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rhymingtree · 2 years

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FROM THE SHADOWS - Chapter Fourteen

Chapter 14 || Edge of Infinity

word count: 10.1k

summary: Bucky and (F/N) come back home, allowed a moment to ignore the impending chaos looming over them.

Also, they help Sam fix a boat.

Warnings: I don't know enough about boats to write about fixing them. A little bit of sad. Sam talks some sense into his friends. Mostly fluff.

— — —

NEW EDEN

It was the dead of night when they had gotten home. (F/N) drove through the streets slowly, looking at every building and every house they passed, with Bucky doing the same next to her. They both hadn’t been home in months, and she hadn’t realized how much she had missed it until she was driving down the silent street again.

A heavy weight was lifted off her chest driving down the familiar streets of New Eden, despite being empty. There was barely a sign of life. It was so different from the first time they had arrived in town together, but she didn’t mind it.

She had gotten used to not knowing what would come out of the darkness, to steeling herself with every step she took and every way she went, anticipating danger like she had been. The danger knew to thrive in the darkness she once hid in.

But not in New Eden. She and Bucky were safe. At least for now.

She stared up at the house as the Firebird rolled to a slow stop. It was the same as she had left it months ago, except it wasn’t covered in snow, and the light coming through the windows was warm and inviting her back inside, not waving her goodbye.

She looked over at Bucky, and saw that he was already looking at her, with a look of exhaustion hidden behind a veil of relief. His hand went to her thigh, and she could feel the cool touch of his hand through her clothing, which in turn, warmed her heart.

“You ready?” He softly asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

---

Amma was waiting for them inside the house, sitting on the couch with Moonshine, whose excited barks they could hear before they even got inside. She had run up to the two of them so quickly, wrapping her arms around (F/N) before she had time to put her bags down.

“Oh, sweet-tart,” Amma hummed into her ear. It felt like a dream, seeing her again, being held by her again. She let (F/N) go, but kept her hands on the soldier’s cheeks, studying her face as if it had been ages since they last saw each other. Her thumb softly traced the faded scar below her eye, She clicked her tongue at her, worry taking over her features. “What happened here?”

She smiled at Amma reassuringly, gently bringing her hands down, “It’s nothing, Amma. I’m alright.”

Amma didn’t believe her, but decided to ignore it for the time being, only bringing her back into a hug that squeezed (F/N) tight.

Bucky approached, arms wide open. Amma embraced him with a wide smile, “I missed you both so much! You’ve been away too damn long.”

“I missed you too, Amma,” he chuckled as the woman tried to wrap her arms around his broader middle. “We’re home now.”

She snapped up, pointing a threatening finger up at him, “And you better not leave again.”

Bucky glanced over at (F/N), watching as she slowly shrunk away from Amma.

They will leave again. Even Amma knew that by now. The Flag Smashers will pop up again, and surely they’ll be there. Even when that’s over, even if they swore they’d stay home and keep away from the fight, neither of them can keep that promise.

Something will happen that will bring them back into the chaos, but they’ll be damned if they let it pull them apart again.

Moonshine was jumping up at their feet, not knowing who to greet first. Bucky and (F/N) knelt down to pet him, hug him, let him give all the kisses he couldn’t give while his parents were away.

“You’d gotten so big, boy,” (F/N) told him. A flash of sadness had overcome her as Moonshine ran around the room in excitement; how easily could she have been forgotten by Moonshine, who had still been a puppy when she had left for Macau. Somehow, in Boone and Duke’s care, he hadn’t. “I missed you too, Moonie.”

Looking over at Bucky, bright with happiness as he hugged Moonshine, she realized that she in her absence had been the one to forget. Being gone for so long and stuck in a cycle of rectifying the sins of others and committing her own, she had forgotten the life she had left behind.

She forgot she had a family to come home to.

The look on Bucky’s face told her he'd never let her forget that again.

— — —

It had been two days since they had gotten back home.

Two days of waking up next to her, feeling her skin cool against his despite the summer sunlight intruding into their space. Two mornings of sleepily holding each other, enjoying the quiet songs of birds before Moonshine ran into their room to greet them good morning, barking and jumping until they got up to feed him.

They had settled back into routine smoothly, almost as if they had never left. The folks in town had welcomed them with warmth but had left them alone to rest, most likely having been reminded by the Roper twins and Amma to get settled.

Bucky spent every second of those two days watching her move around the house with a loving smile. He found every chance he could to be beside her, touch her, smell her, hear her talk and laugh… Each glance she gave to him was memorized and counted like they were bars of gold, kept securely in a vault in his mind.

He refused to admit that he was afraid of losing her again, that something would catch them off guard and she’d be whisked away to another part of the world he couldn’t reach, and he’d be in solitude, to be judged and prodded by people he never trusted. So he took every chance he could get to remind himself she was there. She was home. And she had told him time and time again since they got back, she was never leaving again.

(F/N) was doing everything she could to make up for the seven months she had left Bucky alone. Two days of making the house feel lively again, playing with Moonshine, watching movies. cleaning up the house. Two nights of bliss that lasted only hours but felt like an eternity, and had them tangled together until morning came.

She knew it would somehow come to a stop sooner rather than later. She knew the Flag Smashers were planning something, and that the world hadn’t stopped spinning even if they hid away in their own corner of it. But for her sake and Bucky’s she pretended it had, she pretended that time had stopped.

It was strange to be aware of danger looming when all you wanted was to be happy. Living a life like hers made her used to it. It was strange to know that this was of her own accord, that Bucky was, indeed real. Their home wasn’t a fabrication, he wasn’t an illusion that was too good to be true, and they weren’t stuck in time. They weren’t trapped in an enclosure.

They were just happy. They were free.

They were dancing on the edge of infinity, she and Bucky lived a life where the abyss looming below them was less than new, but always scary. She was comforted by the knowledge that should the abyss pull them down, they both had the strength to pull themselves back up, and do it all over again.

And it was only a matter of time before it did.

---

Duke called them on their third day of being home.

It was early in the morning, (F/N) was making coffee while Bucky was walking Moonshine around town. She and Bucky had… tired each other out the night before, and her eyes were still heavy with sleep. The sudden ring of her phone jolted her awake more than the steaming cup of coffee she held in her hands, it almost burnt her as it sloshed around the mug while she ran to answer it.

Seeing Duke’s name on the screen sent a wave of relief through her, but had also given her a pang of dread.

“Good morning, Captain,” his gruff voice greeted her, the smile evident on his voice. “How have you and Barnes been? Settling back in all right? ”

“More than all right, Duke. We’re all glad to be home.” (F/N) smiled. For the first time in months, she didn’t need to lie to anyone anymore. Everything truly was all right. At least to her and Bucky; at least for now. “Any updates on Karli?”

“None so far, but listen, that wasn’t why I called–”

“What about Carter? Any movement on her end?” She took a quick sip of coffee, ignoring the annoyed huff Duke replied with.

“You aren’t supposed to be thinkin’ about that,” he scolded. “You’re supposed to be relaxing. Sleeping in. You aren’t on that mission anymore.”

“I can’t help it. I hate having to leave a mission unfinished, especially one this dangerous.” And she did wish she could forget about it for even just a little while, but doing so meant letting the threat they had already broken down fester and grow back to be worse than before. “I thought you were calling because something was happening.”

“Can’t I call a friend just to see how she’s doing?”

“Sorry, Duke. Your friend is just peachy,” she smiled, keeping her voice light and cheery.

“Fuck off, (F/N).”

“I love you too, buddy.” Raising her cup to her lips, she asked. “Why’d you call?”

“Boone’s finished repairing your helmet, and Wilson’s Redwing is ready for pickup.” Duke told her, pausing for a suspiciously long moment. “And the Senator wanted you to come by the base. He’s got something to discuss with you.”

(F/N) frowned, “So something did happen?”

“That wasn’t what I said,” he sighed. “He just wants to talk. Nothing more.”

She scoffed, “I doubt that.”

The front door opened, taking her attention away from Duke’s snark reply as Bucky and Moonshine entered the house. Bucky looked up at her as he took off Moonshine’s leash, and the smile on his face faded away as he saw the concern on hers.

“Everything alright?” He walked over to her, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead while reaching for the cupboard, looking for another mug. “Who is it? Boone?”

“It’s Duke,” she told him. “Turner wants us to go to Olympus, apparently he wants to talk.”

Bucky looked confused, directing his quizzical brow at the coffee machine, “Now?”

She raised the phone to her ear again, “When can we come by?”

“Today, if you can. He’s taking the girls on vacation for the month, so you’ll have until tonight.” He must have sensed her trepidation because she left no reply, and simply said, “I’m sorry about this. We all agreed to give you and Barnes more time to yourselves.”

“It’s okay,” she looked over at Bucky, nodding at him. He gave her a reassuring look and nodded back. “We’ll be there.”

— — —

OLYMPUS BASE | Senator Johnson’s Office

Turner’s office gave her a sense of calm. She could hear the life and the bustle of the base from here, the planes descending onto the air field, the chatter from the lobby traveling to her ears, it eased her. It was familiar.

It helped that Bucky was sitting next to her, looking out the floor to ceiling windows, enjoying the view of the sky, watching the sun bring itself higher onto the clear blue canvas with an easygoing smile on his face. When he glanced over at (F/N), her smile grew, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

He squinted at her, “You think something’s wrong?”

“I think something’s happening, and Duke didn’t want to tell me on the phone,” she murmured back. “But I don’t know what it is, if it’s Karli, or Carter, or something else.”

“Well,” he said softly, reaching over to take her hand, “it isn’t anything we can’t handle, right?”

She squeezed his hand back, returning his comforting tone. “Right.”

Though part of her was starting not to believe it.

“Sorry to keep you two waiting,” Turner’s voice chirped in, wheeling himself into the room as silently as he ever had. He smiled up at them as he stopped behind his desk, “How’s it been back home?”

“Right as rain, Turner,” (F/N) smiled, her cheery eyes not betraying the dawning feeling of dread in her gut. “You got questions I have answers to, or are we just here to catch up?”

“If it’s the latter, you could have just invited us over for lunch, Senator,” Bucky said, raising a suspicious brow at him.

“So, Dugan didn’t tell you everything, huh?” Turner leaned in, his elbows propped up on the desk.

“He told me absolutely nothing. Only that you wanted to talk.”

“Right, just a couple of things that I thought you both–” Turner paused, eyes flicking from Bucky to (F/N), “You, Barnes, and Wilson should know.”

Alarms started blaring inside (F/N)’s head, and she quickly tried to silence them, focusing on Turner. “It’s urgent?”

“It hasn’t even happened yet.” Turner shrugged. “But it will soon. The GRC will be holding a vote for the Patch Act in New York, they’re already getting the final draft of the law written, and I’ve tried to talk them down, I really have. Whatever it is that council is planning, it won’t end well for anyone. I said no before I was even asked.”

“What’s with the Patch Act?” Bucky asked, focusing on Turner.

“The Patch Act is going to get an international vote, and if those dumbasses say yes, millions of people are gonna lose their homes because of American intervention. Again. And we fuck up everytime we’re given a responsibility at a global scale. This Act isn’t going to be any different.”

“You think they’ll say yes?” (F/N) asked.

“No. But enough people will,” Turner said angrily. He brought his hand down on the desk, “After what you did in Manila, they’ll be hounding you again, they’ll say the op was in interference with the GRC’s own activities or some shit. If they say yes, it'll be harder to keep you outta trouble.”

Bucky’s anger rose as well, shaking his head, “She saved hundreds of people the GRC completely ignored.”

“That’s why they’ll be after her–they’ll be after me, too.”

She waved away their concern, “Why should Sam know about this? Yeah, it’s big, but why?”

Turner’s eyes darkened, his voice lowered. “It doesn’t matter if they say yes, because you know who’s gonna be there to stop them from having a vote in the first place.”

“Flag Smashers.” Bucky’s shoulders tensed. “That’s their next move. New York.”

Turner stopped him, “We can’t be sure about that, James. It’s a shot in the dark.”

“But they’ll know we’ll be there if they do.” (F/N) added, “And they’re not gonna be the only ones who know I’ll be there.”

“Carter?” Turner asked, doubtful. “You think she’ll leave Madripoor for that?”

“It’s a shot in the dark,” she returned, “She’s out to get me. She knows what I did. If I’m there for Karli, she’ll be there for me.”

Turner sighed, leaning into his chair, “Hold on, think about this. This was Wilson’s mission from the start, and they benched him. Wilson and anyone else involved are no longer allowed to intervene.”

“Says who?” (F/N) asked with a smirk.

“Says a lot of people who will smite the three of you if you step in.” Turner said back.

“I trust you’ll be able to confront them should they try to smite us, won’t you, Senator?”

