconspicuous cracks you’d only find after the water had drained out.

It’s when you're pouring yourself a steaming brew into your favourite mug when you get the text. Your phone lights up, illuminating the small kitchen darkened by the black-out curtains you’d bought to keep the sun out. You can't help but grow audibly as you fear that your one day off would be interrupted by your boss’s demand for you to come in. It wouldn't be the first time she had thought you lived breathed and slipped on her every beck and call.

Flipping to the screen side up, your heart hammers loudly against your rips when you are confronted by an unknown number outlined in dark text

Something came up, Sam and Bucky are gonna come pick you up?

Steve.

You should be thinking about how he had found your number, or who this Sam is, but all your mind reels at is his apparent absence. Hell, you don’t know why but your heart sinks at that. You had thought that maybe, stupidly, you'd find out why he truly wanted to help you, use this meet-up to determine what his endgame was, and quell the what-ifs and questions that had been swirling around your skull since yesterday.

It was foolish really, to think that he would just open himself to you, that he wouldn't don the same mask he wore when he was ripping off drug lords and executing their men. You were simply another source of information to him, nothing more, nothing less. At least this way you knew where you stood.

Your phone begins to light up as the bubbles of an incoming text display on the grey chat. 

That alright?

He's asking for your permission? You can’t help but laugh, it erupts from the depths of your stomach and escapes through your mouth. And without even a blink of a second, you bent over, loud laughs leaving your mouth uncontrollably as hiccuped tears run down your cheek. The man who had no less than shown up at your workplace followed you home, and send his men after you were asking for your permission. You knew it meant nothing, you knew he would still send them anyway, he just wanted to make sure you did too.

You snatch your phone from the laminate counter, scoffing as you type out a reply,

Perfectly fine.

It was NOT perfectly fine, but you’re too tired at this point to argue, a little talk wouldn't ruin your day, and most importantly he wouldn't ruin your day.

Plopping yourself on your velvet couch you wipe the fallen tears stricken on your cheeks, you still had your coffee. Maybe you could throw that at him, he may be a formidable monster that dominated the criminal scenes of New York, but he was still human, and coffee was still fucking hot.

-- -

You watch Bucky and Sam pull into your apartment before they do, it wasn’t hard, a car like that in a place like this stood out like a sore thumb, you wouldn't doubt by the time they'd dragged you out of your home that they’d find their tires missing.

A smile lights your face at the thought, now that would be funny.

They exit with the car still running, donning tailored suits that clung to every dip and stretch of their body. You don't wait for them to knock when you catch their heavy footsteps pounding against the concrete balcony, maybe if they thought you weren't home they would just leave you alone.

You remain huddled into your coach,  watching their tall shadows move about the front of your apartment. They wouldn't try and break in right..?

There is a hurried knock that causes you to jump involuntarily, and it is soon followed by a bellowing baritone voice that seeps into the cracks of your plaster walls.

“Doll, we ain't got all day, and I know you’re in there so why don't you be a pretty peach and open the door?” Bucky’s voice causes you to bristle, and your teeth press into your bottom lip nervously. There is a sliver of dominance in his voice that doesn't quite reach the surface. Enough years and you learn when someone is trying to hold back. 

There is a rummaging of clothes before Bucky begins to speak again,

“This look like some reinforced steel Sam?, How about tripe pane glass?”

A man's voice soon follows, replying with a chuckled no.

“You hear that doll? Your door isn't some reinforcement against us, it won't protect you, I figure I could bust it down with the tip of my foot. Now I don’t think your neighbours would quite like that disturbance this early in the morning hm?” Bucky’s voice is muffled by your door, but you can tell he's stepped closer, his lips pressed into the crack between the door and your hallway wall.

“Am I right doll?” Bucky reiterates, his voice deepening a dangerous octave, the kind that probably gets him what he wants, no questions asked.

Your eyes travel to your apartment door, the paint chipping off the sides of the wooden frame, dust falls to the bottom as Bucky taps his foot against it, chuckling at the pitiful sound it makes in return.

Yeah, your door is practically a pillow against them.

You cough loudly as you attempt to form a reply, the words getting caught up in your throat

“Yes, I'm coming, just, just don’t break down my door please” You finally let out, you hope to god you sounded the least bit content, but as you fumble with the door handle you know there remains a tremor in your voice.

One last swift turn does it, and you open your door swiftly.

They is a short moment that passes, where they both seize you up again as if you'd changed from those days before. Bucky eyes wander behind your shoulder, practically scrutinising the contents of your home.

“For your information, this door has withstood a grade A snow storm,” You say, your hand resting on the corner of your door,

Bucky flashes you a sickening grin, his canines shining against the morning light. The man beside him is just as tall, only a mere few centimetres below Bucky, his suit stretches against the expansive muscle of his chest and shoulder, and with the veins running up his arm you don't doubt that he could quite literally crash you with his bare hands.

His stance is domineering, and his short black hair makes him look infinitely more lethal. He looks the picture of the men who work for your husband, and occupy the hallways of your home at all times, however, there is one defining difference. His eyes. Even whilst they are a deep earthy brown the kind shadowed by trees and left in the darkness of the underground, they are soulful.

They carry a hidden kindness, even if they may be muddled by violence and bloodshed, it is still there. The sliver of humanity that separates Sam from the thousands of men you've encountered, those men of your husbands whose fox eyes watched your every move, surveying you, scrutinising you as if to find a reason to hunt you down. 

You never found peace in that home, for your every move was watched by cameras and hundreds of pairs of scrutinising eyes that were bought with money that was caked in blood.

‘Do you want another minute to judge my apartment or can you shove me into the boot of your Mercedes already” You sigh, grabbing your bag, and throwing in your phone and a jacket.

“Your lead, and for your information, it's a Maserati” Sam chuckles edging closer so he whispers it into your ear. A shiver runs down your back and you fix your shoulder, locking the door behind you as you walk down the concrete steps that crumble beneath your feet.

Sliding into the backseat, you don't notice the way their eyes linger on you, watching you from the review mirror as your gaze travels across your apartment and neighbourhood, the kids are still playing some game of ball, the basketball aged and torn apart from its frequent use, the old man at the bottom of the stairs is resting on an armchair, smoking a cigarette you've told him countless times will contribute to his death.

You bid them farewell, as Bucky turns out of the parking lot, the pine trees towering at the edge of the road blur a green and brown as you let the scenery around you consume you. This side of the city can be beautiful when it wants to be, when the morning dew hasn't yet fully melted, and the blanket of security covers you just for that moment.

You don't like to, but it reminds you of your childhood strangely, the trees and the way the sunlight shines through the branches. You don’t quite know why, it presses into the edges of your mind, like half-memories, like a big chunk of your mind has been cut open and taken out. There's a searing pain whenever your mind travels to those years before, a white-hot burn whenever you think too hard about it. So you don't. You close your eyes and rest your head against the leather seat, with two pairs of eyes watching you the whole ride.

-- -

Your body moves along with the twists and turns of the route Bucky follows almost mechanically, Sam had gone into a rather long phone call, the cell phone perched between his head and shoulder.

The terrain has changed from the concrete skyscrapers of Brooklyn, venturing into the natural scenic roads separating the buzz and hum of the city that was always alive. You hadn't travelled or even explored much since your settlement in Brooklyn, so much of where Bucky was taking you was unknown to you, you would’ve liked it, you think. If you weren't on the run and had notches of your past scorched into your back. Maybe in another life, you would've spent your twenties backpacking across the states, an ocean blue van that would be your home.

Now though, it takes everything to push the rising anxiety back down into your chest and not have a meltdown in the back of Bucky’s car.

As the smooth city roads turn into fragmented gravel paths you shift in your seat, edging closer to the window, your eyes watch the world around you evolving into the nature that once replaced New York, Bucky almost senses your wonderment, and quietly pulls the window down an inch or two. The scent of sea foam and wet dirt waft through your hair as you breathe it in, you reach out with a hand, letting the soft wind from Bucky’s press of the accelerate twirl and glide between your fingers.

You catch a pair of eyes watching you closely, but before you can look up they’re looking away, back to doing what they once were before.

The speed of the car begins to slow down, and Bucky turns into a dirt road surrounded by forest trees. A sense of unease fills you before Bucky drives up to a clearance, the shrubbery and foliage clear up to some sort of national park.  A long lake snakes around the rocky mountains, hidden behind the same deep brown trees towering over the sides of the road.

There is a car park towards the front, in which Bucky pulls into and parks swiftly, your gaze travels across the park, a wooden sign at the front is carved with the name of the clearing, some founder or explorer you had probably learned in 8th grade but is forgotten at the back of your mind. A map is attached below, along with the phone number of the park ranger closest. Triangle-shaped yellow signs warn hikers of the habitual animals that roam the parkland, and you smile as a figure of walking ducklings urge drivers to be wary.

There are a few cars parked around Bucky’s; a large red minivan with aged and peeling bumper stickers attached to the back, a dark black jeep, and a small sedan with one of those stick figure family stickers at the back.

You don't wait for Bucky or Sam before opening the door, the crunch of your sneakers against the gravel path.

“Wait a sec” Calls Bucky, you look behind your shoulder to find him rummaging in the backseat of the car, before shutting it and jogging up to you.

“Sam’s gotta finish up with something” Bucky explains as you catch Sam half smile as he continues with the phone call. You and Bucky must seem out of place, him with his perfectly tailored suit and you with your lazy Sunday outfit you pulled from your laundry.

Bucky leads you both to a park bench, and as you being to settle down Sam pops up, sitting across and joining Bucky, shooting you a quick apology.

“So, since you've agreed with this... arrangement, we've got to set out some ground rules and finalise a few things” Bucky begins, taking out a few papers with typed-out paragraphs of jargon you probably wouldn't understand.

“Do I need a lawyer..?” You ask as you eye the printed documents sitting across from you.

“It's all a formality, Steve.. he uh, he likes to be professional with his dealings is what I can say” Sam chuckles, crossing his head

“In exchange for your voluntary participation and the provision of sensitive and confidential information, Steve will provide you with fully serviced protection and surveillance of oneself and accommodation. Basically, me and Buck will come around each day to check everything is in order, and one of our men with be stationed at your apartment” Sam continues, nodding towards the documents before you.

“So ill be followed everywhere,” You reply, you had just escaped a life of constant surveillance and control, and right now it just felt like you were taking two steps back.

“I know what it sounds like, but most of our men are more friendly and less..well, automatic and mechanical. Steve only really trusts us, so you'll be seeing us more often than some random guy with a gun” Bucky says, smoothing down his suit pants.

Steve only really trusts us

You don't know why but your heart fumbles at Bucky's inclination that Steve cared about who was around you, your comfortableness, your satisfaction. It seemed so wrong after years of negligence to truly be cared after.

The loud sound of a dog barking causes you to tense just a fraction, your eyes flinch and you shift nervously in your seat. Get your shit together dammit, it was just a husky running beside its owner, the park never said it was free of dogs, but you can't help but stare at its blubbery open mouth, spit hanging from its sharpened teeth and a look of pure animalistic instinct in its eyes.

Stop, this isn't like the ones he keeps. Stop. overreacting.

It seems as if the dog sparked some sort of realisation that you were not in the safety of your apartment or in your workplace diner, that you were in a space occupied by the public in which anyone, even your husband could enter.

The more they talk, the more you itch with the anxiety bubbling in your chest, the bench under you is hard and itchy, you don't like it, and the sun has risen high into the sky, beating down on you. You try to keep up with them, head fuzzy as you nod after their every word, they glance at each other after a while of your scattering mind.

Both Sam and Bucky notice your uneasiness and the way your eyes dart around the nature park. Years in this life taught them how to read someone easily, and right now, you were practically crawling out of your skin.