“I’m tempted not to,” Turner said, making (F/N) laugh.

“If they go to New York, we’ll be there too.” Bucky said resolutely. “We’re finishing it there.”

“The Flag Smashers and Carter. Two birds with one very crowded public ambush, hopefully without anyone dying,” (F/N) said, with a giddy, nervous smile. “It’ll be fun. Just like Manila.”

Turner shook his head, glaring at them as they both stood up, “Please don’t make it like Manila. I just got that under control.” He wheeled himself towards them, reaching up at (F/N). She leaned down and hugged him tight. “Whenever you’re ready, you and the team can start talking about how to handle the night of the vote.”

(F/N) smirked, a dangerous glint of mischief flashed in her eyes, “Can’t wait.”

---

OLYMPUS BASE | Training Facility

Boone had told them to meet them at Alpha Two’s firing range once they were done speaking with Turner. She was leaning on the weapons table when they got there, tapping her fingers on the surface impatiently.

She beamed at them as they entered, “Ah, here they come at last. The Ghost and the Wolf.” She crossed her arms, “Turner couldn’t let you go, eh?”

“What can I say? He missed us,” (F/N) said, giving Boone a questioning look. “Where’s Duke? I thought he’d be here.”

“Left with Jack just before you two got here. Monitoring threats out in Europe to find out where Karli last went. I’ll be joining them too, tomorrow night.” She slid two cases towards them. One was sleek black, embossed with Ghost’s emblem, the decorated skull gleaming as she picked it up. “Fixed up your helmet and suit, it’s as good as new. The staff was a bit trickier, but I got it sorted. You’ll just have to get used to its weight again.”

Bucky nodded to the other case, bulkier than the other. “What’s in this one?”

Boone hummed, pressing her thumb on the handle. The scanner lit up from red to blue. Bucky looked inside as Boone lifted it open, and he felt his heart stutter with sudden pride.

The Exo-7 Falcon shone up at him, sturdy Vibranium wings painted red, white and blue. Beside it, Captain America’s suit in new colors for a new Captain. On the lid, a brand new Redwing drone.

It would suit Sam. He was always sure that Steve chose the right person to take the mantle, but now he truly knew. Sam was the only person in the world capable of carrying the shield and donning these colors.

“The Dora Milaje sent it over last night, and the Redwing worked perfectly. It’s about time they go back to their rightful owner,” Boone smiled at the awe on Bucky’s face, sharing a look with (F/N). She shut the case again, “When will you be bringing this over to Wilson?”

“I was thinking we could drive by today and drop it off,” (F/N) answered, looking to Bucky to see if he agreed. “It’s a quick drive over to Delacroix, and if we don’t stay long, we’ll be back home by sundown.”

“We’ve got a message to relay, I guess we better tell him sooner.” Bucky assented.

The door swung open, and Boone’s smile grew wider. (F/N) and Bucky turned to see a shorter, younger blonde with an easygoing grin and wide green eyes looking at the three of them.

“Ah! Призрак, Волк, finally I see you again,” Yelena greeted them, her Russian accent melodic and cheery. “Did Boone Cavanaugh tell you about the New York mission?”

“Yeah, told me about how you took care of Smiling Tiger. Good job, Widow,” (F/N) smiled. “She also told me you spent all your time touristing.”

Yelena glared at Boone, “Красться.”

Boone only smiled back, “She asked, I answered.”

“How was it, though? New York?” Bucky asked with a curious smile.

“Pretty boring actually, for my first time. But the Broadway shows were fun.” She walked to the weapons table, recounting her trip happily. “The Statue of Liberty is being redone, it’s so weird. They’re putting Captain America’s shield on her hand. I don’t think I like it.”

“Wait, really?” (F/N) asked, eyes widening. Her head swiveled towards Bucky, “They’re seriously going through with that?”

Boone laughed with a mischievous glint in her eye, “I’m kinda hopin’ something big crashes into it before it’s unveiled, like some kind of alien invasion, or a rift through reality or something like that.”

“It’s not just that!” Yelena added, “There’s musical about Steve Rogers too… it was really expensive.”

“Oh, that’s why you came home with half your money gone?” Boone asked, giving her a side-eye. “Yelena…”

“No, I didn’t buy a ticket! I’m way too smart than that,” she defended. “... I did something else.”

Boone raised a brow at her, “You and I are gonna discuss this later.”

(F/N) looked fondly at the two women, smiling at their banter. She wanted to stick around longer, but Bucky gently holding her hand and clearing his throat snapped her away from the moment. He leaned closer to her ear, “We gotta go.”

She nodded, looking over at Boone, who was admonishing Yelena for her money spending habits. “We’re heading out, Boone. We’ll call you later.”

“Stay safe, you two. Drive responsibly, (F/N),” Boone told her as she waved goodbye.

Bucky looked over at Yelena, “Next time I see you, tell me more about that musical.”

Yelena’s eyes brightened, “Maybe I can get you tickets.”

Bucky scoffed, looking back as he and (F/N) walked out the door. “Legally, I hope.”

— — —

DELACROIX | Wilson Family Seafood

Everyone turned up. Everyone he had called and asked help from had come over with a smile on their face and eagerness to help. From all over town and from New Orleans, there were friends of the family, and people who owed his parents favors. They didn’t come here just for him or Sarah.

They came here for Paul and Darlene.

Sarah was checking on their supplies, listing down people’s names and what they brought and what they’re doing so she knows what she’ll send them back home with from the kitchen. It was already a busy morning, each person had their own job to do, and those who didn’t come sent over their own materials, asking for nothing in return.

All the people who had come to help, all the things people were willing to do for his family, warmed his heart and brought his determination to get the boat fixed with full force; for a moment, he forgot about Karli.

About Walker.

About the shield.

About Isaiah.

All that sat on the back of his mind now, his family came first. The boat comes first.

Tommy and Carlos were bringing out the equipment from the truck, muttering about how they were going to get the engine out without a forklift. Sam walked over, grateful and in awe of how much they’d brought to help.

He wished he had done this sooner.

Carlos reassured him with a jolly smile, “Look, word goes out the Wilson family needs help? Well, we still got a bit of usefulness in us.”

Sam gestured to the box, “How do we get it off the truck?”

The truck jostled, making Sam and Tommy jump. They looked up at the engine being lifted up smoothly off the truck; someone was heaving it off the truck without a forklift, and Sam didn’t have to guess who was behind it.

Bucky carried it on his shoulder away from the truck, grunting as he placed it down on the table. He turned around to look at him. “You’re welcome,” he said to them, reaching down for a case.

Sam frowned, confused. He approached Bucky with a questioning glare despite the pleasant surprise he felt to see him.

“Just dropping this off.” Bucky placed the case down on the ledge of the truck. “You can sign for it and we’ll go.”

The case itself added more to his confusion. He never called Bucky, nor did he call (F/N), thinking they’d want to be left alone after what they’d been through with Karli and Walker. Sarah knew how to contact her, but she’d never call (F/N) without telling Sam. He isn’t here to help,

He touched the case, feeling the metal grooves on the lid. Is it…?

“(F/N) and I called in a few favors…” Bucky explained, meeting his eye.

So it was.

Before he could continue, a pipe burst near the dock. Air hissed loudly as it escaped through the loose bolt. Sarah ran over, calling his attention to the pipe.

He rushed to take the wrench on the floor, but someone beat him to it.

(F/N) grabbed the wrench and tightened the bolt with ease, twisting it up quickly as she looked up at him, wide eyed as he looked at her. She glanced at him as she worked, flashing him a smile, “Hey Flyboy.”

He didn’t even see her coming. He didn’t see both of them coming.

Her eyes flicked over to Sarah, who had been watching her bashfully from the boardwalk. Her smile widened, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Sarah gave her a small wave, holding her clipboard closer to her chest.

Sam’s head snapped up to his sister, befuddled at what had just happened.

“I was gonna get that,” Bucky told her, earning a little laugh from her.

“He could have used the metal arm,” Sam suggested, looking between the two super soldiers.

“And let him have all the fun?” (F/N) asked, placing her hands on her hips and swaying around.

This was the most laid back he’d ever seen her. She was frighteningly alert and on guard throughout their mission, unrecognizably so. Her head was constantly on a swivel, constantly watching and ready to jump at anything. It was like meeting her for the first time again, when he, Steve and Natasha had broken into her house and brought her into the mess that was the fall of SHIELD.

But now, she was more like the woman he befriended, the (F/N) who was inseparable from Bucky and made fun of him at the Tower and allowed herself to forget, just for a little while, what she had been through and what could come next.

“Besides, I wouldn’t have used it,” Bucky deadpanned. “I’m right-handed.” He looked up at Paul & Darlene, “So this is the boat?”

He smiled proudly. “This is it.”

“She’s beautiful,” (F/N) said, shielding her eyes from the harsh light of the sun with her hand as she admired it.

Bucky hummed, looking at the water. After a moment of quiet, he glanced over at (F/N), holding a short, silent conversation with her. Then he looked over at Sam, “You want any help?”

Maybe he should say no.

But something told him not to. Something told him this was probably gonna be the only chance he’d get to rekindle his friendships with both of them. This would be the only time he, Bucky and (F/N) could talk about everything but the shield or rogue super soldiers. And besides, he needed all the help he could get. What could help him better than two super soldiers?

He reluctantly nodded. (F/N) patted him on the back kindly as he walked away.

Bucky walked over to Sarah, flashing her a charming smile as he shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’m Bucky.”

“Oh,” his sister looked up from the clipboard, a small hint of red blooming on her cheeks. “Sarah.”

Sam froze, his head whipping back to see both of them looking up at his sister.

Sarah’s blush became more obvious when she looked over at (F/N), “You must be (F/N).”

“Yes, ma’am.” She reached her hand up, and Sarah took it, shaking it warmly. There was a small look of surprise in her face at how firm (F/N)’s grip was. “How’d the house treat you and the boys? Hope it was comfortable enough.”

“Yeah, it was. Thanks so much for that by the way,” Sarah said sincerely.

She shook her head, “It was the least I could do. Anytime you or your brother need help, I’m only a call away, Sarah.” she looked over at Sam, her smile disappearing as she saw the look on his face. “What?”

He didn’t realize his eyes were angrily burning a hole into her and Bucky’s oblivious faces, and at Sarah’s delighted one. Part of him regretted saying yes now that Sarah looked more than happy to have the two of them over, and that the two of them were so flirtatiously polite.

God, what gave those two the right to be so charming?

— — —

Sam had been trying to get the engine going all day. With all his attempts to fix it, he had gotten the instruction manual memorized, and could probably recite the thing in his sleep.

Bucky and (F/N) had spotted all the disrepair on the boat within minutes of stepping aboard, catching the leaks to be caulked and the rusting gunwale to be removed. They helped him plan out and divide the work between all three of them, saving the engine for last. But with how quickly they were getting things done, and how unfazed they seemed to be with taking over his own work, he decided to focus on the engine while they worked on deck.

As if hearing his frustration, (F/N) had left Bucky alone to sand the wood planks to join him at the helm. She leaned on the door, wiping sweat off her brow, “Having trouble with that?”

He rolled his eyes, falling into the chair with a loud, exhausted sigh. “Maybe I should’ve asked you to deal with it sooner, it would be up and running by now.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, I haven’t stepped on a boat in years.” She went to man the helm, rolling up her sleeves and taking a screwdriver, lifting off the panel to expose the wires in the control box.

“Except for the one you infiltrated last month?”

“I didn’t exactly go undercover to fix that one,” she said, inspecting the mess of wires under the panel. “Mind if I take a look downstairs?”

“I already did, about a hundred times. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

“Maybe it’s just a loose bolt in need of tightening,” she said, screwing the panel shut. “But if it’s something we can’t get done before the sun is down, then I might be down there for a while.”

“Sure.” (F/N) stretched her arms as she headed to the engine rooms, and Sam decided to take a break. He could barely rest though. His mind kept going back to her.

Relaxed and more conversational, he might actually get to ask her how she’s been without getting thrown overboard for prying. There were a few weeks where he tried to reach out to the both of them, when he had heard Bucky had moved to New York and was seeing a therapist. Alone. He tried calling (F/N), getting automated messages every time.

The number he dialed did not exist.

It had been five years since he’d talked to her—no, six. Maybe she got a new phone. Maybe she changed her identity in that time and left, only coming back when Steve and Natasha came to convince her that they could get everyone back. He wanted to know what happened to his friends in the five years he stopped existing along with the rest of the world.

About fifteen minutes of being alone, staring at the GPS with his head swimming with thoughts, he heard her climb back up to join him, sweaty and frustrated.

“I don’t think we can fix that today, we’ll need more time,” she huffed, leaning her hand against the headrest of the seat. She looked down at Sam, seeing the apprehensive curiosity on his face. “What? Is the GPS busted, too?”

“Nah, just wondering if we could talk.” He said, masking his carefulness with a smile. “How have you been?”

She laughed, as if she’d been holding her breath waiting for him to speak. “‘M fine. I should probably look at that too.”

“No, I mean how have you been the last six years? Something tells me you’ve been real busy since after the funeral.” He stood up, stuffing his hands into his pockets as she moved to take his seat. “‘Bout six months ago, your cyborg boyfriend turned up in Brooklyn alone. Thought you’d have wanted to come with him when he got help.”

She scoffed, turning the GPS on. “Wouldn’t call that therapist help.”

“Tried calling him, but he wouldn’t answer the whole time. Stubborn,” he shook his head. “Were you in a deep cover thing when he moved out, or—”

“Deep cover?” She froze, looking back up at him. She moved away from the GPS, her brows creased together. It took her a while to answer. “No, I wasn’t in deep cover. I wasn’t on a mission yet.”

“Seriously? I couldn’t contact you for weeks, your phone number wasn’t registered. It was like you dropped off the face of the earth,” Sam’s voice became more serious. “Barely a few months later, you’re out doing god knows what on the other side of the world, and it’s taking a toll on you.”

“Everything’s taken a toll on me, you know that, Sam.”

“Then why didn’t you stop? You could have retired, like Steve. You could’ve stayed with Bucky.”

“I wanted that more than anything,” she told him, her voice suddenly shaky. “After the shit I’ve been through, you’d think I would throw in the towel, but no. I signed up for all this shit. I signed up to fight and get blood on my hands, even if it gets harder to wash it off. When we get dirty, the world becomes a bit more clean, even for a little while. It’s all I’ve ever known. There ain’t a way out even if you make one yourself.”

Sam shook his head, looking at her sternly. “C’mon, that isn’t true and you know it. You have a way out, and you deserve to take it.”

She smiled sadly, her lips quivering. He could see in her eyes the walls that she had taken down slowly building back up, “If I could, I would. I’d pack up my suit and throw it in the ocean. But in a world like this, if you can wear that suit, if you can handle the heat, for better or for worse, you gotta.”

“(F/N),” Sam walked closer to her, spinning the chair gently around so she faced him, and saw that he was genuine. “You’ve lost enough. And you’re losing yourself too.”

“Sam,” she smiled, tears welling in her eyes. “I already have.” He was taken aback by that, staring at her like she’d grown another head, or said something so bone chilling it took him out of the conversation. She laughed, “In a way, I did. It’s why I dropped off the face of the earth, like you said.”

“The fuck are you talking about, (L/N)?”

She waved him away, standing up to leave, “Look, if you wanna know, go and talk to Boone, she can send you the files.”

“I don’t wanna read it from files, girl. I gotta hear it from you,” he pulled her back down on the chair. “What happened?”

---

How the hell was she gonna dig her way out of this now?

Sam deserved to know what happened to Wanda, she was his friend too. She tried to tell him about how she enslaved an entire town in her grief and confusion, roping innocent people–her and herself included– into an elaborate sitcom life.

Wanda had found a way out, but it was quickly shut down, trapping her in the reality of everything she had lost. She tried to tell Sam that Wanda was the one to disappear, not telling anyone where she had gone or what she was doing, impossible to track.

She tried to tell him how Wanda brought Vision back to life, giving herself a family. How she apparently had magic—reiterating, different from Doctor Strange, but not too different.

She tried to tell him how Wanda made her forget everything and everyone, that she and the whole town didn’t exist outside the walls she made.

She tried to tell him how Wanda gave her a way out by trapping her in her twisted happiness, locking away everything else. How she had a life of peace created from chaos, how she was given a taste of a home and a life she had lost.

She didn’t tell him about Danny. About how he was so alive, so real. Or about Ollie. How he’d been haunting her, watching her, and how he’s still in her nightmares even today. About how she had forgotten Bucky, and the life she had with him. Sam didn’t need to know that; he didn’t need to know how much she hated herself for what Bucky had to see or feel or do trying to bring her back.

By the end of her spiel, she was barely keeping her tears at bay, and Sam had gone from confused, to horrified, to sympathetic.

He could see that she was keeping so much from him, but decided not to push. What she had told him was enough.

“…That’s why I left, jumped into the fight. When you’re given everything you could ever want and then realize it’s all fake, and you were never really happy… it almost kills you. So I ran away from it.”

“You think putting yourself in danger and pushing us away is gonna help you?”

She shrugged, “Maybe.”

“I wish you told me sooner,” Sam murmured. “Look, (F/N), it doesn’t matter where you end up going or what you end up doing, it doesn’t matter what happens. You’re more than the fighter you think you are. You are my friend, you are the love of that bionic asshole’s long life, and you’re a hero. A helper. A good person.

“Nothing will change that, not even scary witches or whatever. And if I have to remind you of it every damn day, I will.”

“Bold promise, Wilson,” she smirked, standing up with a groan. “Good thing I know you’re a man of your word.”

“Damn right I am.” Sam straightened, glad to see her smile return. “You and Barnes think you can lone wolf your shit, and I get why. But the thing is, you don’t have to. It would be easier for everyone if you remember you’re not alone.”

“Thanks, Sam,” she glanced outside the window, the sun was tucked behind clouds, slowly making its way down.

“You two should stay for dinner,” Sam mentioned, opening the door. (F/N) tried to say no, but he was already opening the door, “I’ll tell Sarah to set two more plates.”

— — —

Bucky had helped him bail the water off the deck, telling him about the lead Aftermath had gotten on Karli’s next move. He was too exhausted to listen or think about another fight. So he was thankful when (F/N) had walked on the deck, with Sarah behind her carrying bottles of beer and a can of soda.

Sarah had persuaded them to take a break, and the three of them sat on the boat, quietly listening to the sea breeze and enjoying the slow, gentle sway of the boat. The whole day he had with them and his family, seeing them both laugh and smile freely, it was everything he wanted.

They helped tremendously with the boat, and though there was more work to be done, he would have barely gotten anything done if it weren’t for (F/N) and Bucky. He wanted this to be how he spent his time with them, he hated how cold they had gotten in the past few months.

Not that it was anyone’s fault. Bucky was still recovering, and he just learned about what happened to (F/N). He knew why they were distant. But he hated how they had to rebuild a friendship that was already close to unraveling while fighting things that only seemed to bring them farther apart.

The case carrying his new suit and wings was laying atop the cooler, and he couldn’t help but think the friendship he wanted with both of them were dependent on how many times he fought by their side, and they his. He wondered if Bucky would go cold again if he refused to take the shield. He wondered what could bring him and (F/N) apart too.

He heard Bucky stand up with a groan. The bottle clinked as he picked it up, his eyes on the clouds. “We should probably leave soon, it’s getting late.”

(F/N) sat up, gulping down her soda. “Yeah, we better get home before dark.”

Sam scoffed and looked at both of them with an offended glare, “So, you’re just gonna set me up like that, huh?”

“No, we just don’t make it weird for your family,” Bucky said, shaking his head.

“Just stay here,” he insisted. “Besides, you don’t wanna drive around here at night, harder to navigate around the swamp area.”

“We don’t wanna intrude, Sam.”

“You’re not intruding anybody,” he insisted, “Look, the people in this town are the most welcoming people in the world. They don’t care if you wear small T-shirts or if you have six toes, or if your mom’s you aunt, or if you–”

“Okay, I get it,” Bucky chuckled, eyes sparkling as he smiled. “I get it, the people are nice.”

Sam laughed as well, relaxing, until he stiffened again, pointing a warning finger to them both, “But don’t flirt with my sister. Using your weird charms on her, not allowed.”

“No, of course not, Sam,” (F/N) said sarcastically. “Sarah’s too proper a lady to be with the likes of us.”

“Shut up,” Sam said, holding back a laugh. “If you two try anything, I’ll have Carlos cut you up and feed you to the fish.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, nodding solemnly and moving to get away from Sam before he makes up a better threat. (F/N) laughed, barely able to stop giggling when Bucky left the boat.

He loved seeing his friends laugh. He loved how laidback they were, it refreshed him. But knowing what’s about to come, the (F/N) he found in Madripoor could come back, and he and Bucky would be left to pick up the pieces.

— — —

MADRIPOOR

“I have a job for you.”

Sharon Carter stood in her gallery, the room completely quiet, save for her hushed, tone, patient yet demanding. Her security guards watched over her from every entry point, making sure no one went in or out.

Whoever it was she was speaking to on the phone was yelling at her, rapid French was spat out from the other line, making Sharon roll her eyes.

“Oh, please. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be rotting away in that Algerian prison.” Batroc quickly replied, cursing at her loudly. She lifted the phone away from her ear, sighing in annoyance as he finished his shouts and whines. She brought it back, “You finished?”

Batroc’s voice was low this time, telling her something slowly.

“I can give you double this time, I promise you won’t regret saying yes.” Carter promised. “What’s it gonna be?”

Finally, he agreed, telling her that his main priority was killing Sam Wilson.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But all I need you to do is watch Morgenthau, and bring her over to me. And if I’m paying you what I’m paying you, you have to bring someone else down.”

“Qui?”

“Ghost.”

Batroc laughed, but before he could retract his agreement, Carter added. “It’s this or nothing. If you’d rather say no, I can always give the Directorate General a tip to where Georges Batroc is hiding in the Alps.”

He cursed at her again before agreeing, quickly hanging up the phone. With a sly smile, she turned away and faced her men, walking out of the gallery. “Get the jet ready, we’re heading to New York in ten.”

— — —

Sarah really was a great cook. By the time the three of them had entered the house, she and her two boys were setting the table, steaming plates of seafood spaghetti and red beans and rice being arranged for them. She clicked her tongue at them, “About time you three showed up. Didn’t wanna have to call you inside like the child you are, Sam.”

The sun had set by then, and Sam’s family were insisting that they stay the night and make themselves at home.

“A small thank you for letting us stay at your house,” Sarah said, joined by AJ and Cass’ repeating their thank you’s, telling them how quiet it was, how nice the town was, with how everyone seemed to know they were there, and were ready to help them with anything they could need.

The boys were curious and inquisitive, ecstatic to hear (F/N) and Bucky’s stories about the Avengers, about working with Sam, and how annoying working with Sam was. They laughed and talked and ate until Sarah had to tell her sons to get ready for bed. At the end of dinner, both (F/N) and Bucky had stood up, reaching over to take their plates.

“No, no no, stay in your seats,” Sarah ordered, slapping their hands away.

“Come on, we insist–”

Sam blocked their hands, standing up himself, “You’re our guests, you don’t do the dishes when you’re guests!”

“Hey, I was raised better than that,” (F/N) said back, pushing his hand too.

While Sarah and Sam were busy yelling at (F/N), Bucky had quickly gathered the plates and stacked them together, marching to the sink and waiting for her to stop distracting them. When they realized what they were doing, Sam stood up and tried to push Bucky away.

Before the playful argument grew too loud, Sarah pulled her brother away and let them do the dishes.

“We’ll set up the couch for you two,” Sarah told them. “Don’t worry, it’s a foldable, you’ll fit.”

---

Summer nights in Louisiana were warm, yet they held each other close as they laid there, tight in each other’s arms despite having a lot more space to lay on. Trying to fall asleep, Bucky listened to the sounds of the waters outside, making a lullaby with the hum of the wind and (F/N)’s steady heartbeat. He could feel her fingers playing with his dog tags.

Bucky looked down at her, and she looked up at him, eyes sleepy and wide awake at the same time.

She looked beautiful like this. She looked serene.

“What are you thinking about?” She said softly.

He smiled, “Let’s run away somewhere.”

“Oh,” she said, her fingers stopping their movements. She rested her hand on his chest, “Like on vacation?”

“Yeah. Just you and me, sweetheart.”

“Where would you wanna go?”

He looked up at the ceiling, thinking. His mind zoomed through so many places and couldn’t land on any. So he answered, “Anywhere… everywhere. As long as I’m with you.”

Something flashed in (F/N)’s mind, her eyes widening for a split second as she looked up at him. Her smile wavered, “Yeah… we’ll do that. Soon.”

“You know, we could go to a beach. Go surfing,” Bucky offered. “Or we could go hiking somewhere.”

“What about a trip to the city? Maybe Paris? We could go back to New York, when everything’s over.”

“Yelena said something about a Broadway musical.”

“The one about Steve?”

“Yeah–”

“Absolutely not, James.” She laughed, trying to muffle the noise. If he wasn’t wary of waking anybody else, he’d keep insisting on it, just to hear her laugh.

“We could get a place somewhere quiet. More quiet than New Eden. Like a cabin in the woods,” he held her closer, putting his face between her shoulder and neck, relishing her scent. “Or we could buy an island of our own.”