You just, weren't used to being so out in the open, you feared you were running out with a printed target on your back saying “Shoot Me”. In the darkness of your apartment at least you felt somewhat safe, here, where you didn't know where you could hide, or if there even was somewhere to hide, the expanse of shrubbery and forest trees looked domineering, like they tower over you and swallow you whole, you didn't feel safe. In fact, you felt like it was open fucking season.

They'd picked an open space out in public, so you dint feel boxed in or isolated, a chance to feel a sense of normalcy whilst discussing deals with the mafia, huh, what a fucking joke. You keep readjusting your necklace, and they keep looking at you with that unreadable expression on their faces.

“You alright doll?” Sam replies, you can’t focus on him, the lines of his features blurring a little from the pounding headache that has begun to radiate from your temple

You nod and try focusing on the soft sounds of the nature park, the calls and whistles of native birds and the currying sounds of animals burrowing in their habitats. You know it does nothing, but you try and sink yourself into the false security of it.

Sam nods awkwardly back, he glances at Bucky and an unreadable conversation passes between them before Sam collects the papers you don’t remember signing.

“I think that’s enough business talk for a bit” Sam glances at his watch, muttering an obscenity under his breath.

“How about we drive you back home so can spend the rest of your day without having to deal with us, huh?” Sam replies trying to lighten the mood that has gone still with your curt answers.

You nod, itching to get home and under the covers, or under the heat of your shower to wash off the sludge of unease and anxiety coating your skin.

Bucky quietly watches you, and you throw him an always smile as you get up from the bench, tugging your sleeve down.

A moment passes with Bucky watching you closely before he smiles in return, but it’s one that mirrors yours, insincere and masking true emotions.

This time Sam opens the front passenger door for you, and you slide in quickly, shoving your bag at your feet and clicking the seat belt on. Bucky leaves the window down for you and you shut your eyes and let the warm wind settle the nerves that seemed to remain in your stomach.

— -

Bucky pulls out of your apartment complex, despite almost hitting a young boy running after a beat-up soccer ball.

He hadn’t pulled out until he had been sure you were safe and secured in your apartment, walking in and checking the place for any intruders despite your objections.

God, he never understood it, why you hated the idea of anyone helping you. Most women in this life demanded constant and immediate attention, hell he’d seen his own mother not lift a finger his entire life, raised by the many nannies and maids that had been employed at his family’s estate.

You though, helping you was like pulling teeth. It added to the hundreds of other questions Bucky had about you that Steve refused to answer, like why you had run away from a life he thought was full of luxury and opulence, or why Steve was so adamant in him and Sam to watch over you. 

Steve had never really involved himself in these types of business arrangements, but this one, it seemed as if Steve would commit murder if he found out you were left alone with one of his dispensable.

Bucky reaches for his phone left in the car’s compartment, fingers dailing Steve's phone as his other hand rests on the steering wheel. It rings twice before he picks up.

“Yeah?” Steve's gruff voice resounds against the echo of the basement he’s in, and Bucky has already gathered that he is deep within the monster that consumes him and enables him to rest on the throne of New York.

Bucky coughs a reply

“Hey, uh, we just finished up with her-”

“What’s the problem, something happen?” Steve’s voice replies in urgency, a sliver of concern in his tone that doesn't go unnoticed by them both.

“No, nothings wrong, we just-, well she-, Steve, I think you outta talk to her again, she's agreed and everything but she is, she’s on edge. I have a feeling she doesn't think you can protect her” Bucky finally lets out, the expansive nightlife of New York flashes past against the tinted windows of the car as Bucky follows the twists and turns to home.

“I mean she was practically clawing out of her body being in a goddamn park, Steve. A park. I figured she needs you to talk to her a little, and reassure her because, without her confidence in whatever this is, it all goes to shit. It’ll all fall down” Bucky says.

There is a beat of silence before Steve replies.

“Okay. I'll take the night off, tell everyone I'm off fucking.. somewhere. Back at the club.

“Alright,” Bucky replies before Steve ends the call abruptly. Sam glances at Bucky, sighing out loudly in the car before sinking into the leather seat.

“I have a feeling this will be the beginning of something that will be the end of us” Mutters Sam, but Bucky hears it all the same. And he can’t help it, but it all rings true. You will be the death of him.

The clench of Steve's jaw tightens as he slides his phone into his back pocket, rolling up his sleeves, Steve waste no time before striking the man bound to the chair across the face. Stringing blood and pieces of bone are scattered across the dingy basement floor, the burning lightbulb above them is the only thing that gives the light in the damp room, and it only adds to the sinister maliciousness that radiates from Steve.

He’s already dealing with an uncooperative subject, and the unexpected call from Bucky didn't quite ease the tension beginning to appear on his shoulders.

“Tell me,” Steve says, both his hands resting on either side of the armchair the man, a look of boredom crowds Steve’s face, his features unreadable as always as he stares down the snitch

“No” The spits it out along with flecks of blooded spit, and Steve chuckles, wiping away the blood splattered on his cheek before calmly replying

“You are nothing, your loyalty is that of a drop in the ocean, you don't think they won't cut your tongue and throw you in the Hudson with concrete feet for even getting caught by my men? Face it, you're a snitch, a rat- Steve pauses to spit to the ground- “and you and I both know the destiny a man like that has. Now do yourself a favour of a quick death and answer me, why is Matthews trying to free up the eastern docs?”

“Maybe he’s gathered a change of heart, it is the season to be generous no?” Chuckles the man, he smiles with his teeth covered in. blood, and Steve's grip presses into the armchair.

“You think this is a fucking joke? When has Matthews ever been generous, there has always been an endgame to every single move he does, what's the endgame to a fucking peace keep? Huh?”

“Look, I told you what I know, Matthews is trying to look as stable as possible, especially since he's begun to slip through the cracks, you know what they say right? That his little wife has gone running away? That sweet thing managed to slip past the biggest army in Northern America” The man replies, laughing manically.

Steve grunts at the mention of your name that passes through this animal’s mouth, how fucking dare he. He knows he shouldn't, he knows he needs to reign it in but all he hears is your name muttered from chipped golden teeth and he swings.

The savagery in the way Steve beats the man does not go unnoticed by the men around him, they watch on, as the crunch of bone and flesh fill the quiet basement, and the groaned pleas of the man are muffled by Steve's iron fists, his jaw collapsing in on itself as Steve throws his body to the ground with an obscene shout.

Steve had sometimes forgotten, how he has that formidable creature within him clawing its way out each time he steps out his front door, how he lets it consume him whenever he thinks of Matthews, and in a way; you.

“Clean this shit up, I don't ever want to see this fucking rat in New York ever again”. Steve growls towards the man around him, reaching for his keys and swiftly exciting from the cryptic warehouse on the edge of New York’s industrial area.

-- -

He doesn't quite know how he found himself outside your apartment, nor how fast he got there, but the thought is pushed to the side when you open your door suddenly. Wear eyes watching his staggering frame against your door frame, and all you have to do is nod before he’s entering your home.

“I thought Sam this morning would be the last I’d see of your men” You reply as you reach for two beers stacked away in your fridge. You weren't really a drinker, and you don't doubt they were stale.

“I said my men, I never said me” Steve chuckles, accepting the cold beverage you hand him appreciatively as he eases himself onto your small dining table in the corner of your room.

He practically swallows the entire place, his knees bubbing against the table as he awkwardly arranges himself on the too-small chair beside you. You hide your chuckle behind the neck of your beer bottle that you knock back down your throat.

A silence that is surprisingly comfortable falls over the both of you as you silently sip your beer bottles, and you find yourself reaching for another before ungracefully slumping your tired body into your wooden dining chair.

Steve catches the deep set bags under your eyes and the way your back practically hunched over as you rub a hand across your face

“Can’t sleep?” Steve murmurs, you look up as you catch his gaze which softens momentarily. Shaking your head you chuckle pitifully.

“That would be an understatement, more like can’t even shut my eyes” You scoff, before knocking back another sip of your beer.

“With this thing, we've arranged, hopefully, you’ll be able to” Steve replies, shifting in his seat as he looks towards you.

“If only it was that easy. Unless someone can enter into my brain and shut it off for a full 8 hours, I won't be getting any shut-eye” You smile wrily, before running a hand down your face, shaking your head.

“It’s fine, it's alright, ill- ill figure something out. It isn't like I haven't dealt with a few nights without sleep ya know? I don't even know why I'm telling you all this, you probably could care less” You reply with a finality that has Steve looking at you with that same strange expression you can't decipher.

Just as he begins to say something, Steve thinks better of it, simply shaking his head

“It’s alright, you're talking to an insomniac veteran over here, god knows I've burnt some eye-sized holes in my ceiling”

You can't help but let out a laugh, a real one, and the sound of it makes Steve’s heart collapse in on itself. Without even a moment  Steve already knows it's his favourite thing in this entire world, he wants to keep it, bottle it and keep it behind the white of his ribs and the coldness of his heart.

“Can I just ask you something?” You say suddenly,

He nods, giving you permission.

“Why do you want to do this? and tell me the real reason, not some false one you’ve made up.

“Honestly?”

It’s your turn to nod now,

“It’s selfish and cruel but I want to finally own something /make something of myself. This may come as a shock to you but I wasn’t always this fierce and formidable” you roll your eyes comically.

“I spent much of my years just wandering aimlessly, working jobs for other people, my loyalty was tied to one person and one person only. Myself.

“Seems like a tough way to live” you reply. You got it, something over came you when you got the keys to your first apartment. The first thing you actually owned since that bicycle you spend afternoons mowing lawns for. Selling lemonade for.

“You know, this deal, this arrangement-everything, means nothing if you can’t put your trust in it,” Steve says, running his hand down the neck of his beer bottle, letting the wet droplets fall down his fingers.

“Do you trust me?” He asks, silently, eyes looking up through the horizon of the beer bottle

“Do you trust me to protect you?” Steve asks again, as he rests his back against the wooden chair, an expectant expression on his face.

Do you? Everything in your mind is screaming at you to say no and run away, to hide back into the dark corner you’ve made a home out of, but as your gaze travels towards Steve, with those golden locs and cerulean blues, your heart murmurs with a familiar longing that you can’t ignore.

“Yea, strangely Steve, I do”. You reply with a look of pure candour on your face.

Your gaze travels to his hand gripping the neck of the brown bottle, and it is only then that you notice the tattered and bleeding skin of his knuckles. Steve catches your concerned gaze, eyebrows furrowing at the bruising beginning to form.

“It's nothing, just a little hands-on approach to a situation” Steve replies, shifting in his seat, but his excuse does nothing to quell the burn in your stomach.

“I know I have a first aid kit somewhere here” You murmur, rummaging through your kitchen cabinets as you peruse the tattered and peeling shelves and drawers.

“It's alright, doll, I'll get it patched up later-” Steve tries to argue, getting up from his seat, but you jolt up suddenly from your crouched position, a faded red first aid kit in your palm.

“Got it” You smile triumphantly, you rest yourself against the kitchen counter across from Steve, and Steve can say nothing as you raise your eyebrows, almost taunting him to protest against it.

“You’ve got men stationed outside my apartment, fixing up a few bleeding knuckles is the least I can do” You interject, moving towards him.

“Besides, if you're bleeding out on my living room floor, who else will be there to protect this” -you gesture your hands around the apartment- “Sanctuary?” Your question, a small smile softening your features and that's all it takes before Steve is conceating, following your footsteps to the small bathroom.

It's fitted with a peeling sink cabinet, toilet and a ceramic bathtub cramped into the corner, the low yellow light attached to the ceiling gives the room a sickly feel and Steve has to bend down onto the edge of the bathtub so you can reach him.