“We can hide away and just… disappear,” (F/N) said wistfully, her voice getting softer and slower. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

He closed his eyes, imagining it. Waking up with her, doing nothing and everything with her in their own abode, and then closing his eyes at the end of each day with her right beside him, getting ready to do it all over again. No fighting or amending. Dancing at the edge of infinity, away from the chaos they have floated away from long ago.

“It would be.”

— — —

“Boom! Pheew!”

Bucky’s eyes fluttered open at the sound, his body still heavy with sleep. He could hear more faint whooshing sounds, excitedly whispered from the doorway.

“Woaaah,” he heard Cass and AJ by the door, playing together in a mock battle. AJ held the shield, heavy in his arms, lifting it to block his brother’s punches and blasts.

(F/N) was still sound asleep, his arm around her waist. She was unbothered by the boys’ playing, even if they had roused him awake.

“Hey,” he softly called to them, lifting his head off the pillow to look at them. They turned around, eyes wide and apologetic. He put a finger to his lips, gesturing for them to stay quiet.

Alarmed, Cass and AJ ran off, leaving the shield inside the bag they took it from, forgetting to zip it closed.

He smiled, watching them hurry out of the living room. To those boys, and maybe to a lot more kids than he thought, the shield was more than a weapon, or a relic, or a legacy.

It was hope.

A sudden ringing came from (F/N)’s phone on the coffee table, jolting her awake and out of Bucky’s arms. He sat up as she rolled away and grabbed her phone.

“Who is it?” He asked, voice still raspy.

“It’s Boone,” she told him, standing up and answering the phone.

---

The sun had barely risen when Boone had called. It made her worry, she was rarely an early riser, and would never call unless it was something important. Bucky had left the house as soon as she got out of the living room, opting to take a walk along the dock.

She stood outside, keeping her voice hushed.

“What is it?”

“It’s Carter,” Boone said, sounding like she hadn’t slept all night, running on an energy drink. “You were right. She’s following Karli to New York.”

“And?”

“Right before she left Madripoor, she called an untraceable number. I’m still trying to figure out who she’s contacting, but she’s gettin’ ready for something big.”

“Is she expecting me?”

“You were already right about one thing. It’s likely you were right across the board.”

She inhaled, staring out at the pathway leading into town, away from Sam’s home.

Whatever’s coming is coming soon. She’d rather not get pulled out of the slow life she and Bucky had made, but strangely, the call for action had her itching to get it over with.

“I’ll be on the base tonight.” She walked back into the house, feeling her blood run cold again. “I have a plan, just get the team ready to listen.”

— — —

When Sam got up to tend to the engine again, Bucky and (F/N) were still fast asleep on the couch, huddled together and facing each other like they had fallen asleep in the middle of a conversation. It was another thing to bring him a little bit of happiness.

It had been a great annoyance seeing the two of them together in the Tower, attached at the hip, with both gazing lovingly at each other. It was one thing to be the target of Bucky’s quips and jokes, it was another to have both of their smartassery combined.

When things blew up and chaos broke out in the Tower, leading to Bucky’s recovery in Wakanda, and then to Thanos, he grew to miss seeing them together. Their relationship was humanizing, a reminder that the people fighting by their side were humans, and for a long time, were in pain and solitude.

It quieted a small part of his mind. It relieved him that his friends were more than at peace together.

Bucky had wandered into the engine to help him about an hour after he did, and after he had gotten it to sputter out a little bit more than it did yesterday, he and Bucky took the water pump out to check for repairs. Bucky had been frowning at the manual the whole time he tried to explain it.

“There should be a three-sixteenths bolt that goes in the big gear,” Sam tried to say.

Sarah interrupted him, “Excuse me! No.”

At the same time, (F/N) was strolling toward them, carrying her phone. Sarah hadn’t noticed her coming, and stood over Sam with an angry glare. (F/N) stopped right next to her.

“Hey, Sarah,” she and Bucky said at the same time.

Suddenly, Sam mirrored his sister’s expression, directing it at them both.

Sarah shot (F/N) a brief smile before glaring at her brother again. “I told you specifically the water pump was not the problem, and yet here you are.”

“Yep, Samuel,” Bucky agreed.

“In our defense, we were supposed to be done long before you woke up.” Sam said with a sly grin.

“I don’t come up to the sky to tell you to barrel roll or whatever, so don’t come here and start messing with things you clearly don’t understand,” Sarah remarked, eliciting a chuckle from (F/N).

Offended, Sam rose from his seat while Sarah thanked them for leaving her alone.

“Listen, Sam,” (F/N) started before they could leave. “Bucky and I need to leave soon, there’s been an emergency.”

“Wait, why?” Bucky said, stepping towards her. “What happened?”

“I was right,” she murmured quietly. She smiled at Sam, “I’ll get the car ready.”

“Can’t you stay for lunch?” Sam said, rushing to catch up with her.

“Sorry, but we can’t.” She said seriously, hoping Sam catches the hint. “There’s something I need to get done.”

He paused, studying the look on her face. “Okay. But give us a minute.”

“Sure.” (F/N) nodded and turned away, heading back to the car.

Sam led Bucky to the back of his house, an expanse of land with scattered trees, close to the forest and leading to the road out of town. He took the shield out from the living room and pointed to the trees. “Help me practice my aim.”

— — —

Vibranium split through the bark of the trees, letting out a loud crack that rang through the woods. After a few more throws, they had tied mats onto the trees to cushion them and let the shield bounce and fly back to them.

Sam was proficient at throwing it, and it looked right, perfect on his arm. Yet every time he caught it, there was doubt in his eyes.

“Feels weird… Picking it up again,” he remarked. He threw the shield to the farthest tree, and it bounced to the other until it went to Bucky, who caught it smoothly with his metal arm. He looked down at it, “The legacy of that shield is… complicated, to say the least.”

Bucky sighed, looking apologetically at his friend. “When Steve told me what he was planning, I don’t think either of us really understood what it felt like for a Black man to be handed the shield.” Sam looked shocked, gasping softly at Bucky’s confessed realization. “How could we? I owe you an apology.”

Bucky handed the shield back to Sam.

“I’m sorry.”

Sam took it from him, giving him a reassuring look. “Thank you. But you should know, I understand. You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

And he did. He knew why he had clung to the legacy the shield carried. And he was happy he listened to Sam, and to (F/N). He was happy that he was learning and healing.

“Whatever happened with Walker, it wasn’t your fault,” Bucky added. “I get it. It’s just that shield… Steve wanted you to take it, he chose you. So when you retired it, it made me feel like I was letting him down. And I was irrational, I was alone. It made me question everything. You know, he gave me his book,” he took it out of his pocket, and Sam was surprised to see him still holding onto it. “I figured if it worked for him then it’d work for me.”

He sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of it all crashing down on him, the weight that was lifted when he came home again, and returned when he realized the impending chaos he’d step into again.

“I understand, man,” Sam said with a nod, “This might sound like a surprise but, it doesn’t matter what Steve thought.” Turning away, he flung the shield away, hitting a tree and coming back to his arm. “You gotta stop looking to other people to tell you who you are.”

When Sam threw it, it went back to Bucky, and he saw his reflection looking back up at him.

“Let me ask you.” Sam faced him, crossing his arms on his chest. “You still having those nightmares?”

He hesitated. In the past week, his mind has been calm, but without (F/N), without a purpose, for months, his answer would be, “All the time. It means I remember. It means part of me is still there. Which means the part of the Winter Soldier is still in me.”

He threw the shield hard, and it bounced on the tree. It flew fast towards Sam. Catching it, he asked, “You up for a little tough love?”

He nodded, bracing himself.

“You wanna climb out of that hell you’re in, do the work. Do it.” His voice was firm, concise.

“I’ve been making amends.”

Sam shook his head, “You weren’t amending, you were avenging. You were stopping all the wrongdoers you enabled as the Winter Soldier because you thought it would bring you closure. You go to those people and say sorry, because you think it’ll make you feel better, right? But you gotta make them feel better. You gotta go to them and be of service. You don’t have to correct other people’s wrongs, you just gotta do what’s right.

“I’m sure there’s at least one person in that book who needs closure about something, and you’re the only person who can give it to ‘em.”

Bucky almost laughed, “Probably a dozen.”

“That’s cool. Start with one. And you know–” The sound of tires slowly rolling up on the gravel made them turn to the road, the Firebird making its way towards them. He smiled as it stopped, and (F/N) stepped out and walked to them. “…You’re never alone.”

Bucky felt the weight lift off him, calm washed over as Sam gave him a comforting smile. “Good talk.”

He laughed, his hand meeting Bucky’s as it went to shake his.

“You two having a good time playing frisbee?” She said, lightly putting her hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “It’s time to go.”

Sam looked at them both, “Karli isn’t quitting.”

(F/N) nodded, “Call us when you’re ready. And we’ll call you with a plan.”

“We’re teaming up officially?” Bucky asked, bending over to pick up his bag.

“Nope.”

“I have my own team, which neither of you are a part of,” (F/N) retorted. The three walked together to the car.

“We can make our own, separate, independent team,” Sam offered.

“We’re not that good,” Bucky said back.

“Definitely not,” (F/N) agreed.

“But we’re professionals,” Sam added.

“Definitely.”

“And we’re partners,” Bucky said.

Sam snapped his fingers, correcting him, “Co-workers.”

“We’re also a couple of guys with mutual friends.”

“One of whom’s retired.”

“So we’re a couple of guys, working with her.” He pointed to (F/N).

“I can live with that,” Sam said with an approving nod.

“Wonderful, you’ll have to make a nice partnership name,” (F/N) said, walking ahead to open the car door.

“Like lawyers,” Bucky said, opening the backseat and throwing his bag inside. “The Falcon, the Ghost, and the White Wolf.”

“Put that on a T-shirt.”

Sam chuckled at their antics, stopping them before they got in the car. “Thanks for the help, you guys.”

“Thanks for letting us stay the night.” (F/N) said, putting her jacket back on.

Bucky patted him on the shoulder, “See you soon, Sam.”

“Stay safe.”

They both jumped in the car, and he heard the engine hum as he turned away. When he looked back, his friends were driving off under the shade of trees, back to their home, and soon, back to the chaos in the shadows.

tagged: @darke15 | @turtleedovee

#from the shadows #aftermath abridged #battle scarred universe #ch. 14 || edge of infinity #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction

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therosefrontier · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 15

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No. 15 EMOTIONAL DAMAGE Lies | New Scars | Breathing through the Pain

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Fandom: Genshin Impact

Characters: Zhongli (POV), with Guizhong in flashback

Placement?: Backstory from long, long ago—that is, the Archon War, right after Guizhong died

Word Count: 1969

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Zhongli wanted to be alone.

It was not what he needed to be. In a time like this, Zhongli should be there for his people, for his allies. He needed to lead them, to protect them. He needed to assure them that everything would be fine. He needed to remember that he was not the only one who lost somebody. Perhaps, the people of Guili would feel her loss far more than he ever could. Loss through war was something he was far too accustomed to—his soul wouldn’t notice the empty spot if it was only a drop in the ocean.

He needed to take care of the people of Guili. He needed to be there for the yaksha and the adepti under his command. He needed to figure out what to say to them.

“Rex Lapis, what happened!?”

“Rex Lapis, is it true? Did she really…?”

“Rex Lapis, what are your orders?”

“Rex Lapis, what should we do?”

“Rex Lapis, are your wounds recovering? Are you okay?”

“Rex Lapis, who was it?”

“Who did this?”

“What happened?”

Rex Lapis walked alone through a field, stepping quietly through the hills in slow pursuit of that one destination he had in mind. He thought back to the faces of all those back at Guili Assembly who worried about him: Ping, Cloud Retainer, Bosacius, Xiao, Marchosius… He regretted causing them concern. He lamented at his inability to even fully explain the circumstance—how could he even begin to look them in the eyes and tell them that it was finished? That the battle was over, and he lost?

How could he tell them that Guizhong was gone?

Zhongli felt pain in each step. He looked down at the arms of his “human” form, dully shimmering with Geo, and mentally traced the new golden crevices etched into them. He had sustained many battle scars over the years, but he hardly remembered which came from where. He might not even fully remember the battle if someone were to tell him—his earliest days as a warlord were a blur to him now, and rightfully so. He did not wish to remember. However, this time, tracing the new marks on his skin, he wondered if he might remember his scars after all. He wasn’t in this form when he received them—he was a dragon in his full size, but the wounds still carried over in some way from one form to the next. He was never rid of the pain of them, not until they healed. The unknowing eye (as was the case with most mortals) might see the golden streaks and judge them only part of his form, a mark of his power as the Lord of Geo, but on that, Zhongli wouldn’t correct them. It wasn’t that he needed them to see him as strong or impenetrable, necessarily—he only wanted them to not feel fear.

They tried so hard, to keep Guili Plains safe. Ever since the day he and Guizhong made that pact between them, to combine their peoples to build a settlement that will last, that had been his goal. His purpose. These lands had been at war ever since he was born. Years of peace were marred with the tension created by the threat of another war on the horizon, by the threat that some god would become bored of their own domain and seek another. Morax had seen conflict after conflict—he was a dragon, and dragons were born for war.

“Those little people are as small and fragile as dust,” she said, her small smile seeming like it should contradict her somber tone, but it didn’t. “That’s why we’ll make them a haven. I wonder what will happen, if they don’t have to be afraid anymore? Wouldn’t you like to see it, too? What kind of world they will create?”

“With your brawn and my brains, this city would surely become a great one.”

For years, it appeared that peace had finally come. They had stood strong against one enemy after another, and they continued to stay strong against the vengeful remains of dead gods. Rex Lapis had the yaksha and adepti to thank. He hoped that this home they created would be worth it for them.

Then came one last battle. They were attacked with little warning, a demon hoard led by that ancient dragon god Zhongli thought he would never again have to see. Amidst the chaos of the battle, Zhongli and Guizhong found themselves facing the dragon alone.

Zhongli still heard his mocking tones, still felt his power crushing his flesh with every impact, his strikes hurling him through mountains. He shut his ears to the memory now. It was easier to, because he had reached his destination.

Zhongli stood silent amidst a field of glaze lilies. This was where he met her. This was her final resting place.

“It seems that our journey together has come to an end. As for that stone dumbbell, forget about it, would you?”

He pulled the stone dumbbell out, letting it float silently above his hand. Zhongli wanted nothing more than to honor her wishes, but her last request was a task he could not complete. He couldn’t forget about it. Maybe, he would never unlock it. She was much smarter than he was, after all. However, it was still hers. It was still her memory.

Zhongli felt his heart clench within him, growing cold and still. Every breath felt like he was forcing it out. His physical pain was nothing new. The pain of loss should also be nothing new. However, it wasn’t. Zhongli didn’t believe that he had ever experienced an ache quite like this one. Perhaps, it only was because it was fresh? Would it subside and become mere memory a few years from now? A few months? A few weeks?

He watched as Cloud Retainer nearly rose up from her seat in indignation, while Guizhong only laughed. Cloud Retainer had a slew of words for her about transdimensional subspace theory, with a startling amount of vigor and emotion on the seemingly random topic, but Zhongli could not say that he actually understood a single word. He just continued to sip his tea, glad that they were having a good time.

He never knew he would so enjoy hearing the human children laugh. Guizhong took time out of their work to sing for them, and every time she finished, they would ask for another. She sang of pleasant and also whimsical ones—she started making up songs that seemed to be pure nonsense, although Zhongli wondered if there was a hidden meaning. He asked Guizhong about it later, and she laughed at him.

“What? Did I…say something wrong?”

“Oh, no! Not at all! It’s just so funny—Zhongli, I was only making up lyrics on the spot! Of course, that one about ‘The Wren and the Fish and the Noodle Maker’ might just be a keeper, I will admit.”

“Zhongli! Can you walk…just a few paces back?” She called out to him, waving her grease-stained hands to shoo him backwards. “Alright, now take a look. Is this centered?”

“Ahh…” Zhongli tilted his head. “A few paces to the left? No, upwards.”

“Upwards and to the left?” she questioned, hammer radiating with the glow of her power in hand as she perched on top of the wall.

“Yes, what you said. Up and to the—no, too much to the left, go a little to the right.”

“Come, Zhongli!” Guizhong took him by the hand, motioning for him to follow her, all the way up to the top of Mount Tianheng.

“Look at the stars,” she said with awe. “They seem even brighter than usual, tonight. Hmph, but perhaps, not quite as lovely as this.”

She looked down at the land below. The Guili Assembly of today was rich in vibrant farmland, as far as the eye could see. “We did well, Zhongli,” she said, her voice quiet but vibrant all the same. “I will never get tired of looking at this view, I think. They’re prospering. Thank you for that.”

He failed her. One cold fact had settled in his heart ever since the midst of that very battle, when he realized that they may not survive it, or rather, that perhaps only one of them will. He felt that it would be better if, should only one survive, that it would be her. Guizhong was the one who birthed this vision. Guizhong thought to the future; Zhongli remained chained to the past, regardless of whether or not it was a past he clearly remembered. Zhongli knew that one day, he would meet his end just like other dragon in this land. But Guizhong was Dust. The element of life. The very essence of the humans she led. If anyone was going to bring them light and hope, it was her.

Though perhaps, those reasons were not all Zhongli thought about, right now, as good as they were. Maybe he thought more instead of her smile, of her laugh, of the sound of her voice, of her wit and humor, her heart, her passion. He missed her. All of her.

Zhongli knelt in the field of glaze lilies and fingered the petals of the flowers, keeping himself in the present as her clenched his eyes and remembered to breathe. When she was dying, he brought her here. It was her last request. She spoke to him one last time, and Zhongli was left alone with the story.

It shouldn’t have ended like this. It was too soon. They were supposed to lead this people together. How was he supposed to do it alone? How was he supposed to be everything she was?

If this happened a thousand years from now, it would still be too soon.

Zhongli wiped away his tears with scarred hands. He wasn’t supposed to break down like this. But then, wasn’t that the reason why he asked to be alone? Though perhaps, he should go back. Xiao kept requesting that he allow him to be an escort. The battle had left him paranoid, no doubt. Zhongli didn’t blame him. Why would Xiao trust him to be alright now, of all times? Did he not prove to them all his weakness, through his loss? He wasn’t invincible. He may be a god by title, but at the end of the day he was just another body riddled with scars.

He couldn’t save her. He couldn’t save them.

You’re not alone, a voice that sounded like hers emerged in his thoughts. Why would you think that? You have all of them.

Marchosius, the faithful god of the stove. Cloud Retainer, Mountain Shaper, and Moon Carver. Bosacius, Bonanias, Indarias, Menogias, and Xiao. Pervases and Ping.

They were the Guili Assembly. Zhongli thought about this with a shaky breath, steeling himself for what was to come, reminding himself that this wasn’t just about him. This tribe was made up of all of them, too. He knew that their trials may not be over. They would have to be ready. He would have to do everything in his power to become everything they needed him to be, but likewise, he needed to trust all of them. That was the true nature of their contract.

However, for now, all Zhongli wanted was to be alone.

Just for a while. He breathed against the pain. He let the scent of the lilies bring him the peace he craved in his soul. Just for a while.

He hummed a song to the glaze lilies. He didn’t have a voice for singing, nor an ear for music, but he knew this tune. He would never forget it, he decided.

He would never forget her.

#whumptober2022 #no.16 #new scars #breathing through the pain #fandom #fic #references canonical character death #genshin impact #zhongli #guizhong #zhongli has sadness #aftermath of a battle #thoughts and memories #zhongli really needing to stop taking the world on his shoulders

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iamanerd1 · 5 days

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Hey I wonder if anyone cares about this but here is my book ranking of all of the star wars books i've read so far

click for better quality

List of books: Aftermath Trilogy (Aftermath, Aftermath: Life Debt, Aftermath: Empires End), Heir to the Jedi, Ahsoka, Dark Disciple, Inferno Squad, Dooku: Jedi Lost, Thrawn Trilogy (Thrawn, Thrawn Alliances, Thrawn treason), Thrawn Ascendancy Trilogy (Thrawn Ascendancy Chaos Rising, Thrawn Ascendancy Greater Good, Thrawn Ascendancy Lesser Evil), Lost Stars, A Crash of Fate, Catalyst, Queens Series (Queen’s Shadow, Queen’s Peril, Queen’s Hope), Lords of the Sith, Tarkin, Alphabet Squadron, Light of the Jedi, Leia: Princess of Alderaan, Rebel Rising, The Rising Storm, Star Wars Jedi: Battle Scars, The Princess and the Scoundrel, A New Dawn

Number total: 30

To be read: Phasma, Galaxy’s Edge: Black Spire, Last Shot, Bloodline, Canto Bight, Padawan, Inquisitor: Rise of the Red Blade, Most Wanted (??), Battlefront: Twilight Company, Shadow of the Sith, Force Collector, Resistance Reborn, And the rest of the high republic books (what in the name of hell is the reading order)

These rankings are somewhat loose and not cemented in my mind, but I would be interested in other peoples (respectful please) thoughts.

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osaemu · 10 months

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GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ MEET ME IN THE AFTERGLOW ❜❜

.ೃ࿐ post-sukuna fight: no victory comes without a loss, and his win came at the cost of his eyesight

contents: fem!reader. some combination of hurt/comfort, angst, and fluff.

author's note: inspired by levi at the end of aot ꨄ︎

7:58 PM

satoru gojo had always had the best eyes. sorcerer, curse, human – you could search the whole world, and nobody else would even come close.

but the aftermath of satoru's fight with sukuna changed everything. after a long, painful battle, satoru came out on top, but at a great cost. his eyes.

dying wishes are powerful, especially from a curse as strong as sukuna. right before the king of curses was done for, he pooled everything he had left into a final attack to ensure that satoru gojo would never be the same. he succeeded.

now, almost a week after the fight, long after the dust settled and peace had reclaimed the jujutsu society, satoru still insists on wearing his blindfold around the clock.

no matter what you try or how you ask, he stubbornly refuses let you see underneath. actually, it'd be more accurate to say that he doesn't respond at all. after all, to your dismay, he's a master at avoiding questions and delaying answers.

you weren't even sure if there was any change to how he looked. maybe he looked the exact same underneath. maybe he had a couple scars. fuck, for all you knew he didn't even have eyes at all anymore.

you just wish he would let you see the new him. he doesn't even have it that bad – thanks to six-eyes, he can still see the silhouettes of cursed energy. and he wore a blindfold most days anyway, so it wasn't too much of a change.

which is why you weren't sure why he wouldn't just take the damn blindfold off.

"satoru, please let me see," you beg, tugging at his shirt sleeve. "i miss your pretty face. and honestly, who wears a blindfold to bed?"

he laughs at your incredulous question, but it sounds forced and unnatural. satoru tugs his arm away and waves you off. "let me take a shower, 'kay? i just got out of work, and i'm probably covered in germs."

you hate this new satoru – the one who won't let you get too close or even see his face anymore. he just won't open up to you, and it's frustrating. "satoru, please? let me in."

at the sound of your pleading voice, satoru rests one hand on the bathroom door and sighs before turning around to face you. he's smiling, but it seems so off – like all his smiles do nowadays.

"you try'n to watch me shower, sweetheart?" he cracks, running a hand through his hair. "i know you love seeing me naked, but-"

"satoru."

"get off my dick," he grumbles lightly, before strolling into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. maybe you imagine it, but you could swear that you hear the soft click of a lock turning.

10:34 PM

"good night, sweetheart," satoru mumbles, pressing his lips to your shoulder and rolling over onto his side. he still has his blindfold on, and the almost undetectable glow eminating from his skin shows that he has a very subtle form of limitless active.

it's been like this every night.

"satoru, can we talk?" you whisper, trailing a hand through his damp white hair. "please?"

"is it about the blindfold?"

"obviously."

he sighs and rolls over again to face you, the soft glow fading from his skin. "give it a rest, yeah?" he says, exasperated. "i'm not ready for anyone to see."

"satoru, even you don't know what your eyes look like under the blindfold," you murmur. "and do you really trust me that little?"

he lifts one of his hands and rests it on your shoulder, thumb tracing circles as he leans in and says "of course i trust you."

you shake your head and sit up, pressing your back against the headboard. "no, you don't."

"then why'd you as-"

"why do you sleep with limitless on now?" you interject, crossing your arms. "what happened to 'i never have limitless on around you'?" you whisper, quoting something he told you when you two first starting dating. back when he could look you in the eye.

satoru sighs again and sits up alongside you. "you know why."

"you seriously think i'd do that?"

"i..." he trails off, slipping a finger underneath his blindfold to rub one of his eyes. "i don't know. all i know is that i'm not ready for anyone to see me like... this."

"satoru, you can't keep running away from everyone forever," you say, shaking your head again. "you-"

"i know, i know," he mutters. "it's not that simple."

he's stubborn – he always has been. and you're mostly used to it, which is why you know that the best way to get satoru to change his mind on something is to ease him into it instead of pushing and shoving.

so you switch gears, and instead of arguing more you reach out and take his hand. "what are you afraid of?"

"nothing. i'm the strongest," satoru replies automatically. the response sounds so automated, so pre-written that you can't help but smile.