Pulling his blooded sleeves up, the reality of the damage on his hands can be inspected, the skin around his knuckles has peeled off completely, and splotches of dried and et blood seep from the wound.

As you take his hands into your palm softly, Steve grunts under his breath, not because of the pain radiating from his knuckles but because your fingers are so soft against the rough pads of his fingers.

You whisper an apology he waves off before ripping open an alcohol wipe, pressing it gently against his knuckles, making sure to clean off the grime and dirt stuck between his fingers.

The smell of blood that begins to permeate the air is one that is familiar, years of drunken nights had taught you how to patch up bruised cheeks and split stitches. Nights when your husband was so deep in his hunger for power and greed that he had thought you were here to take his kingdom from right under him. You knew what liquor could do to a man, but your husband to put it lightly, has always been and always will be, a mean drunk.

You feel a pair of eyes burning into you, and you look up to catch his intense stare watching over your every move, you have to look away after a moment, focus on the tap tap tap of the loose bathroom sink.

You take the small bandaged adhesives, and place them over his bruising knuckles, before covering them with bandaging cloth. You follow the same motions you had been forced to learn over the years to his other fist, feathering the cloth in and out between his fingers.

“How do you know how to do this?” Steve murmurs under his breath, his intense blues boring into your soul, as you look up from his bandaged knuckles.

“I was quite an adventurous kid, spent a good chunk of my childhood with my dad kneeling over me, patching up cuts and bruises” It is almost automatic, the way the well-practised lie slips from your lips, it leaves your mouth without a second thought.

Steve blinks at your reply, the blank expression covering his features is now taken over by his darkened eyes, his jaw tenses against his teeth and from the way his shoulders raise, you know there are a hundred things running through his mind. His fingers flex painfully in your grip, wrist rolled into a tight fist.

“Hey! Don’t go ruining my handiwork” You chastise him, flexing out his finger so they lay flat against your palm.

“We’ve all got history..right?” You smile, before his gaze travels across your features, nodding in a grimace.

“Some more than others” Steve replies, his left eye flinching as he catches the fading bruises peeking through your sleeves.

“Thank you,” Steve says, motioning to your fingers gripping his bandaged knuckles.

“It’s the least I could do I mean-” You begin before Steve cuts you off momentarily

“Hey, no, thank you really, you didn't have to, but you did” Steve's domineering voice crowds the small bathroom and you have to look down at your laced hands to let them out of your grip.

“I’ll leave you alone now, and I mean it this time,” Steve says, following you out of the bathroom.

“So I shouldn't be expecting any more nightly visits from men with guns at my door?” You question with a smile, as Steve shoulders his suit jacket on carefully, so as to not ruin your bandages.

“No, not tonight, if you see or hear anything or anyone, call me,” Steve replies, his voice deepening into a level of seriousness that gives you no choice but to listen.

“I mean it, you've got my cell, as well as Sam and Bucky’s, and I am an insomniac, so don’t have me second guessing alright?” Steve's baritone voice takes up the entire room, and all you can do is nod fervently.

You follow the loud footsteps of Steve's dress shoes down the short narrow hallway that leads to the front door, opening with one swift turn, Steve turns back to you swiftly.

“Don’t let mind cave in on itself, burying yourself in your thoughts only leaves you with a fatigue that doesn’t wear off and a bed that runs cold” Steve murmurs, a look casts a shadow over his eyes as his gaze trails over your tired features. But it leaves as soon as it comes and you find yourself still staring at that same spot on the carpet after he’s shut the door and left.

Taglist 🏷

@tinkerbelle67 @patzammit @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory@stupendouslovegardener @nomadstucky @nessie2183 @shamelessfangirl-3  @marvel-phoenix @euphoric-goddess @roseeatta​ @@wolfieeebbbyyy​ @namelesssav  @nessie2183

[oletusfragments]

if you found the anon with the pre-manor mike rq im sorry i forgot the emoji ;v;

💫 pre-manor mike's reaction to his s/o passing away during the hullabaloo massacre

there we go- ignore that i forgot the emoji-

and once again, i hope you have a nice day :]]

— IN MY HEART AND IN MY HEAD; TELL ME WHY THIS HAS TO END

᠂ — angst — gender neutral reader — before manor — ᠂

"My Y/N is strong! They would never die from a stupid fire! They're fine, they'll be fine! Check again! You're wrong!" Mike exclaims at the paramedic, his tone despairing–trembling. Persistently denying the nightmare happening. His whole body shakes from the sob he tries to resist. No, he won't cry. Because this isn't real. It's not real.

How could this happen? What in the world happened when he left?

Mike runs faster than he ever did when he heard the breaking news. The bag of stuff he bought was long forgotten behind him. Screw that, something–someone was more important.

He prays to any god that hears him that everything is alright. That when he arrives you'll be there with your same comforting smile telling him that you're all okay. Damn the tent or even his career. As long as it's not you. Those things can just be replaced anyway. Or better yet, nothing is wrong and the fire was just a measly flame.

But there's nothing left to replace. What is left of his home is nothing but barren wastes and ashes. The whole area of the hullabaloo circus tent is surrounded by yellow barrier tape. Sirens and discussions of investigations by the police and other staff could be heard everywhere. Burned...cause...crime...survivors...deaths. Their words and voices felt deafening and Mike wanted badly to pull his air out. His beloved home became a wretched crime scene, and it made him feel sick.

Even with the hopeless situation, Mike tries to wish for a miracle to happen. That this is all a dream. All of this is a big joke played by the amount of pranks he has done to his colleagues.

You all managed to get him guys, you can drop the act now.

Come on, he's at his wits end. So get up from that stretcher Y/N.

"Come on...get up." Mike's voice trembles when he is met with what has become of you. Your burnt corpse, in front of his teary eyes lay unmoving despite his plea. Perhaps the universe gave their shred of mercy to spare your face to stay recognizable. But he didn't want to see your face, not like this. He wants to see you without those burnt marks, your chest to move up and down to signify you're still breathing, for your eyes to be open staring back at his own. Anything that indicates that you're alive.

"Urgh...Come on! Open your eyes!" Tell him you're all right. The blonde desperately shakes your body on the stretcher. His tears falling to your chest and his pupils staring directly to your closed ones. Just open them already, you've gone too far with this prank–he thinks.

A couple people stare at him with pity, others shaking their heads. Those aren't the gazes he wanted to receive. He wanted happy ones, like the gazes of joy and amazement as he performs in the circus. He wants yours. The same ones that made his heart soar, set flowers blossoming in his heart. He wants you to prove them wrong–that he doesn't need their pity because you're all right. Prove that his creeping doubts are unreal.

A paramedic comes towards him, "Sir, I am very sorry for your loss. Regrettably, we ask you to step away so the removal technician could transport them to the morgue."

Mike shoots a wild glare at the paramedic. He shakes his head frantically while he holds your body close to him. Not letting any of the ones around him touch you, take you away from him. More tears escape his eyes and his voice trembles as he realizes how cold you feel, that there's no signs of breathing from you. "No! No! What are you saying?! I don't believe this–!"

Mike wants to cover his ears, preventing himself from hearing about what he refuses to acknowledge. But he doesn't want to let go of you.

"My Y/N is strong! They would never die from a stupid fire! They're fine, they'll be fine! Check again! You're wrong!" Mike exclaims, his tone desperate–trembling. Persistently denying the nightmare happening. His whole body shakes from the sob he tries to resist. No, he won't cry. Because this isn't real. It's not real.

But slowly, the wall of delusion he built cracks like his sanity when the harsh truth pokes through and send stabs to his breaking heart. His patience for everything is already thinning. He wants to lash out at everyone in the scene right now. Tell them to get out, to stop what they're doing, not take the last of what he loved the most.

"But sir—"

"Stop! Shut up! They're not—everyone is—they're all–" gone.

Mike stays silent for a moment before letting out a loud sob, choking on his tears, and lets out a scream full of frustration.

He stutters out your name numerous times, still not letting go of you. "Please, Y/N—please, just–!" Mike begs, as if you were to come back alive if he pleads hard enough. He holds your cold hand firmly, dead and devoid of the warmth he craved dearly. And like his hopes and the last of his joy, he completely falls apart. "Wake up, please!"

You were always there whenever he needed you. Behind the curtains, when he craved for sincere love, you were always there to give it to him. Always running and tending to him immediately whenever he needed help. But when he badly needed you the most, why aren't you waking up?

You were always there for him, so where was he when you needed him?

Countless guards had helped to retract his body from your corpse, firm grasps attempt to pull him away from you. Mike panics, fiercely thrashing around and pushing away the people that came near him. No, he doesn't want to let go of you. Not yet, not ever. This, what was left of you, something he never wants to lose. He won't admit that this will be goodbye.

He became so desperate. Even with the bruises and weary arms, Mike endured them all. After all, the pain he felt from others will never rival the pain of his broken heart. He begged the others to stop taking you away from him. To let them have you in his arms for a little longer. He hugged your body tightly, crying to your neck. Relishing the shred of comfort left from your lifeless body.

He was too stubborn that the polices agreed to let him mourn until he's had enough. Eventually, Mike fell asleep from the exhaustion of his own grief beside your eternally resting one. And with the opportunity, they pried you out of his hold.

The time he let his guard down, the time where he takes his eyes off you for a moment, you were gone from his grasp again—for good.

When he woke up from a place different from the circus, did the previous events fall on him all at once. And in that moment he realized, His home was no more. Everything, everyone is gone. And you are not coming back.

[ don't worry anon! It doesn't bother me at all. And thank you for fixing your mistake! And I wish you a great day too :D ]

CR: artwork from official Identity v account. Title are lyrics from Atlantis by Seafret.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: The Queen's Hand (Barristan IV) [Chapter 70]

Long ass chapter for no good reason.

The Dornish prince was three days dying.

He took his last shuddering breath in the bleak black dawn, as cold rain hissed from a dark sky to turn the brick streets of the old city into rivers. The rain had drowned the worst of the fires, but wisps of smoke still rose from the smoldering ruin that had been the pyramid of Hazkar, and the great black pyramid of Yherizan where Rhaegal had made his lair hulked in the gloom like a fat woman bedecked with glowing orange jewels.

Perhaps the gods are not deaf after all, Ser Barristan Selmy reflected as he watched those distant embers. If not for the rain, the fires might have consumed all of Meereen by now.

+.+.+

He saw no sign of dragons, but he had not expected to. The dragons did not like the rain. 

We already know they hate the cold, and don't do well in the north, but not liking rain seems to be a new development. At least for me.

"I knew it would rain," he said in a gloomy tone. "My bones were aching last night. They always ache before it rains. The dragons won't like this. Fire and water don't mix, and that's a fact. You get a good cookfire lit, blazing away nice, then it starts to piss down rain and next thing your wood is sodden and your flames are dead."

Gerris chuckled. "Dragons are not made of wood, Arch."

"Some are. That old King Aegon, the randy one, he built wooden dragons to conquer us. That ended bad, though." - The Dragontamer, ADWD

+.+.+

Missandei sat at the bedside. She had been with the prince night and day, tending to such needs as he could express, giving him water and milk of the poppy when he was strong enough to drink, listening to the few tortured words he gasped out from time to time, reading to him when he fell quiet, sleeping in her chair beside him. Ser Barristan had asked some of the queen's cupbearers to help, but the sight of the burned man was too much for even the boldest of them. And the Blue Graces had never come, though he'd sent for them four times. Perhaps the last of them had been carried off by the pale mare by now.

It seems little Missandei can stomach some pretty gruesome things. Reminds me of another little girl in this story.

I'm going to pretend the Blue Graces aren't helping because they hate him.

+.+.+

The tiny Naathi scribe looked up at his approach. "Honored ser. The prince is beyond pain now. His Dornish gods have taken him home. See? He smiles."

Dornish gods?

+.+.+

How can you tell? He has no lips. It would have been kinder if the dragons had devoured him. That at least would have been quick. This … Fire is a hideous way to die. Small wonder half the hells are made of flame. "Cover him."

Says the Targaryen loyalist.

+.+.+

"I'll see that he's returned to Dorne." But how? As ashes? That would require more fire, and Ser Barristan could not stomach that. We'll need to strip the flesh from his bones. Beetles, not boiling. 

Something tells me House Martell won't be enjoying this skull as much as the last one.

+.+.+

"You should go sleep now, child. In your own bed."

"If this one may be so bold, ser, you should do the same. You do not sleep the whole night through."

How does she know that?

+.+.+

Grand Maester Pycelle had once told him that old men do not need as much sleep as the young, but it was more than that. He had reached that age when he was loath to close his eyes, for fear that he might never open them again. Other men might wish to die in bed asleep, but that was no death for a knight of the Kingsguard.

If there is any justice in this world, Barristan Selmy falls down a flight of stairs. Make it old man shit.

+.+.+

After the girl was gone, the old knight peeled back the coverlet for one last look at Quentyn Martell's face, or what remained of it. So much of the prince's flesh had sloughed away that he could see the skull beneath. His eyes were pools of pus. He should have stayed in Dorne. He should have stayed a frog. Not all men are meant to dance with dragons. 

Misleading. Remember everyone, the dance won't actually involve dragons, Daenerys or any other real Targaryen.

+.+.+

And with the sun arrived the Shavepate. Skahaz was clad in his familiar garb of pleated black skirt, greaves, and muscled breastplate. The brazen mask beneath his arm was new—a wolf's head with lolling tongue. 

LMAO.

Two for three! If this guy is in a rat mask at the start of TWOW, I'm going to lose my mind.

Can someone do me a favour and ask a Targ if it's a good thing when the poisoner dresses like a wolf?

+.+.+

"They await the Hand's pleasure below."

I am no Hand, a part of him wanted to cry out. I am only a simple knight, the queen's protector. I never wanted this. But with the queen gone and the king in chains, someone had to rule, and Ser Barristan did not trust the Shavepate. 

You realize you didn't have to do anything, you stupid jackass.

+.+.+

There are two hundred highborn gathered in the square, standing in the rain in their tokars and howling for audience. They want Hizdahr free and me dead, and they want you to slay these dragons. Someone told them knights were good at that. 

Personally, my money's on cripples, bastards, and broken things. And Samwell.

+.+.+

Men are still pulling corpses from the pyramid of Hazkar. The Great Masters of Yherizan and Uhlez have abandoned their own pyramids to the dragons.

You find any lions under that pyramid?

+.+.+

"Nine-and-twenty?" That was far worse than he could ever have imagined. The Sons of the Harpy had resumed their shadow war two days ago. Three murders the first night, nine the second. But to go from nine to nine-and-twenty in a single night …

Sounds like the perfect time to go to war, Barry.

When she opened her eyes again, Daenerys said, "I cannot fight two enemies, one within and one without. If I am to hold Meereen, I must have the city behind me. The whole city. I need … I need …" - Daenerys V, ADWD

+.+.+

Why do you look so grey, old man? What did you expect? The Harpy wants Hizdahr free, so he has sent his sons back into the streets with knives in hand. 

Both of these men thought Hizdahr was the Harpy.

+.+.+

The sign of the Harpy was left beside the bodies, chalked on the pavement or scratched into a wall. There were messages as well. 'Dragons must die,' they wrote, and 'Harghaz the Hero.' 'Death to Daenerys' was seen as well, before the rain washed out the words."

Damn, they forgot my favourite.

+.+.+

"Twenty-nine hundred pieces of gold from each pyramid, aye," Skahaz grumbled. "It will be collected … but the loss of a few coins will never stay the Harpy's hand. Only blood can do that."

"So you say." The hostages again. He would kill them every one if I allowed it. "I heard you the first hundred times. No."

He can deny him all he'd like, the blood is still on Barristan's hands if these kids die. He's the one who committed treason, and empowered this maniac.

+.+.+

Hizdahr's grotesque dragon thrones had been removed at Ser Barristan's command, but he had not brought back the simple pillowed bench the queen had favored. Instead a large round table had been set up in the center of the hall, with tall chairs all around it where men might sit and talk as peers.

The audacity of this man.

+.+.+

They rose when Ser Barristan came down the marble steps, Skahaz Shavepate at his side. 

[...]

"Whitebeard." Belwas smiled. "Where is liver and onions? Strong Belwas is not so strong as before, he must eat, get big again. They made Strong Belwas sick. Someone must die."

Someone will. Many someones, like as not.

You can only laugh. I'm sure Skahaz is.

+.+.+

Should Drogon return to Meereen without Daenerys mounted on his back, the city would erupt in blood and flame, of that Ser Barristan had no doubt. 

Wanna bet the same thing happens if she is mounted on his back?

+.+.+

Thus far both dragons seemed to have a taste for mutton, returning to Daznak's whenever they grew hungry. If either one was hunting man, inside or outside the city, Ser Barristan had yet to hear of it. The only Meereenese the dragons had slain since Harghaz the Hero had been the slavers foolish enough to object when Rhaegal attempted to make his lair atop the pyramid of Hazkar.

Uh, no actually, that's not accurate at all.

The dragon twisted violently in the air, wounds smoking, the girl clinging to his back. Then he loosed the fire.

It had taken the rest of the day and most of the night for the Brazen Beasts to gather up the corpses. The final count was two hundred fourteen slain, three times as many burned or wounded. Drogon was gone from the city by then, last seen high over the Skahazadhan, flying north. - The Queensguard, ADWD

Convenient to forget something like that. I bet Barristan is going to be forgetting a lot of things in the future.

+.+.+

"We have more pressing matters to discuss. I have sent the Green Grace to the Yunkishmen to make arrangements for the release of our hostages. I expect her back by midday with their answer."

Barristan Selmy sending the Harpy to go negotiate with Yunkai is the most Barristan Selmy thing he could have done.

+.+.+

Skahaz Shavepate slammed his fist upon the table. "The Green Grace will accomplish nothing. She may be conspiring with the Yunkai'i even as we sit here. Arrangements, did you say? Make arrangements? What sort of arrangements?"

"Ransom," said Ser Barristan. "Each man's weight in gold."

Of course the Shavepate would be the one to correctly suspect treachery.

+.+.+

"Their sellswords will want the gold, though. What are the hostages to them? If the Yunkishmen refuse, it will drive a blade between them and their hirelings." Or so I hope. It had been Missandei who suggested the ploy to him. He would never have thought of such a thing himself. In King's Landing, bribes had been Littlefinger's domain, whilst Lord Varys had the task of fostering division amongst the crown's enemies. His own duties had been more straightforward. Eleven years of age, yet Missandei is as clever as half the men at this table and wiser than all of them.

Hm, it's usually Arya. This is the first time Missandei has given off older sister vibes.

+.+.+

"They will refuse, even so," insisted Symon Stripeback. "They will say they want the dragons dead, the king restored."

"I pray that you are wrong." And fear that you are right.

Reasonable demand.

214 people dead.

+.+.+

"Your gods are far away, Ser Grandfather," said the Widower. "I do not think they hear your prayers. And when the Yunkai'i send back the old woman to spit in your eye, what then?"

"Fire and blood," said Barristan Selmy, softly, softly.

✨ foreshadowing ✨

+.+.+

Skahaz Shavepate stared through the eyes of his wolf's head mask and said, "You would break King Hizdahr's peace, old man?"

"I would shatter it." Once, long ago, a prince had named him Barristan the Bold. A part of that boy was in him still. "We have built a beacon atop the pyramid where once the Harpy stood. Dry wood soaked with oil, covered to keep the rain off. Should the hour come, and I pray that it does not, we will light that beacon. The flames will be your signal to pour out of our gates and attack. Every man of you will have a part to play, so every man must be in readiness at all times, day or night. We will destroy our foes or be destroyed ourselves." He raised a hand to signal to his waiting squires. "I have had some maps prepared to show the dispositions of our foes, their camps and siege lines and trebuchets. If we can break the slavers, their sellswords will abandon them. I know you will have concerns and questions. Voice them here. By the time we leave this table, all of us must be of a single mind, with a single purpose."

Horse shit, this is exactly what he's wanted from the beginning.

"You mean to take the field?" The Shavepate's voice was thick with disbelief. "That would be folly. Our walls are taller and thicker than the walls of Astapor, and our defenders are more valiant. The Yunkai'i will not take this city easily."

Ser Barristan disagreed. "I do not think we should allow them to invest us. Theirs is a patchwork host at best. These slavers are no soldiers. If we take them unawares …" - Daenerys V, ADWD

x

The queen sighed. "What do you counsel, ser?"

"Battle," said Ser Barristan. "Meereen is overcrowded and full of hungry mouths, and you have too many enemies within. We cannot long withstand a siege, I fear. Let me meet the foe as he comes north, on ground of my own choosing." - Daenerys V, ADWD

Ahem.

Ser Barristan is a valiant knight and true; but none, I think, has ever called him cunning."

"Knights know only one way to solve a problem. They couch their lances and charge. A dwarf has a different way of looking at the world. What of you, though? You are a clever man yourself." - Tyrion II, ADWD

I'm dying at the author giving the Daenerys side a beacon. I'm used to Stannis copying her.

+.+.+

And when all that had been discussed, debated, and decided, Symon Stripeback raised one final point. "As a slave in Yunkai I helped my master bargain with the free companies and saw to the payment of their wages. I know sellswords, and I know that the Yunkai'i cannot pay them near enough to face dragonflame. So I ask you … if the peace should fail and this battle should be joined, will the dragons come? Will they join the fight?"

They will come, Ser Barristan might have said. The noise will bring them, the shouts and screams, the scent of blood. That will draw them to the battlefield, just as the roar from Daznak's Pit drew Drogon to the scarlet sands. But when they come, will they know one side from the other? Somehow he did not think so. 

A little friendly fire. No biggie.

I wonder which ally is getting smoked.

+.+.+

Ser Barristan took two of his new-made knights with him down into the dungeons. 

Ego always wins in the end.

As he watched them at their drills, Ser Barristan pondered raising Tumco and Larraq to knighthood then and there, and mayhaps the Red Lamb too. It required a knight to make a knight, and if something should go awry tonight, dawn might find him dead or in a dungeon. Who would dub his squires then? On the other hand, a young knight's repute derived at least in part from the honor of the man who conferred knighthood on him. It would do his lads no good at all if it was known that they were given their spurs by a traitor, and might well land them in the dungeon next to him. They deserve better, Ser Barristan decided. Better a long life as a squire than a short one as a soiled knight. - The Kingbreaker, ADWD

+.+.+

Ser Gerris punched a wall. "I told him it was folly. I begged him to go home. Your bitch of a queen had no use for him, any man could see that. He crossed the world to offer her his love and fealty, and she laughed in his face."

"She never laughed," said Selmy. "If you knew her, you would know that."

"She spurned him. He offered her his heart, and she threw it back at him and went off to fuck her sellsword."

"You had best guard that tongue, ser." Ser Barristan did not like this Gerris Drinkwater, nor would he allow him to vilify Daenerys. "Prince Quentyn's death was his own doing, and yours."

This will be the man who tells Dorne what happened. I couldn't be happier.

She did laugh, and she did influence him.

+.+.+

Barristan Selmy could not dispute the truth of that. He had spent the best part of his own life obeying the commands of drunkards and madmen.