"okay," you say neutrally, trying to reword your question. "why don't you want to show me what your eyes look like? you've haven't even seen them yourself."

satoru smiles sourly and his hands curl into white-knuckled fists around the bedsheets. "and i never will. i'm blind now, remember, sweetheart?" his words are laced with bitterness, even (and especially) in the final word.

but it wasn't you who satoru was resentful towards. it was himself.

how could he have so foolishly let down his guard before sukuna was confirmed to be dead? how could he let his characteristic arrogance get the better of him? he made the same mistake when he was a teen, and now he's done it again as the strongest – although this event may have stripped him of his title.

a mixture of emotions crosses what little you can see of his face, and it's now more than ever that you wish you could be there for him.

but he's the only one alive who knows what it's like to be the strongest.

so as much as you wish you could tell him that everything's going to be okay and that he'll always be the strongest, you know damn well that you don't know and that he might not be.

somehow, this conversation has evolved from your desire to see his face to something more.

a silent, mutual understanding passes between you and satoru, and the thickness in the air slowly dissolves.

"sorry," you breathe. "i was being selfish, wasn't i?"

satoru shakes his head, a smile growing on his face. "nah, you're right. i don't even know what i look like."

he lifts a hand and slips his thumb underneath his blindfold, and after a brief moment of hesitation, slides it off.

to your surprise, satoru looks more or less the same. his eyes aren't cloudy and they still glow with that familiar bright blue. the only difference, which was expected, was how his eyes didn't quite settle on you. they were pointed in your direction, but his eyes didn't entirely focus on you.

"so?" satoru asks, running a finger over his eyes. "how bad is it?"

"satoru, you look the same."

he blinks and doesn't answer for a second, as if he's processing the information. "really?" he asks, an unreadable expression on his face.

"yep."

"oh. well, that was anticlimactic," satoru says with a lopsided grin. he leans forward and scoots down from his spot against the headboard, laying his head on a pillow and pulling you on top of his chest. "my bad."

"you idiot," you mumble, pressing your face into his neck. "i didn't get to see your pretty face for a whole week."

"ah, i believe it was only six days."

"and satoru, you even turned on limitless at night! the hell would i even do? cut your blindfold off in the middle of the night?" you grumble, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. "and i can't believe that the only reason you didn't want to show me your face is because you thought you weren't pretty anymore!"

satoru grins lazily and rests one of his hands on your waist, slipping a finger under the waistband of your shorts and idly rubbing your skin. "keep venting, sweetheart. it's cute."

he laughs when you swat him with another pillow and pulls you in for a long kiss. and that's when you know that things might never go back to how they were in satoru's glory days.

but as the night falls and slips away in satoru's arms, you think that maybe, just maybe, this works too.

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ct99r2d2 · 4 months

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Omega Yoinks (part 1)

Please enjoy this collection of every time Omega has been Yoinked by her Brothers 🚼🏈💝

heavy on the finesse bit

S1E1 Aftermath

S1E2 Cut and Run

gif by @florence-pew

S1E3 Replacements

S1E4 Cornered

S1E7 Battle Scars

S1E8 Reunion

gif by @dreamswithghosts

thank you for coming to part 1 of this Omega is Baby seminar.

I will post part 2 etc soon 🫠

#the bad batch #bad batch #tbb #omega bad batch #tbb tech #tbb omega #tbb wrecker #tbb hunter #omega yoinks #omega is baby #star wars tbb #star wars bad batch #bad batch dads

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senualothbrok · 7 months

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Enough

Summary: You agreed to help Astarion with the Rite of Profane Ascension, but you can't watch him go through with it. You interrupt the ritual, and Astarion turns on you. Now, you must deal with the aftermath of your actions.

Word count: 3.6k

Disclaimers: Non-18+. Astarion x female Tav. Angst. Trauma and recovery. A very angry Astarion.

AO3 link

This is the first fanfic I have written for about 20 years. I should be working on my novel, but this story honestly possessed me. I hope someone out there reads and enjoys this! If not, it was therapeutic and cathartic to write it.

-----------------------------------------------------

You have heard it a thousand times. The tales and the histories, all the songs you have sung. You are a bard, after all, and this story is as old and worn as your heart. Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

You know this, and you have seen it. You have seen it twist kind men into savages, transform wary women into beasts. Your own family had suffocated you under its clutches, leveraging your gifts and talents for ever more power and influence. Stripping you bare, squeezing out every drop they could get from you. You were their very own song bird, pushed about and paraded until your fingers were raw and throat was hoarse, to grant them entry into the best parties and social circles. But you were never enough. You never sang sweetly enough, or got large enough crowds. Not enough people knew you. You should have been prettier, more alluring. All the things they made you do, but you never did enough. It was never enough.

When you had escaped from them, you had vowed you would never be like them. You had promised yourself you would never become the thing you fought against. You would be different. Better. You would be good.

And yet.

You are standing in Cazador’s palace. Blood spatters the smooth ivory of Astarion’s skin. In the nightmarish hue of the ritual chamber, he glows a strange green. His crimson eyes are all fear and desperation.

“I can do this, but I need your help.”

In that moment, you cannot say no. If it were anyone else, you would refuse. There have been many conversations with Astarion - around the campfire, in his tent, even as you walked around the labyrinth of Cazador’s living hell. You have talked to him at length about this moment. You have listened as he has confessed guilt and need and hesitation and rage. You have been kind and patient, always careful not to criticise him, not to push back too much, not to hurt him. You have been good. He must make his own decision, you have been telling yourself. He has suffered enough.

So you open your mind to him, because he asks you to. You feel his frenzied hunger as he devours the sight of every scar on his back, as though their cruelty is now beauty. You watch his features which you have come to know so well. You have seen them in sleep, in battle, in laughter, in pain. You have seen them shrouded and masked, bare and open. You watch now as they contort into something that you recognise from so many other faces and times. And as you watch, you can barely hear Cazador’s deafening screams, or register the way his mangled mess writhes and gushes. All you can see is Astarion’s widening smile as he carves at Cazador’s back, his eyes dilating like sinkholes.

You think it, even as he whisks away Cazador’s mutilated body like a rag doll. Even when Astarion slams the staff on the ground and everything around you blazes red as the blood of his convulsing siblings and the seven thousand spawn about to be slaughtered. Even when Gale and Karlach cry out at Astarion to stop, that this is a mistake, that the cost is too great. Even then, you think to yourself: this is what he wants. It is his choice. It is his right.

But in the scarlet haze, you are remembering. You are thinking of his trembling voice when he promised a broken husk called Sebastian, just moments ago, that he would free him. You think of the way his soft eyes glistened when he had thanked you and clasped your hand, stunned with the realisation that he was not just a thing to be used. You feel the crushing weight of Vellioth and Cazador and the decaying dungeons and centuries upon centuries of madness and terror. And you remember the tenderness with which he had looked at you, not days ago, believing the power of the ritual would keep you both safe. That he would protect you with it.

“I can feel their power flowing into me!”

You stare at him, spreadeagled, monstrous.

Something has begun to well inside you, like a cracking of ice, a convulsion of tears. In that whispering, you remember the promise you made yourself all those years ago. And you know, from a deep and tattered place within you, that that promise is greater than your yearning for his love.

The blade springs from your hand on its own. You watch it sing through the air and hit its perfect note in Cazador’s maimed gut. Astarion and his siblings crumple to the floor. The crimson mist lifts, and in the silence you know, with the certainty of death, that you have lost him.

You say something, but you know it is meaningless. Nothing can repair the mistake you have made. You could have refused to help him when he asked. You could have reasoned with him, urged him to stop and think. You could have told him, from the start, that you could not go through with it. And now, you have kept your promise to yourself, but not to the man you love.

When he rises from his knees and turns to you, it is the face of a stranger that you see.

“I was so close. I could have had it all, but you took everything from me.”

Hatred hardens in his every word. And then, a tide of despair.

“Cazador won after all. I’ll never escape the hell he built.”

You cannot bear it. Your failure rips through you, and you want to reach out to him, to beg and plead and weep. But you just stand there.

He looks down at the staff in his hand.

“And if I can’t escape, then no one can.”

He splits the staff on his knee. It makes such a small sound as it splinters, but it echoes through you like an avalanche. It is the sound of seven thousand spawn being condemned to death. It is the sound of their eternal suffering. And it is all because of you. The horror and guilt erupts inside you.

It happens so fast after that. There is no time to think, to feel, to act. There is the glint of a dagger raised. You are knocked back, and a searing pain slices through your shoulder as you stare up at bared fangs looming over you. Your limbs are heavy with shock, and suddenly you feel a surge of heat and the great arc of Karlach’s war hammer over you. You hear Gale shout out a spell, and you watch as Astarion topples to the side, frozen except for the furious twitching of his eyes.

“Don’t!” you hear yourself shout. “Please, stop!”

Karlach and Gale rush to your side, cradling you up, fussing over your shoulder. But you do not feel it. You do not really feel anything. All you can do is look from them back to Astarion, pleading, but you are not sure what for.

---

“You can release his hold now.”

You are back at camp, and you have recovered your voice. For a long time, you could not speak. Shadowheart and Halsin tended to your arm, speaking soothing words over you. Gale and Karlach came to sit with you, their faces creased with concern. Wyll, Lae’zel and Jaheira stood at a distance, arguing in hushed voices. All the while, you stared into the distance, thinking of the hatred in Astarion’s gaze, and everything you had done to deserve it.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Gale says, frowning.

“We can’t keep him like that forever.”

“The man turned on us. He tried to kill you.”

You look into Gale’s eyes. There is warmth there, streaked with pity.

“Can you blame him?”

Gale scoffs. “Yes, I can.” Then he pauses. His voice softens. “Well, perhaps in the circumstances, in the heat of the moment…” He shakes his head. “But he truly would have killed you, had Karlach and I not intervened. And that is inexcusable, after everything you – all of us - have been through with him. After everything you have done for him.”

Your vision blurs and stings.

“I fucked up, Gale. How could I have fucked up so royally? I should never have let him start the ritual. I should never have agreed with it. I’ve broken him. Seven thousand innocent people will die in agony because of me. Because I was…”

You are not used to burdening others with your emotions. You give and not take, even when you have nothing. When you are nothing. But now, you are afraid that you will break.

“…Because I failed.”

Without hesitation, Gale lays a hand on yours. It is a such a kind gesture that it chokes you. You have always been the one to look after others, to give them what they need. That is your role. It is what you exist for. If you cannot do that, what are you good for?

“Those things were never your responsibility, my dear friend. They were never your burdens to carry.”

“But he trusted me.”

“That does not mean that you must give him everything, or watch him destroy thousands of people and himself.”

You ball your fists. “Then I should have told him that, from the start. But I went along with it-”

“Because you love him.”

You have not spoken about this with Gale or anyone else. You know it is common knowledge that you and Astarion are entangled, but you have always wanted to hide the love you feel for him away. You have always known that whatever it was that lay between you was fragile. Astarion himself was not sure what you were.

Attachment does not come easily to you. You know that if you give people what they need, there is a chance that they will stay. But there is also a chance that they will snap their heads one day and no longer want what you have to offer. And then, they will go.

You have always tried to guard yourself against the pain of that departure. Even with Astarion.

“Many a mistake has been made for love,” Gale continues. “I understand this better than most.”

“This is a monumental fuck up,” you breathe. “Not a simple mistake.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Do you really want to start a competition about the magnitude and impact of our mistakes? Because if so, I believe that I would be a clear winner, and some others in our camp may also be worthy competitors.”

You are too weary to laugh. Too broken.

“Besides, I am sure if we knock our considerably enriched heads together, we can find a way to open those dungeons and release those prisoners. Especially with such a range of talented and well-resourced allies to draw on.”

You can see the questions taking shape in Gale’s head already. You give him a weak smile.

“You are only human, my friend. I know you try to be better than any of us, but even you are permitted to make mistakes.”

When he clasps you tightly to his chest, you let yourself rest into it. You want so badly to believe he is right, but you are not sure you can.

---

As you approach Astarion, you gesture behind you. You know the rest of them are all watching, wary and ready to strike at the faintest sign of danger. But you stand them down, and they linger at a respectful distance.

Released from Gale’s hold, Astarion hunches over slightly, like a cat backed into a corner. He knows he is outnumbered and vulnerable. He does not lunge towards you. His arms lie flat against his sides, his hands free of weapons. His fangs are hidden behind the tight line of his lips.

“What you did to me is worse than staking me. You might as well finish me off now.”

Every word is a cut. You flinch at each one, but you do not avert your gaze from his. Any gentleness, affection, and truth in those eyes is gone, locked behind blood-red walls. And in his abject contempt, you find a kind of freedom.

If he has already left, then you need not please him. If you are not enough, then it does not matter what you say. You have lost him already. He does not love you.