Sounds like another king I know.

Jon laughed, laughed like a drunk or a madman, and his men laughed with him. - Jon VIII, ASOS

+.+.+

To Ser Barristan the big knight said, "No need to come and talk if you meant to hang us. So it's not that, is it?"

"No." This one may not be as slow-witted as he seems. 

You can't be serious.

This POV is unbearable, I can't believe I have one more to get through.

+.+.+

Ser Archibald grimaced. "Why is it always ships? Someone needs to take Quent home, though. What do you ask of us, ser?"

"Your swords."

"You have thousands of swords."

"The queen's freedmen are as yet unblooded. The sellswords I do not trust. Unsullied are brave soldiers … but not warriors. Not knights." He paused. "What happened when you tried to take the dragons? Tell me."

Even 11-year-old Sansa wasn't this deluded about knights.

+.+.+

The chains … there were bits of broken chain everywhere, big chains, links the size of your head mixed in with all these cracked and splintered bones. And Quent, Seven save him, he looked like he was going to shit his smallclothes. Caggo and Meris weren't blind, they saw it too. Then one of the crossbowmen let fly. Maybe they meant to kill the dragons all along and were only using us to get to them. You never know with Tatters. 

What a weird thing to write.

+.+.+

"Ah, what did you expect, Drink? A cat will kill a mouse, a pig will wallow in shit, and a sellsword will run off when he's needed most. Can't be blamed. Just the nature of the beast."

Still holding out hope this isn't only about Brown Ben Plumm.

+.+.+

"What did Prince Quentyn promise the Tattered Prince in return for all this help?"

He got no answer. Ser Gerris looked at Ser Archibald. Ser Archibald looked at his hands, the floor, the door.

"Pentos," said Ser Barristan. "He promised him Pentos. Say it. No words of yours can help or harm Prince Quentyn now."

"Aye," said Ser Archibald unhappily. "It was Pentos. They made marks on a paper, the two of them."

There is a chance here.

If you thought Barristan Selmy sending the Harpy to Yunkai was the dumbest thing he would do in this chapter, I've got some news for you.

"Pentos?" Her eyes narrowed. "How can I give him Pentos? It is half a world away."

"He would be willing to wait, the woman Meris suggested. Until we march for Westeros."

And if I never march for Westeros? "Pentos belongs to the Pentoshi. And Magister Illyrio is in Pentos. He who arranged my marriage to Khal Drogo and gave me my dragon eggs. Who sent me you, and Belwas, and Groleo. I owe him much and more. I will not repay that debt by giving his city to some sellsword. No."

Ser Barristan inclined his head. "Your Grace is wise." - Daenerys IX, ADWD

+.+.+

"I mean to send them back to the Tattered Prince. And you with them. You will be two amongst thousands. Your presence in the Yunkish camps should pass unnoticed. I want you to deliver a message to the Tattered Prince. Tell him that I sent you, that I speak with the queen's voice. Tell him that we'll pay his price if he delivers us our hostages, unharmed and whole."

Yup that's right, Barristan Selmy promised to give Pentos to a sellsword. PENTOS.

There are no words.

+.+.+

"Why not? The task is simple enough." Compared to stealing dragons. "I once brought the queen's father out of Duskendale."

Past your prime, peaked in high school energy.

+.+.+

The simple part, at least, thought Barristan Selmy, as he made the long climb back to the summit of the pyramid. The hard part he'd left in Dornish hands. His grandfather would have been aghast. The Dornishmen were knights, at least in name, though only Yronwood impressed him as having the true steel. Drinkwater had a pretty face, a glib tongue, and a fine head of hair.

God, shut up.

He would have a thin blue line bumper sticker, I know it.

Edit: Necessary addition.

+.+.+

By the time the old knight returned to the queen's rooms atop the pyramid, Prince Quentyn's corpse had been removed. Six of the young cupbearers were playing some child's game as he entered, sitting in a circle on the floor as they took turns spinning a dagger. 

Uhh, that doesn't feel like a good omen.

+.+.+

Far off to the east, beyond the city walls, he saw pale wings moving above a distant line of hills. Viserion. Hunting, mayhaps, or flying just to fly. He wondered where Rhaegal was. Thus far the green dragon had shown himself to be more dangerous than the white.

He sure is!

+.+.+

The Dornishmen, Hizdahr, Reznak, the attack … was he doing the right things? Was he doing what Daenerys would have wanted? I was not made for this. 

NO YOU CLOWN.

I want no war with Yunkai. How many times must I say it? - Daenerys VI, ADWD

+.+.+

Galazza Galare was attended by four Pink Graces. An aura of wisdom and dignity seemed to surround her that Ser Barristan could not help but admire. This is a strong woman, and she has been a faithful friend to Daenerys.

That's all the Harpy confirmation I need.

It's not clear what Pink Graces do. I am reminded of House of Pahl.

+.+.+

"I am pleased to hear that. The Wise Masters of Yunkai asked after him. You will not be surprised to hear that they wish the noble Hizdahr to be restored at once to his rightful place."

"He shall be, if it can be proved that he did not try to kill our queen. Until such time, Meereen will be ruled by a council of the loyal and just. There is a place for you on that council. I know that you have much to teach us all, Your Benevolence. We need your wisdom."

"I fear you flatter me with empty courtesies, Lord Hand," the Green Grace said. "If you truly think me wise, heed me now. Release the noble Hizdahr and restore him to his throne."

"Only the queen can do that."

But you can arrest the king, start a war with Yunkai, and give away Pentos?

+.+.+

The pyramid of Hazkar has collapsed into a smoking ruin, and many of that ancient line lie dead beneath its blackened stones.

How about twins? Any set of twins under that pyramid?

+.+.+

"And murder. The Sons of the Harpy slew thirty in the night."

"I grieve to hear this. All the more reason to free the noble Hizdahr zo Loraq, who stopped such killings once."

And how did he accomplish that, unless he is himself the Harpy?

+.+.+

"Her Grace gave her hand to Hizdahr zo Loraq, made him her king and consort, restored the mortal art as he beseeched her. In return he gave her poisoned locusts."

"In return he gave her peace. Do not cast it away, ser, I beg you. Peace is the pearl beyond price. Hizdahr is of Loraq. Never would he soil his hands with poison. He is innocent."

"How can you be certain?" Unless you know the poisoner.

If he would take one fucking second to listen to the words pouring out of his dumb idiotic mouth, he might realize there's no motive here.

+.+.+

"They did. No amount of gold will buy your people back, I was told. Only the blood of dragons may set them free again."

It was the answer Ser Barristan had expected, if not the one that he had hoped for. His mouth tightened.

Should the hour come, and I pray that it does not, we will light that beacon.

+.+.+

"I know these were not the words you wished to hear," said Galazza Galare. "Yet for myself, I understand. These dragons are fell beasts. Yunkai fears them … and with good cause, you cannot deny. Our histories speak of the dragonlords of dread Valyria and the devastation that they wrought upon the peoples of Old Ghis. Even your own young queen, fair Daenerys who called herself the Mother of Dragons … we saw her burning, that day in the pit … even she was not safe from the dragon's wroth."

"Dragons," Aemon whispered. "The grief and glory of my House, they were." - Samwell III, AFFC

+.+.+

Ser Barristan was on his feet at once. "What is it?"

"The trebuchets," the Shavepate growled. "All six."

Galazza Galare rose. "Thus does Yunkai make reply to your offers, ser. I warned you that you would not like their answer."

They choose war, then. So be it. Ser Barristan felt oddly relieved. War he understood. "If they think they will break Meereen by throwing stones—"

"Not stones." The old woman's voice was full of grief, of fear. "Corpses."

Yeah no shit, I would also feel relief if I manipulated the system for a specific outcome, then got exactly what I wanted.

I wish him well. Barristan Selmy is not allowed to die in Meereen with a sword in his hand.

Final thoughts:

Live look at me trying to get through the last three chapters.

-> return to menu <-

[catholic-character-tournament]

Round 2 - Resurrect Bracket (Losers Bracket) Side A

ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to [make it to the finals]

John Gaius art cred @exmakina

Propaganda below ⬇️

Flayn Propaganda

she’s honestly so much more interesting than people give her credit for. like she often gets written off as “funny little girl who likes fish” but like,,, she is so strong?? after you save her in chapter 6 and seteths first instinct is to hide themselves away from the world again and shes like fuck that shit! she has so much more of a connection to humanity than the others of her kind and that shows in her solo ending vs her paired ending w seteth, wherein she emerges from hiding as soon as she can when on her own but she and seteth emerge to a fódlan thats changed a lot technologically, so far far later. and i love her supports with everyone and shes so genuine and sweet and kind. flayns great i love her.

Patron Saint of Fish 🐟

John

book quote from the chapters where he's relating how he got necromantic powers and people freaked out!! this is pre-apocalypse and resurrection so it's implied he took a lot of inspiration from this incident . He said, Then we took off. Thread after thread on message board after message board. People wanting proof. People asking what the fuck it meant. People talking about the LUCIFER telescope and saying we were aliens. People calling me the Antichrist, which was a trip. People writing up these long posts on how the trick was done, how I got the meat into the pie. Was I fake? Was I real? If I was real, what did it mean? Suddenly there were hundreds of people, all there at our front door. They came in caravans, they were sleeping in their cars or putting up tents. A hell of a lot of them had flown out internationally. He said, Some of them wanted to see the miracle. Some of them wanted my help, like, Oh, you’re the magical death man, can you do something about my body? Can you fix my fibromyalgia? Thing was, I could. That surprised me. I could take out their tumours. I could fix their macular degeneration. Big damage was easy, unless they’d actually lost the limb or whatever. Couldn’t grow those back. But I spent hours and hours a day playing Jesus. That was nice, those were some of the nicest hours I got to spend. He said, But when you’re doing the whole Go, my child, your knee cartilage is fixed, you’re going to get a lot of visitors. I had to turn people away because I had to eat, I had to sleep, even though I didn’t want to. M— had brought in her best friend, the nun, and I was worried I was going to get the Antichrist bit from her too, but she was just like: stop doing this! Read your Bible! This was Christ’s whole problem! I was like, What are you talking about, Jesus cured the lepers and everyone was all, Hooray, thanks man. M—’s nun was all, Are you kidding, Christ never said no and never asked anyone to pay and got way too much attention and brought the heat down on everybody. Christ didn’t keep to office hours, she said. Don’t do that. He said, So we limited Jesus stuff to one hour a day, and I always had to eat breakfast. But by then the whole world was on our doorstep.

look this is kind of weird but he is the only survivor after nuclear bombs destroy the earth and he has weird necromancy powers so he revives his friends and a few other people to be his subjects and basically makes himself a god to them. there's a lot of layers since he's literally the only character in the entire series who remembers the world before and has a concept of the religion he's copying for his own. he treats the other characters like toys he can push around for his own amusement and everything is a joke but he does this world-weary act that somehow gets the reader to kind of feel for him even when he's being atrocious. and he's the only one who remembers memes. which is a torture all of its own.

I said "yes" but to be more clear: he was canonically Catholic when he was still mortal, but that was 10,000 years ago and he kind of killed everybody on the planet. Just slightly. Some of them got better. Now he's the Emperor Undying and his empire is very Catholic-coded.

OP note: I got some replies saying he's not actually canonically catholic and this is "as Catholic" as he gets

[blackjackkent]

Pairing: Unkindled/Firekeeper Warnings: None Word Count: ~740 Setting: Dark Souls 3, directly after the End of Fire ending

A/N: Random little flashfic vignette that my brain insisted on spitting out after thinking about DS3 for the first time in a while and having feels about the End of Fire. Honestly I have a whole longfic in mind about an Unkindled's journey towards this ending that I would like to write, but idk if I will ever actually get around to it, so this is what I have produced instead, at least for the time being.