So you say what you wish you had said, from the moment that he showed you who he was, the moment you fell in love with him.

“The ritual would have killed you, your siblings, and seven thousand innocents.”

“Spare me,” he snarls. “You nodded and cooed at me, like you understood me, like you would help me. ‘I’m here for you, Astarion. I’ll help you Astarion. Tell me what you need and I’ll be there, Astarion.’ You fucking liar. You godsdamned hypocrite. You never understood me. You never wanted to help me.”

His fury is like a lash, but the pain is sobering. You brace yourself against it.

“I never said I would help you become Cazador, or let you kill thousands of people for power.”

“Please.” His laugh is vicious. “I told you from the start what I wanted. If you didn’t see that, then you’re blind. Delusional. A self-righteous idiot, living in a fantasy.”

“You wanted to be free, Astarion. To be safe.”

“You never wanted me to be free,” he seethes. “You liked me weak and broken, so I could come to you on my knees, and you could nod and smile and promise to fix me. Your own personal project, kept on a leash like a little puppy. Cuddly, harmless Astarion, healing from his hurts, all thanks to you. My saviour.”

Behind you, you can hear voices erupting and subsiding, a scuffle of shifting feet. You are grateful when no one interjects or rushes forward. This is for you and Astarion alone. It is your punishment to bear, and his truth to hear.

“You took all that power away from me,” he hisses. “It wasn’t your choice to make. It was my decision. You’re worse than Cazador.”

The words wound you like arrows, but you half expect them. You have called yourself worse things.

“Cazador would have just compelled me not to do the ritual. But you gave me a taste of what I wanted, then ripped it away from me. You’re the cruellest bitch I’ve ever known.”

You do not care that hot tears stream down your cheeks, and that your voice trembles. You let yourself say what needs to be said, not what you think he wants to hear.

“You’re right.” You take a step towards him. “I should never have let you do it. I went along with it, when I should have pushed back. But I wanted you to feel you always had someone on your side. Someone who understood. I wanted you to feel loved.”

His disgust does not deter you anymore.

“You think that this is all you are. You can’t see beyond it. What was done to you. What he made you do to others. But it isn’t. It never was. You were always strong. You can be more than what happened to you. You are more than what happened to you.”

“Like you?” he sneers. “A hero? Someone so chained to other people’s approval that you’re lost without a saving mission? That’s what you so desperately want to see when you look at me, isn’t it?”

“No.” You are surprised by the strength of your voice. “Only someone who won’t let thousands of people suffer just because you did.”

Jolts of anger course through him. “You have no idea what I suffered,” he growls. “No idea what I am owed. If you had the faintest idea of it, if you truly loved me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You would be burning the world with me.”

You have listened silently before, when he talked about this. What he deserves after two centuries of agony. His comeuppance. You did not challenge him because you were afraid. Afraid you would offend him. Terrified that he would leave.

“Look around you, Astarion,” you say now. “Look at everyone here. We have all suffered. No, none of us have suffered what you have suffered, and I am so deeply sorry for that. But Cazador is dead and no one else will have to suffer under him. And now, no one will have to suffer under an Ascended either.”

A snide sound of disbelief. “You are so full of bullshit I can hardly breathe from the stench.”

Your tadpole rages, ramming into his mind. You expect the resistance of loathing, but he does not fight. He allows you in. And for the first time, you show him. You let him see him your parents, and your pain, and everything that was done to you. You open yourself up, the masks you put on that you recognise in him, the performances you too are familiar with in the economy of survival. You show him your promise to yourself, and your choices, and the failures you carry around with you like a noose.

He glares at you after it is over, but you think there may be less hatred in his eyes than there was a moment before.

“Why did you show me that?”

It is easier, now that there is nothing to hide.

“Because if we all burned the world because of our suffering, there would be nothing left. And because you said you wanted something real.”

He seems backfooted that you mention it. His first moment of honesty. Your first moment of connection. The beginning of your love.

“This is real, Astarion.” Your gaze is a waterfall. You cannot stop it. “Real love, messy and painful, with a real person who makes mistakes and tells you things that you don’t want to hear. Someone who sees who you really are and who you can be, the worst and the best of you, and still loves you anyway.”

He steps back, his features clenched in spasm. You think of how his hands felt on your skin, cold as ice to the touch, yet warming you inside out like summer sunlight. You remember the lilt of his laughter as you traded jibes and jests under the furs of your tent on cold nights. You breathe in his scent on the air for the last time, those hints of bergamot, rosemary and brandy that you could recognise anywhere. You are already mourning their loss.

“Then I don’t want it,” he spits out. “And I don’t want you.”

And then he leaves.

---

You are alone. You are lying in a clearing a short walk away from camp. It is spring, and the smell of earth and grass hangs around you as the sun streaks through the trees above you. Your ears are drunk with birdsong.

It has been weeks since he left. You would be lying if you said you did not miss him. Sometimes you feel his absence like a presence. It haunts and stalks you, and when the darkness comes, you cling to your pillow in your tent and weep through waves of grief that surge through you like labour pains. But at other times, you find a kind of solace in your solitude. You are not shackled by a desperation for love from a man so broken he is not capable of giving it. You are not trapped by your own brokenness in this yearning, this ache to fill the holes in his heart. And this freedom is worth the pain.

When you had asked Astarion what he wanted, he had never known. And perhaps that had struck you so deeply because you had never known either. You had never truly known what you wanted, who you really were outside of what you could do for others. You thought you were only a thing to be used, a tool to fill someone else’s need, whatever that may be. You could be good at that. You needed to be good at that. If not, you were nothing.

But you are learning. Since he has left, you are learning that you are more than that. You are learning that you can live with your mistakes. That you are enough, just as you are.

You find that you sing now, even when there is no one around. Even when it is not for a performance, or for support in battle. You sing for yourself, and you take pleasure in it, even when your notes are off key and you cannot remember the right words, even when no one is there to praise you or reward you for it. For the first time, you are enjoying your gift for no other reason than that you wish to. It is a gift, and it comes without dread or shame or conditions.

You are humming softly as you stroll back to camp. Scratch greets you with a frenzied tail, and you roll around with him, kneeling as he plasters sloppy kisses all over your face. The simple joy of this dances over the cracks in your heart. When Scratch suddenly stops, you are almost disappointed. You glance in the direction where he has bounded, an ecstatic flurry of delight. Then your eyes catch on silver shining in the sun, two bright rubies on white silk. Your breath halts.

There he is. He is different, but the same. You look at each other. And in that moment, it is enough that there is no hatred in his eyes, which flicker with uncertainty. It is enough that his mouth is not curled into a sneer, and his brow is soft and even. It is enough that you have both survived. You have shown each other who you are, and you are still here.

He reaches his hand out to you, and you take it.

---

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months

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When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 1: Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, a brief history of burn treatments, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), a wild Sunfyre appears, catching feelings for literally the single most inappropriate man on the planet.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

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You scream when he grabs you, this lightning strike of a man with a grip like an animal trap that splits bones. He pulls you away from the soldier you’re soothing—a young dark-haired Norcross, disoriented, doomed, his intestines spilling out onto the grass and blood on his lips—and through the forest of smoke and corpses and pine trees. Your eyes sting and water, your boots snag on gnarled roots. When you yelp and stumble to the earth, the man drags you upright again. You struggle like a beast with a blade at its throat, cold, serrated, pressure on the jugular. You shove and scratch at him, trying to plant your boots in soil strewn with gore and glowing embers.

“Stop, stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Hurry up.”

“You’re going to break my wrist—!”

He wrenches you around to look you full in the face, and only now do you know who he is. A gasp hisses through your teeth; the acrid air in your lungs vanishes. Every muscle and tendon and ligament of you is taut with horror, tight enough to snap. It’s like meeting one of the Seven, the Warrior or Stranger or Smith, a shade you know only from myths and nightmares. It’s like being led to the executioner’s scaffold. His long silver braid hangs over one shoulder. His eyepatch conceals the childhood maiming that left him half-blind. There’s blood and ash on his scarred face, a ruthless breed of fear in his remaining eye, icy blue, creek-shallow, soulless. The man clasping your wrist is Prince Aemond Targaryen. “I’ll break your neck if you don’t come with me now.”

He does not wait for your protest or acquiescence. You couldn’t give it anyway. Your muddied boots move numbly as he tugs you forward, this man they call Aemond One-Eye, a monster, a murderer, a kinslayer. The earth is littered with carnage from the battle, charred ribcages and disemboweled horses, scattered armor and severed limbs. Ashes fall from the smoldering treetops like dark snow.

What does he want from me?

Rape seems unlikely; everyone knows Prince Aemond’s deviancies do not run in that direction. He is cold, hateful, dispassionate, made of stone. He does not lust for anything but power and retribution, fire and blood.

To kill me?

But why not do it here, now? There is a sword hanging from his belt, a dagger in one fist. There is no reason to wait.

To take me prisoner? To feed me to his dragon? To torture me for information?

Surely there are more knowledgeable people around to torture. What use could you be, a healer, a woman? Unless…

Unless he knows who my father is.

You glance down at the fabric band looped around the upper half of your right arm, the only mark you wear of your house, stark white banner, skittering red crabs. It is soaked through with blood. It is unreadable.

Someone is shrieking, but not like a dying man. He has too much fight in him for that, too much glass-clear agony, unwanted blistering consciousness. He screams like someone being flayed, gutted, burned alive. You’ve only ever heard this sound once before. You choke on the greasy, putrid, metallic sweetness of scorched human flesh as it sears down your throat, not knowing if it is real or remembered.

There is a tent in the midst of the pine trees, fluttering canvas that’s green like emeralds or jade. The wind is picking up; you will need to evacuate soon. The cinders will spread and the forest will blaze. Somewhere a dragon is roaring, wounded and mournful like the cry of a lost child. The screams of the man grow louder; they fill your skull like a fever, scalding and senseless and red. Aemond yanks the tent flap aside and pulls you in. And when you breathe it is nothing but the sickening miasma of burnt flesh, coppery blood, suffering, sweat, ruin.

He’s writhing on a wooden table, the man the Greens call king. It has to be him: white-blond hair down to his shoulders, blue eyes and fine aristocratic bones. Two ancient, shaky-handed maesters—hastily commandeered from the defeated House Staunton, you assume—confer nearby, clutching glass bottles of milk of the poppy. A man in armor is cutting tatters of clothing from the so-called king. When he lifts the fabric away, skin sloughs off with it. Aegon wails, struggles, begs him to stop. Aemond goes to his brother and carves away scraps of melted leather and charred cotton with the swift blade of his dagger.

“Shh, shh, don’t fight us, we’re trying to help—”

“Aemond, let me die,” the burned man rasps. He is trembling violently, he is half-mad with pain. Meleys’ flames claimed a swath of his right cheek, his neck and chest and back, his arms down to his wrists, his belly to the crests of his hip bones. “Please. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want it to hurt anymore. Don’t try to help me. Just let me die.”

Aemond looks back at you. “Can you treat this?”

He thinks I’m a Green, you realize with panic, with relief, with terror. And of course he would: you had wandered into the Greens’ side of the battlefield and therefore did not surrender or flee or die with the other Blacks, you were tending to a Green soldier when he found you. Aemond the Kinslayer would not comprehend the notion of service to humankind without a line drawn down the middle of it, of uncategorical compassion.

“Can you help him or not?!” Aemond shouts; and you know that he is not just afraid but shattering, spider-leg cracks inching across a window or a mirror. Perhaps the Greens have souls after all.

You shed your paralysis like daylight erases the stars and approach to examine the so-called king. You do not touch him; still, he whimpers, sobs, quakes like waves in a storm. “He needs more milk of the poppy. A lot more of it.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately. His streaming eyes—a bleak, murky blue like the sea off Claw Isle—list to you, agonized and grateful.

The maesters gape. “More could kill him,” one says. And they are petrified of being blamed for it. They are plagued by visions of Aemond hacking off their heads and displaying them on spikes above the stone walls of captured Rook’s Rest.

“No drawbacks at all then?” Aegon manages between moans.

“If his pain does not abate, he will die of shock,” you say. “He must be unconscious.”

“Knock me out,” Aegon pleads, pawing at Aemond. “Tell them, tell them.”

Aemond looks to the man in armor: dark-haired, olive-skinned, Dornish. Sir Criston Cole, you realize. The Hand of the King. The Kingmaker. After a moment, Criston nods. “Do it now,” Aemond orders the maesters.

Grimacing, grim, they pour the opalescent liquid into Aegon’s mouth. He gulps it down as quickly as he can. “Enough,” you tell the maesters. Instinctively, you reach out to comfort Aegon: a palm rested lightly on his forehead, fingers threaded through silvery hair that’s filthy with soot and blood. You should hate him, but you don’t. When you look at the Greens’ broken king, you cannot see a murderer, a usurper, a depraved hedonist, a consumer of innocence. You can only see a man worn threadbare by ill-advised bravery.