Idk how good this is or how much sense it will make to anyone besides me. XD Like DS itself, it operates more upon vibes than sense. But here it is for anyone with interest in such things, and hopefully my brain will let me go to bed now. <3

-------

“Ashen one… hearest thou my voice still?” she asks. 

All is dark. The first flame has burned out at last; not even embers remain. And with it has gone all light out of the world, even that pale ring of fire that had been the sun’s last dying form. The blackness is absolute.

He breathes - once in, once out. Then again. The kiln smells of charred bones. 

The firekeeper speaks again, her voice like the whisper of silk on skin. “Ashen one… what we have done may not be undone. Dost thou still hear me?”

He turns his head, listening. In the silence of the darkened world, he can hear the gentle susurration of her feet through the infinite ash that blankets the kiln. So many have died in this place, fed themselves to the fire in pursuit of immortality for a god long dead. But no more bodies will burn here now. They have seen to that. 

They have seen to the end of the world.

“What have we wrought, ashen one?” she asks him. There is a tremble in her voice. “Surely we were not wrong? The world had stretched itself to breaking, its only respite to be found in utter surcease… It was a kindness we did, and yet I did not, in all my visions, sense how cold it would be…”

He feels that chill as well, seeping through his armor. It is not a chill merely of the air, but of the world itself. Its heart has been stopped; its flame-blood no longer flows. 

It matters not to him, of course. He is not alive, in spite of his breath and the twitch of his flesh, but merely a construct molded of the remnants of those who came before. No matter how cold this long night grows, he will not freeze. 

But she might…

The thought stirs him from his torpor, as his own discomfort did not. Were he abandoned to witness this sea of black in solitude, he might have sat there unmoving for many hours before finding the will to rouse himself. But he is not alone. 

The fire has faded, and the world with it. But she is still here, as she has been waiting at the end of every battle since he was pulled gasping from the grave. She has been his voice, as he has been her eyes. She has given him strength, and he has acted for both of them in pursuit of a new world. And now, even in the endless darkness, he is not alone because she is with him. 

He stands. His armor rasps metal on metal with the movement. He hears her soft exhalation, a sigh of relief. 

“I hear thee, ashen one. Wilt thou come to me? Canst take my hand?”

He reaches out blindly, led only by the sound of her voice and that nearly imperceptible sound of ash under her feet. His gauntleted hand brushes the sleeve of her robe, and then her fingers close around his with a desperate intensity that he can feel even through steel and leather. She tugs his hand to pull him to her; he cannot see her but he feels her weight as she leans into his chest, her forehead pressed to his breastplate just above his heart. 

“I know I am not wrong in what I saw,” she says softly. “A new flame will kindle itself, dancing across the darkness. We could take no other course than this; we could not hope for a new world while the old one still writhed and struggled for breath.”

It is a plea for reassurance, for comfort. He says nothing still, but releases his grip on her and begins, methodically, to strip the gauntlets from both his hands. Each metal glove falls into the ashen dune with a soft thump. When she reaches out for him again, their fingers interlace, warm skin on warm skin that says what he cannot say in words.

She relaxes; her voice softens to almost a whisper. “Yes. If we walk side by side in this darkness, there shall be nothing left to fear. Thou wilt stay with me, to see this new world together?”

He lifts her hand and presses his lips silently against her knuckles. 

Her breath catches, releases shakily. “Then this is how it shall be. We shall traverse the roads of black, and I shall be at thy side.”

[navibluebees]

Someone to be Proud of (Recom Quaritch x Female Human Reader) - Part 10

Please read before interacting.

Hi, friends. Seriously, thank you so much for your patience on this. I went away for a week in early February to visit schools with my partner. One of my grandparents passed early this month and it's just been a general funky mood all across the board. I ended up psyching myself out for this story. Will it be good enough? What if it doesn't line up with the future story? Is it even worth telling? And honestly, does any of that matter? Good enough is subjective anyway. It doesn't have to line up because that's literally the whole point of fanfiction: making it the way you want because the writers didn't. And any story is worth telling. So, if you're a creator and dealing with impostor syndrome and feeling like nobody wants to see your work, then just remember that someone does. Create your art and share bits of yourself with the world. It's so much more beautiful with you in it.

A shadow fell over you as you sat there with your arm around Spider. Neytiri analyzed you. “Why do you weep for a demon?”

Your mouth popped open as you turned to her, crouching on your knees. “He was more than that to me. He was.. everything. I don’t know who he was before. And I wasn’t prepared for who he became, but in the middle of that when he was reborn.. He was mine. He was.. I thought he was good.”

Neytiri scoffed, looking down her nose at you. “He has always been a demon. He was a demon until he died. He deserved his death.”

Your face tensed as you stood, not daring to look away from her intense eyes. “He did not deserve what he was made into. He had his own choices, but so much was foisted upon him. He could have been so much more if given the chance.”

You felt a tugging at your elbow, Spider pulling you away from the tall woman who had begun to bare her teeth. “He killed my son. He deserved everything he got. You mourn a monster.”

You flinched away, following after Spider. “I know,” you whispered.

~~

The ash people were very literal in their appearance. Their skin a dusky blue, darkened even more by the lines of soot smudged across their cheeks. They looked on curiously, some even hostilely, reaching out to grab Miles’ tail. He whipped, lunging toward them before being yanked back by the Na’vi guiding him. Cruel laughter followed him down the path.

He subtly tested the strength of his bonds and growled in frustration when they didn’t give an inch. 

“Be still! You will not be released until she approves.”

Miles stopped his motions and followed sullenly, thinking of all the violent things he’d like to be doing to his guide when they stopped short. A fire was ahead. Many tribe members sat in a circle and ate together, chatting boisterously. Everything halted when Miles appeared at the edge. He was shoved forward and then yanked around the fire. His guide shoved him to his knees.

“The dreamwalker, my Olo'eykte.” They bowed their head in deference and backed away slowly. 

The olo’eykte, known as Varang, scrutinized him. Her eyes were sharp as blades, slicing him open to see his mangled soul. The corner of her mouth quirked up. “Welcome, Dreamwalker. It is my first time meeting one of your kind, although the stories are known among all clans of Pandora. I hope we have been gracious hosts so far.” She snorted and popped a small berry into her mouth. Miles worked hard to keep his features smooth. “Ah, no response? Soon enough. Cut him loose.”

“But, my lady-“

“Must I repeat myself? Cut. His. Bonds.”

Reluctantly, the warrior stepped forward and sliced through the vines, nicking Miles’ wrist in the process. He hissed and rubbed his wrists carefully. Varang gestured for him to sit at her feet. She was lounging across a slab of rock, on top of a woven blanket. He carefully sat and with another wave of her hand, a small plate made of stone was thrust into his hands. He eyed the meal curiously. A cackle startled him out of his analysis.

“It won’t bite, Dreamwalker. Eat.”

He bit down through the tough skin, finding a juicy inner core. Upon further inspection, it looked to be the Pandoran version of a lizard. She noticed his quiet inspection and said, “We have many of these creatures around our home. They are hard to catch, but sometimes we happen upon a nest. Delicious!”

He nodded along, taking in her appearance and the guards flanking her. “Pretty good,” he mumbled. “How’s your English so good?”

Her smiled widened. “I have not met a dreamwalker, but some of my clan have. They went away for a time, hovering near the humans and speaking with the Omaticaya, to learn through them. Then, they came back and taught many of us.” Her face hardened. “We know a war is coming. Knowing our enemy’s language can provide an immense advantage for the conflict. You will provide the rest of what we need.”

He jerked back in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

She narrowed her eyes in annoyance. “I am speaking of your knowledge, Dreamwalker. You will share it with us, or face your death.”

He scoffed. “My death? You’re kidding me.”

She growled and gripped the sides of her seat, digging her fingers in as she leaned forward to put her face next to his. “You will not be laughing when the heat boils your body from the inside out, when it tears you apart while you slowly turn into nothing.”

His ears had flattened and his tail flicked in anger.

She noted his reaction and relaxed back. “Also, we have heard tales of a great battle between the great Toruk Macto and the humans. He fought alongside the Metkayina people who defended their Tulkun family. While we care not for them, we have heard rumors of a human boy that clings to Jakesuli and his family. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about him, would you?”

Miles chest heated up and his body rumbled with the threat to Spider.

Varang threw her head back, laughing again. “You are very easy to read, Dreamwalker.”

“I’m not. I’m not a dreamwalker. This is my body and my memories were put in when I was created.”

She looked mildly surprised at the new revelation. “Interesting. But no matter. Your knowledge is still the same.”

“Why in the hell do you even need to know anything? Why not just stay in this place away from everyone and let them fight between themselves?”

Her hand flew forward and hit him upside the head. “Are you stupid? They have not come for us, but your former kind are made of greed. It will never be enough. They will come soon enough. This is our home. Many in our clan have fought and died to keep this land. I will never give it up. Not as long as I live.”

~~~

You had followed Spider to the Sully marui to collect the older batteries for his mask. Sitting quietly on a woven piece outside of the home, you kicked your feet lightly in the water. A head popped out of the water, startling you enough to jump back. It was elongated and followed by two other heads attached to the bodies on the back. Kiri and the youngest Sully, Tuk, burst into a fit of giggles. You huffed playfully and the creature known as an ilu plopped its wet head in your lap, nuzzling against your stomach. Your hands grazed over its slick head and you smiled as it purred. 

Tuk reached around Kiri to hand you a fish. You tossed it up in the air and it flopped back to catch it, throwing the girls into the water. They came back up with the ilu circling them and chirping out a laughing sound. They pulled themselves up to where you and Spider were resting. Kiri smiled at you kindly and squeezed your hand. “Thanks for helping me talk to mom. I miss her so much.”

You nodded and patted hers with yours. “I’m sure she loves to hear your voice. When we get back in a few days, I can call so you can talk to her again.”

Kiri’s eyes brightened as she nodded eagerly. You felt a whisper of air right against your ear and turned slowly, coming face to face with Tuk’s bright eyes. With a yelp, you jumped back, leaning into Spider and Kiri. They both cackled and Kiri tried to chastise Tuk amidst the laughter, but couldn’t manage.

Tuk’s face got a bit serious. “Mama says you were friends with the bad man.”

Your heart clenched and you heard Spider start to speak, but you silenced him with a hand on his knee. “I did know the bad man. Yes, we were friends. But then, I saw what he did to you guys. To your family. And now we aren’t friends anymore.” Tears slipped down your cheeks and as you sniffled, you ducked your head.

A hand patted your head softly. “I’m sorry,” Tuk whispered. “I would be sad if I found out my friend wasn’t a nice person.” 

You turned to the young child, a veil of darkness hovering behind her eyes. “You are so kind, Tuk.”

Her face was sorrowful and you hesitantly reached out to rub a hand on her shoulder. She slumped against your touch and curled up beside you, putting her head in your lap. You looked closely at the small beads and shells in her hair and she sighed quietly at the gentle touch. Her arms curled around her knees, holding her body tight and your chest ached for the pain of this child. Spider leaned against Kiri and your head rested back against the walkway. A few moments later, you were all asleep, reassured by the touch of another person.

A while later, you were scooped up in someone’s arms. Grumbling you squirmed a bit, but settled when you heard Ka’ani whispering to you. A smile lit his voice as he told you it was time to go back. He lifted you carefully onto his ikran and you were awake long enough to hold on so he could hop up and surround you with his body. You settled in for the long ride back to your new home.

***

Taglist:

@drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @mechformers @nuttyrebelflower @ikranwings

[maddoc05]

forest fire (1048 words)

Summary: MAG 200 Jon and Tim AU

Ao3

The walls of the tunnels crack, curved like a spider’s web as it hangs over their heads. Jon tries not to linger on it too long. Every scuttle in the dark, every hint of a shadow peering from the corner edges, every muffle-thump of dirt that echoes in these godforsaken tunnels tenses him. Spider-clumps and miles of silk string.

There is no forgiveness to be found under these tunnels.

His hands are shaking as he lights the cigarette. His fingers catch against the fractures in the metal case.

Jon drags in a breath, and welcomes the burn of ash perforating his lungs.

Tim shuffles next to him, and Jon wordlessly passes it over to him.

He watches the flames flicker against Tim’s eyes. The shadow it casts are as dark as the bags under his eyes, against the pale scarred skin of his face. After the worms. After the explosion had singed away hair and flesh. The guilt dwells inside Jon like a second home. He never tries to bury it anymore – a punishment, if only to himself.

Because empty platitude and apologies can never scrape together shards or mend what was so many years in the breaking.

Saying I’m sorry will never fix what Jon has done.

Tim burns the cigarette.

“These will kill you.” His voice is hollow.

“Too fucking late.” Jon mutters.

His empty hand itches. The space between his ribs where his heart stagnates reminds him of this fact with every mockery of a breath.

“Georgie wanted to come after you.” Tim says darkly. “I told her I would.”

“Hm.” Jon has long since burned that bridge. The only thing he was ever good at. Next to surviving like a fucking cockroach when it would have been better for everyone if he had properly died. 

 “I hate this. I hate-“ – you, Jon mentally fills in the blanks – but Tim continues, “Being forced to make that choice. Like- losing everything else even after I think it’s all been taken.”

Jon says nothing. Waits for it.

“And- and now. We have to choose between this world or countless others. I can't even be selfish, because I keep thinking, that there's a world where none of this happened, where all of us could have been happy. Where Danny-” Tim breaks off. "I thought that- even after all that shit - at least we would have a chance. In the safehouse. A chance to be safe and free." 

Before Jon ruined it. Like he ruined everything else.

“None of this was fair.” Tim says. “Not to me. And- and not to you. I’m tired, Jon.”

It’s the first time that Tim has addressed him by name, since after the Unknowing.

Not the sarcastic drawl of Archivist or that bastard or monster.

“And I’m not? My whole life is a lie, it’s been nothing but a long setup to this.” Jon says bitterly, scrubbing his hand over his face. Part of him dares Tim to get angry again. At least it’s a familiarity for him to grasp onto. “I damned the whole fucking world, Tim. Sasha is gone. Martin is gone. Billions are suffering and dying.”

The silence drags.

“Since we’re doing this heart-to-heart thing.” Jon mutters, and stupidly, that’s the thing that finally breaks him.

His next breath is a sob. And the next. He doesn’t expect Tim to catch him when his knees finally give out, when Jon can’t even see past the blur of tears in his vision, but he does. His throat aches, tight with tears like a noose, and it feels like his chest is caving in within himself. His face is crumpled and wet like a tissue.

Tim’s breath is hot against the front of his throat, Jon tilts his head back, exposed, as that aching thing within him grasps onto the direction of the closest thing to his god but the tunnels block him, heavy and oppressive, and so Jon is alone and breaking and nothing and everything all at once.

Tim is the serrated edge of an anchor. Jon wants to bleed, wants to match that awful chasm within himself to something that he can actually comprehend. He wants- he wants an end to all this, and he wants Jonah Magnus to pay. He will rip the words from Elias’s throat like Magnus had done to his, and he will make him suffer the fear that Jon has been drowning in for so long.

Tim doesn’t need words to understand, when Jon grasps his hands – one always, always cold – and he twists his head to meet Tim’s gaze head-on, and the wound that bleeds from his eyes is the rage and anguish and determination that tells Tim everything he needs to know. Tim thinks, and Jon knows, that this is where their road inevitably ends.

Tim breathes, ragged. They are both slumped against the tunnel wall, Jon cradled in Tim’s arms with kindness that they both know he doesn’t deserve.

Jon whispers in Tim’s ear, “Pull the trigger.”

A shiver racks Tim’s spine. “You bastard.” Their foreheads pressed together, and in that moment, Jon’s world is Tim. Not the Beholding, not the spider, not the door that knocks and knocks and knocks. Tim’s eyes are full of understanding and pain and some sliver of emotion that Jon can’t name. “That’s the deal.”

 

 

It’s so easy to lie to the others.

Basira tells them to enjoy their brief respite – one final night of rest – before their plan is to be implemented. Jon smiles a liar’s smile, but it doesn’t matter, because they all walk on fragile courtesy and false words slipped within sheep’s wool. Tim’s arms are stifling around Jon’s shoulders.

They both don’t sleep, but the feigned intimacy of it is… something.

Jon can close his eyes. He can spare a moment to pretend.

But he doesn’t dare to.

The tunnels carry sound well. Both Tim and he wait for Basira’s breathing to even out, to be certain that Georgie and Melanie are well and truly asleep, before making their move.

Tim is the one to press the knife into Jon’s hand. Jon is the one to give Tim a pained smile, and mouth thank you.

They both leave the tunnels and don't look back.

Jon ascends his Tower, and Tim follows

[greywindys]

Do you ever imagine what the storyboard for the final Plastic Beach MV might’ve been like if they’d even gotten to that point, despite the scant information we have on it aside from the general concept? I have a few ideas myself.

I imagine the fight itself would be brutal and bloody, though I wonder if any shreds of mercy or pity would be visible in Noodle, especially in regards to all the conflicting interpretations of Cyborg herself and Noodle’s reaction to her in canon…I also like to imagine that, at the conclusion of the Noodle and Cyborg fight, we’d see one of the Noodles made it, but we can’t tell who…who has won in the symbolic battle of man and machine? We do not know and it does not matter at this point, because it is too late. Man has used machine to destroy the earth and now both must pay the consequences. The plug is pulled, swallowing everything and everyone with it, even the music itself, leaving only the quiet lighthouse left of the world…Murdoc, who has only survived by sheer cowardice and being at the top of the world’s destruction and dying breath, stumbles out now that the chaos is over. He never saw Noodle come back or the fight. He never saw Russel, never saw 2D. He will never see anyone again. He surveys the area, realizing the Book of MAN’s prophecy has come true, he has fulfilled his destiny, the Boogieman is gone…but so is everyone else. He’s finally alone and despite what he’s said before, he never wanted this. It’s too late now. All he can do is stare at the “camera” and laugh maniacally, to the point of tears, as the camera zooms out into an empty white void…a pointless and pyrrhic victory against the goodness in himself if there ever was one.

I also like to imagine the Evangelist makes a cameo in there somewhere, perhaps trying to coax Murdoc out and get whatever shreds of goodness remain to come out and do something…

Well, those are just my ramblings, what are your thoughts?

I'm not the best person to answer this because I don't like PB as an album. The music just isn't for me, so it's hard for me to imagine what off that album could effectively capture the gravity of the plot Cass developed, if they even stuck with that ending. They've kind of retconned the ending you described a few times in the current phases (P4 with "The Book of ___" being the first), though I'm of the opinion that those retcons don't hold as much weight. And honestly, I like the original plot as an ending for Gorillaz, even more in today's context, where they've been essentially swallowed whole by the capitalist Machine™ anyway. It's a bleak ending, but imo, it fits for Murdoc, our anti-hero (villain?). I'm reminded of a quote from A Song of Ice and Fire, "He would see this country burn if he could be king of the ashes."

But anyhow, ty for your ramblings. They would make for a grand music video...we would just need music to match the energy.

[dayplays]

A quirky thing about Blaze's canon history is that, despite the Sol Dimension being a wholly separate & unique one from Sonic's, Eggman Nega (her primary antagonist) isn't actually her world's version of Eggman. Nor is he even native to her world at all.

He's from the main dimension's far future, a descendant of Eggman who was dissatisfied with his ancestor's failure to bring their ideal world into fruition, who uses advanced future technology to develop a means to traverse both time & space, and uses it to try to succeed where his ancestor failed by conquering a world at it's weakest.

Apparently, he initially tried time traveling to the past of the main dimension for this, but was (presumably repeatedly) stopped by Silver. (Source: Sonic Rivals)

So when THAT failed, that's when he decided to hop to a different dimension who's timeline wasn't protected by an annoying time traveler, that we could just conquer that world instead... a world who'd never have otherwise known Eggman, as far as he knows.

And, while it's never really fully elaborated on in complete detail as far as I'm aware, I've taken the route in believing that here, too, he tried conquering the Sol Dimension super early in it's timeline so he'd have the best chance he possibly could against them.

And, to his credit, his first attempt came really close! The world's inhabitants just barely managed to rebuke him and safeguard their world. The loss didn't discourage him, considering how close he'd gotten, so he just hit fast forward a few years when their guards would be let down and he could try again without the same flaws.

And he failed, again. No big deal, do-over again. ... huh, odd, they didn't have their guards down as much!

Repeat this ad-nauseum throughout the timeline's entire history up to the present, and you see what the results of Eggman Nega's nonstop attempts at conquering the world have done to the Sol Dimension: created a world who's most powerful empire was formed purely to safeguard their planet from invasion and protect it's most powerful artifacts, who's royal family are born with superpowers and trained from a young age to turn their enemies into ashes.

No, Blaze's world is not like this simply to be a "mirror" of Sonic's (on this blog), it exists this way because an egotistical time-traveler repeatedly gave them reason to grow sterner and firmer, forged in the fires of invasions from another world. He made them stronger.

Something that became so frustratingly Sisyphean to Nega that, when all his other plans failed, he didn't even want to win by the end of Sonic Rush Adventure- he just wanted to destroy the whole planet, flip the table the game he'd been losing so badly at was being played on. Unfortunately for him, he cracked before that world did.

[djokeery]

i guess there's nothing more romantic than dying with your friends

"I don't know how else to say this, so I'm just going to say it, and I don't want to make today even worse, but I have this terrible feeling it might not work out for us this time,"

He swivels his head immediately.

"Rob, no, noth—"

She cuts him off.

"And I know—I know I should be more positive, I know. But if this is it, Steve..."

word count: 2.3k tags: robin and steve being the only people ever, best friends, my whole entire heart, "till forever falls apart" by ashe & finneas, cicadas, i love you, the end of the world, a slight pushing of the stancy agenda from robin and steve pulling his angsty weight

(this was originally posted on AO3 and it was written before vol 2 came out—it's very special to me; i hope it's special to you, too.)

In the midst of the chaos, somehow, they've found a minute alone, a minute just to themselves, the two of them, Robin and Steve, and it's so quiet that the cicadas take center stage alongside the oceanic sounds of gasoline sloshing inside half-empty jugs, creating their own fire while simutaneously breaking through the silence.

Steve's kind of wishing he could cut the air with his axe, smother the tension so reality doesn't feel so deafening, but he'll take the random background noise over being left alone with his own thoughts any day, especially when all he's hearing inside his brain is I can't let any of them die no one is getting left behind we're going to be okay this is the end I'm really fucking scared I never said I love you should I have written letters shut up we're okay this is okay we've got this alright except what if we don't what if we di—

The cicadas pause for a moment, and Robin takes the opportunity to unknowingly mute Steve's internal spiral by starting to speak.

"I don't know how else to say this, so I'm just going to say it, and I don't want to make today even worse, but I have this terrible feeling it might not work out for us this time,"

He swivels his head immediately.

"Rob, no, noth--"

She cuts him off.

"And I know—I know I should be more positive, I know. But if this is it, Steve..."

The tension is back, and it's real, and it's heavy.

It drapes over them like a blanket, covering the scene and erasing everyone that isn't them, everything that isn't this moment right here, right now.

"I need you to know that I love you."

If the world wasn't stopped already, it is now. The last three words catch him completely off guard, freeze him in his tracks, and make him feel like holding her tight against his chest while simultaneously running away to the furthest corners of the earth.

The mere idea of Robin Buckley loving him, Steve "The King" and "The Hair" Harrington, is almost too much to bear.

It's a weight he doesn't deserve to carry.

He can tell she's not looking for a response, but he wants to give her one. He wants that more than anything. He just doesn't know if he should.

Because she's right.

This is the fight of their lives, for their lives, and he loves her too. He kind of always has, and he definitely always will. He couldn't stop loving her even if he wanted to. (He doesn't.) It's just not in his blood.

There's just one question he still has, though.

"But what about Vickie?"

Robin lets a small snort out, and Steve's sad to see it go. It's a beautiful sound, one he's tried to memorize a million different times over the past year of knowing her. (It amazes Robin how much he tries, and how much he cares, even when he doesn't, when he can't realize it.)

"Steve, you absolute dingus, no, not like that, god, no, I still very much like girls, I just—I love you, and I cannot stand the idea of dying without you knowing what you mean to me."

"Hey, just listen to me for a seco—"

If this were anyone else, Steve would be pissed he's being cut off so many times. But this is Robin, and when she starts rambling, she can't stop, and her words right now are spilling out so quickly that she's hardly breathing between the sentences. There's a waterfall of desperation in her tone, she's not looking anywhere but directly at him, and so he lets it go. He listens and she lets it pour.

"All I've ever wanted my whole entire life is to have something that matters, to be a part of something real, and that's you. It's us. The friendship we have is something I knew I'd never find, because I'm a loser and annoying and I can't even say hi to the girl I like without throwing up and I'm a mess, a total complete mess, and that—that's not even what I'm trying to say here."

She releases a strangled groan while she drags her hands down her face, taking in a deep breath before she uses it all up for another monologue, and Steve's still there, by her side, as constant as ever, soaking every single word up like they're the very last ones he might be lucky enough to hear.

"Remember, at Starcourt, when you told me everything people tell you you should be is bullshit?"

He nods.

"Well, this isn't bullshit. You're the best person I know and you deserve to be happy. I know how alone you've been, I know what it sounds like when you wake up from a nightmare, screaming, and I know you still feel something towards Nancy, even if you refuse to believe it yourself. So please, promise me you'll say something, before it's too late. Because you're my best friend and I'd give you the world if I could, but we apparently have to save it again first, and I love you. You're the only person who likes me for me, all of me, and—thank you for that. For everything, actually."

Steve doesn't know when the cicadas began chirping at full volume again, but Robin's not looking at him anymore, and she's wringing her fingers together as if her hands were a sponge and she could force them to be dry at will, as if she could take back the multitude of things she just confessed.

He doesn't even care that she only said them because she's convinced they're going to die. (They're not. They can't. They won't. He refuses.)

Quietly, under his breath, so soft it nearly gets lost amongst everything else, he asks. But it isn't really a question, just more of a confirmation.

"I'm your best friend, huh? Me?"

"That's what you got from all of that?"

"Well, am I?"

She's looking at him like he might have rabies again—and who knows? Maybe he does—but he needs to know.

He really needs to know.

"...yeah, Steve. You're my best friend."

They share the tiniest of smiles, and it cracks them open.

"You're my best friend too, you know. And I love you back, platonically, of course," and then, with the addition of a small finger gun, he continues, "Capital P."

Robin's smile widen's ever so slightly.

"Is that so?"

For some reason, the teasing remark takes him back to swimming pools and late November nights and is that supposed to impress me? and you're not? and every ghost that's ever left him haunted. (At this point, he has too many to count.)

Steve thought he understood the concept of deja vu, thought he knew what it was like to relive exact moments of his life over and over again, thought the film reel of memories in his mind had reached its limits of repeating plot lines, but here was again, being proven wrong as always.

(Somewhere, another echo: and another one bites the dust. You are oh for six, Popeye."

"I'm sorry I dragged you into all of this."

He knows he made a mistake the second Robin's face falls, the brief bubble of joy they'd somehow managed to enter together popping almost instantly.

"Steve—"

"No, you got to have your speech, and now it's my turn, okay?"

He can tell it's a struggle for her not to fight him on this, to let him have the open floor, but she allows it. Her whole body moves to an idling stop, and, in the physical pause, Steve continues.

"The only reason you know monsters are real is because of me, and if I could go back in time and change that, I would. I don't regret you, I never could, but I regret ruining your life. You should be anywhere but here, and I'm sorry. I have a tendancy to screw up everything around me, and you don't deserve this."

Robin doesn't know exactly when it started, but Steve's eyes are starting to water. Just a tiny amount, right around the edges. She's captivated by it for a second, the slight twinkle, and then it hits her like a freight train.

Throughout everything, in all the time she's known him, really known him, she's never seen him cry. Not once.

"I hope you tell Vickie how you feel and I hope you get everything you've ever wanted. You're so smart, you're a goddamn genius, Robin, the smartest person I've ever met, actually, so you better tour the world and go to Europe and try that one pasta I can't ever pronounce—"

"Tajarin al tartufo,"

"Yeah, submarine el tofu, with the egg yolks and truffle, whatever the fuck that is." He scratches the back of his head, and there's dried blood embedded in his fingernails when he pulls his hand back. He tries really hard to ignore the fact that he doesn't know who—or what—it came from. "You're too hard on yourself, and I—I'm a better person just because I know you. I'm so lucky I know you."

"Jesus, Steve."

"What? I'm not allowed to be nice to you?"

"No, it's just..."

When she speaks again, a few moments later, it comes out a little sour, a little bitter, and her voice is scratchy. "You're actually an idiot, you know that?" (He does. He really, genuinely, truly does.)

"Tell me something I don't know, Buckley."

"Okay." She was never one to back down from a challenge. "You clearly think you're some kind of terrible person who makes my decisions for me, since you think me being here is somehow your fault, which it isn't, let me make that clear, plus, you're avoiding the fact that you're still in love with Nancy and that you maybe never even stopped loving her in the first place."

He scoffs. "I don't still have a thing for Nance, Robin. I told you last summer, in the bathroom, at Starc—"

"—at Starcourt, yeah, I was there. But I've seen the way you look at her, and more importantly, I've seen the way she looks at you."

When he stays silent, brown eyes transfixed on the gravel at their feet, Robin keeps going. "I don't think it's over, Steve."

"Robin..."

He doesn't know how to tell her it'd never work, that it's hopeless, that he's hopeless. He doesn't know how to explain that the reason why he and Nancy broke up in the first place was basically because he was a selfish asshole, and that he hasn't really changed that much since.

Two years isn't as much time as it feels, and yeah, they're both different people now, older and a bit wiser, mostly on her part, but at his core, Steve Harrington is still the problem. (He thinks he always will be.)

He's still someone who's desperately, painfully sorry, who's constantly trying to make up for things he'll never be able to forgive--being a stupid teenager, disregarding Barb's death, talking shit about the entire Byers family, Jonathan, pretty much everything that he did and said while King Steve was still "ruling" the world, the list goes on forever. It keeps him up at night, leaks into his nightmares, coats his daylight decisions in too many shades of apologetic regret, and it's never enough. He's never enough.

Robin's voice shakes him back into reality, gently, and, somehow, she's still pressing the same subject.

"Give it a shot, Harrington. You don't have anything to lose." (That was kind of a lie. He has everything to lose, actually.)

Steve immediately objects. "I would, but Jonath—"

"Try anyway. Believe me."

And, for some unknown reason, deep in his guts, underneath the bites from the demobats, he does.

He thinks that he kind of has to.

(This is the end, after all.)

Together, they sit in silence for another minute or two, taking in each other's presence for as long as they can, while they still can.

Neither one of them really knows what to say at this point; they've laid it all out on the table in a way, shared their letters out loud instead of writing them down, made their beds, and it is what it is. (It's love, and it's radiating from their cores like the sun.)

The cicadas are serenading them now, sinnging a song that feels like an ode to trying, to giving, to being, to living, to loving, and Robin wonders if Steve is hearing it the same way she is, all of the melodic chirped notes spinning around them.

She wonders, and so she asks.

"Hey, Steve."

He looks up from the ground, meets her tired face, specifically chooses not to comment on the tear sliding out of the corner of her left eye. (Robin doesn't even realize she's crying, wouldn't even be able to tell you when or where she started.)

"You OD over there?"

And he laughs.

He laughs like he's never been lonely, he laughs like there's hope in their story, he laughs from a place he'd forgotten even existed—somewhere warm, bright, golden, alive, and Robin laughs right along with him.

Their voices join the chorus of cicadas, becoming a grand orchestra, together, with ease, effortlessly, and it's beautiful.

They might be dead in a few hours, or twenty minutes (what's the difference, really?) but they have this right now. They have each other, and their laughter, and their love, and they're holding on, tightly, whatever happens.

***

When it's finally time to go, before she turns around to head back into the RV, before it's time to face whatever Vecna chooses to throw at them next, Robin says it again, gasoline in hand, with the most direct eye contact of her life, just to drive it home. (She needs to make sure he knows.)

I love you.

Steve smiles, a real one, and he says it back.

[pokeworldrevisited]

I've been meaning to get back here but I've been rather focused on Fire Emblem these past few months so that's why I was absent. I will try to be on here more often, especially since I want to write about the Double Sun/Moon AU as someone asked. So I'll get to that once I find the right words for it.

However a new announcement just came out and I feel like I should talk about it. It's something I and a lot of people were wondering about since Journeys started and it's finally been confirmed:

Ash is leaving the series.

I'm both parts happy, and worried about this. Happy because I do feel like this is the best point to end Ash's journey in the anime. Mainly since the anime put him in a fairly 'dangerous' position by making him world champion. They can't have Ash go back to his usual formula without backlash but they also can't really write anymore challenges for him that he can't overcome.

Another reason I'm happy is because while I do like Ash's character, I kinda stopped watching the anime as much after gen 5 because I wasn't a fan of how he seems to reset between regions. New team, new allies, new everything. Hell it also seemed like his knowledge in Pokemon would reset too. I always felt like if they did that, wouldn't it have been easier to make a new protag per gen to follow?

Now for why I'm worried... I'm less worried about the new Pokemon protagonists as a whole, but the fan reaction to them. We saw a bunch of negativity every time Goh had even a bit of spotlight. There was controversy where he caught all the Galar Starters instead of Ash, and HUGE controversy when Goh caught Suicune. Sure he started off as a bit of a dick at first but he learned to grow during Journeys. Yet by that point a lot of people already disliked him.

And now there's not one but two new protagonists? I can already hear people going 'I wish Ash was here' or 'Ash wouldn't have done that, these characters suck' at the slightest rookie mistake these two make. Which makes sense. Ash has been the Pokemon protagonist since the beginning, everyone grew up watching Ash journey through the regions on the quest to become a Pokemon master. hell for a lot of us Ash has been around before we were even born. These two will naturally have some rather large shoes to fill if they want to stick around.

So I guess I should ask y'all to not do what a lot of you did with Goh and at least try to give the new characters a chance. Let them make mistakes if their new trainers, wait to see if their character arcs cause them to change. Don't compare every little thing these two new protagonists do to what Ash did.

Personally, I feel like as long as they don't give these two protags the exact same goal as Ash/give them Ash's exact personality, things will be fine. Will be hard to adjust to the change, can't deny that, but if the writings good enough then these two could be great new protags.