“Hello, angel,” Aegon murmurs as he gazes up at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes really do remind you of home: ocean currents like iron, fog like flint. “Welcome to the end of the world.” And then he’s out, extinguished, eclipsed.

Servants bustle into the tent carrying heavy buckets. “What is that?” you ask.

“Pork lard,” one of the maesters says. “For his wounds.”

“No, no, no, some of these burns are nearly down to the muscle. They’re too deep, too fresh. Lard is for later, to help with scarring, although olive oil or rose oil would be better. He needs to be cleaned with vinegar diluted with water. Or red wine, if that’s all that can be found.”

“Vinegar?!” one of the maesters exclaims.

“It helps prevent infection. Nobody knows why.”

The same maester turns to Aemond, imploring him. “My prince, I can assure you, the Citadel recommends pork lard or cow dung as topical cures, or both used alternatingly. There are also reports of cases where frogs have been helpful, warmed in oil and then rubbed on the affected area.”

Criston blinks. “I’m sorry, you do what with the frogs…?!”

They’re going to kill him, you think. Not with malice, but with stupidity. A wasted life, a wasted death. You demand of the maester: “When was the last time you treated burns this severe?”

He glowers at you, sharp dark eyes like flecks of onyx in a nest of wrinkles. And you know you’ve won when he replies: “When have you?”

“My brother was burned in a housefire started by an upturned lantern. It was five years ago, but I remember the direness his injuries. And what was done to save him.”

Silence in this tent the color of summer: green grass, unsinged trees. Aemond waits for the maesters to produce some astute rebuttal. When they cannot, he orders the servants: “Vinegar, water, rags. Now.” They dash off to oblige him, wide-eyed and quivering like small dogs. Then Aemond looks to you. “What next?”

“His wounds should be treated with honey and then bandaged. The dressings must be changed frequently, at least once per day. He must be repositioned so the scar tissue does not immobilize his joints. He will suffer, it cannot be avoided, but he should suffer as little as possible. Listen to him when he says the pain is too much. Let him sleep. When he is awake, he must drink plenty of fluids. He is losing water through his burns, and it must be replaced. Milk is preferable. Tea and fruit juices are good as well. Some wine is acceptable if that’s what he likes best.”

“And it certainly is,” Criston mutters. You’ve heard the same: that the Greens’ king is a drunk, an adulterer, a coward, a ghoul. You cannot speak to any of this. You know him only as someone who is horrifically pained and sick to death of fighting. Again, without thinking, you comb your fingertips distractedly through his hair as he lies unconscious on the table, bleeding from everywhere. He’s so young, so breakable, so unlike the monster you’ve been led to believe he is.

“Get honey and bandages,” Aemond tells the maesters. They depart, casting each other incredulous glances: Are these our new overlords? Men who heed the wisdom of impetuous young women filthy with blood and earth?

“I’ve heard salt can be helpful for wounds,” Aemond says. “They used it on me when…” He gestures to his eyepatch, to his scar. Lucerys Velaryon took that part of him in self-defense; at least, that is what you have always been told. But you’ve read enough to know that for every event, there are at least two stories. Whatever the truth is, Luke paid for that eye. He paid, Rhaenyra paid, the world continues to pay the price over and over again.

“Because it dries. It absorbs moisture.” You skim your palm over Aegon’s forehead, without lines of fear or anguish as he sleeps. There is a ring on his left hand, a gold dragon with glinting dots of jade for eyes. You twist off the ring so it will not hinder circulation as his fingers swell and give it to Aemond. “But burns weep as they heal. They need to be wet. If they get too dry, they will crack open and fester.”

“Is that what happened to your brother?” Aemond asks.

“Where we did not pay enough attention. The backs of his knees, the soles of his feet.”

“But he survived.”

“Yes,” you tell Aemond; and you can see how desperately he is searching for hope in your face, your words. “He did.”

The servants return with buckets of water, handfuls of rags, glass bottles of vinegar that is cloudy and rust-colored.

“What’s it made from?” you say.

“Fermented a-a-apples, my lady,” one of the boys sputters. He watches Aemond out of the corner of his eye like sheep look for the shadows of wolves. He shivers, he sweats. This boy, who last night was fetching meat and mead for Lord Staunton, has heard the same stories you have: the degenerate king, his murderous brother.

“That’s fine then.” You haul over one of the water buckets and Criston helps you lift it up onto the table. You empty half a bottle of vinegar into the water, mix it by wobbling the bucket back and forth, and then soak a rag in the pungent liquid. “You can help,” you tell Aemond and Criston. “Dip a rag in the bucket, wring it out, then press it to his wounds. Remove any dirt or scraps of fabric. But don’t rub. Try not to damage the skin he has left.” You demonstrate: dabbing at flesh that is torn and bloody and blistered, a black-and-ruby wasteland that at best will leave him irreparably scarred and at worst will swallow his life like ships sink in storms.

Tentatively—with hands at ease with killing but not tenderness—Aemond and Criston join you, studying your movements and imitating them with great care. There is a sniffle, a teardrop that falls onto Aegon’s filthy but unburned left hand and glistens there like a splinter of glass; you are alarmed to see that the Kingmaker is weeping.

“Criston,” Aemond says gently. “We are doing everything we can for him.”

“Since the day he was born, I promised…”

“I know.”

“Your mother…”

“I know,” Aemond says again, and you think: The Greens aren’t demons, they aren’t savages. They’re just patchworks of memory and flesh and suffering, the same as any of us. “He will live. And his sacrifice won us a victory today.”

As you tended to wounded men caked with blood and pine needles, you saw them tangled above in the overcast sky, scales of scarlet and gold and an ancient muddy viridescence. There were flames and shouts, and then all three dragons hurdled towards the earth and out of view. “The Red Queen?” you ask Aemond, mindful to keep your voice perfectly level.

“Dead,” he says: dark satisfaction, fearsome pride. “And so is her rider.”

“The gods are good.” You are amazed at how easily it slips out, a reflex of self-preservation while your mind is elsewhere. Does my father know yet? Does Rhaenyra, does Daemon, does Corlys? People will be searching for you soon. If you do not appear from the smoke and chaos of the battlefield, your eldest brother Clement will come looking with his sword in hand. Everett, scarred and unagile but clever, will be pouring over maps to see where you might have ended up.

There is no suspicion in Aemond’s face when he glances over at you. He is gingerly cleaning soot and charred strips of ruined skin from Aegon’s chest, which rises and falls in deep, slow breaths. “Which family is yours?”

House Celtigar, but you can’t tell him that. You scramble for a noble family of the Crownlands whose accent you share, whose history you have been taught, whose men fight for the Greens but are not so distinguished that Aemond will know them well. “House Thorne.”

He nods. “Are you one of Sir Rickard’s sisters?”

You startle. Perhaps you have chosen the wrong disguise. “Far less illustrious than that. Just a cousin.”

The two maesters return, their archaic hands piled high with linen bandages and glass jars of honey, a fiery gold like sunset. “Set them down over there,” Aemond orders, pointing. He has a presence, it cannot be denied. He is tall, fierce, swift yet calculated. He moves like a man who has killed once, twice, again until it is no longer something that keeps him awake at night. It is something that has become a part of him like arteries or bones. “Prepare a room in the castle.”

“For Prince Aegon?” one of the maesters says, then quickly corrects himself. “I mean, for the king?”

“For until we decide what to do with him.” Aemond stares at Criston. Criston stares back, his dark eyes huge and shiny. There is a war to be waged, but Aegon will not be able to help them. Not for months, at least. Not ever, if he dies. The maesters disappear again, grumbling to each other. Unwelcome tasks, unwelcome guests.

Rhaenys is dead, you think as you work. It doesn’t feel real. Meleys is dead. Hundreds of Black soldiers are dead. Rook’s Rest is the Greens’ greatest victory yet, and one they desperately needed. This war is nowhere near over. And the betting odds keep changing.

You say to Aemond and Criston: “Help me turn him. We must clean the burns on his back as well.”

They listen, they obey, they help you because helping you means helping Aegon. When he is washed as well as he can be, you spread a thin sheen of shimmering honey over his wounds—an amber river that will trap moisture and discourage inflammation—and wrap him in bandages. The only burn you leave uncovered is the one on his right cheek. It creeps up over his pale face like red tentacles, curling and grasping, hungry, insatiable. They match now, you think. Two brothers, two scars.

Criston assembles a group of Green soldiers and Aegon is carried in a litter to the castle that serves as the seat of House Staunton, once allies of Rhaenyra, now traitors, now dead men walking. Outside rain has begun to fall, putting out flames born from dragonfire. The pine forest is saved; wounded men lie in the dirt with their mouths open hoping to quench their thirst. By the time Aegon is placed in an opulent bedroom with a view of Blackwater Bay, he has already bled through his bandages. You clean him again, bandage him, dribble milk of the poppy down his throat when he begins to stir and whimper. Aemond gives you command of a makeshift fleet of caretakers: the two requisitioned maesters, three maids, servants to bring food, drink, bandages, wood for the crackling fireplace.

My family is searching for me, you know as you battle to save their enemy’s life, this maybe-king with silver hair and eyes like deep water.And then: I cannot leave him. Not now, not yet.

In the night, as cool rain patters against the ocean and Aemond and Criston are slaughtering House Staunton men down in the castle courtyard, you dose Aegon with milk of the poppy every few hours. The maesters refuse to take responsibility for it; if the king is poisoned, it will be you who swings from a rope for it. You hold cloths dripping with cold water to his forehead. You feed him nibbles of bread and venison when he is conscious enough to eat, cinnamon tea, pomegranate juice, goat milk. You inspect him for any signs of infection. You braid a small lock of his hair before you’ve stopped to consider why you’re doing it.

And when no one else is watching, you untie the bloodstained armband of your own house and burn it to ashes in the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~

Someone is jostling you, grabbing at you. You fell into an exhausted, sporadic sleep in the next room long after midnight. It’s morning now; warm sunlight blooms like flowers on your face, yellow roses and buttercups and daffodils. When your eyes open, they are sore and unfocused. Aemond is a blur of white hair and black leather. He is tugging on you again, his lithe fingers like a vice around your forearm.

“Stop it, get off me!” You shove him away. He waits, bemused. “You can’t keep dragging me around like this!”

“Why not?”

Because my father is one of the wealthiest men in the Seven Kingdoms. Because I may not have silver hair or a dragon, but if you cut me open the blood of Old Valyria would spill out like red waves. Because the man I am pledged to marry is good at killing, very good at killing, maybe even better than you. “Because I’m a noblewoman. I’m a lady.”

“You don’t act like one,” Aemond counters. “Ladies flee from blood and gore. Ladies are nowhere to be found on battlefields.”

“I like being useful.”

“Then I have brought you a gift. You are needed now. Aegon is asking for you.” And then, when you hurry out of bed, finding your footing on chilly wood floors: “Well, that certainly got you moving quickly.”

“He’s in pain?”

“Not especially, from what I can tell. I think he just wants you.” Aemond glides out of the bedroom. You follow him to Aegon’s chamber. The Greens’ king is propped up in bed on a great mass of pillows, bandaged, limp, eyes glazed and barely open. There are men huddled around him. You recognize Criston, though not the other ones, some old and some young and all in armor. You hope that none of them are Sir Rickard Thorne.

You feel Aegon’s forehead for fever. To your relief, he is no more than modestly warm. He catches your hand, holds it tightly, doesn’t let go. After a moment’s hesitation, you sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. There is a curl of his lips, just a whisper of a smile, just a phantom of one. Aemond glances at you and Aegon with mild interest, then turns his attention to Criston.

“Aegon,” Criston informs the king, patiently, like a good father would. “We have to move you back to King’s Landing.”

“No,” Aegon says. His voice is so low and weak that he’s difficult to hear.

“Your recovery will be long and arduous,” Criston explains. “Aemond and I will be needed in combat. We cannot stay to guard you. The Blacks may try to retake Rook’s Rest. You staying here is not an option. King’s Landing is safer. It is well-supplied, it is protected. And we have our own maesters there who will help tend to you.”

“Can’t leave,” Aegon croaks. “Sunfyre.”

“Aegon—”

“I can’t leave without Sunfyre,” he forces out with immense effort. Then he gasps and moans, tears pooling in his eyes. You offer him milk of the poppy; he guzzles as much as you’ll allow him to have.

Criston sighs. “You can’t stay. And Sunfyre can’t leave. One of his wings was nearly ripped off, he’ll never fly again. We have no way to transport him, he’s too heavy.”

One of the armored men mutters: “And that’s assuming he wouldn’t incinerate anyone who ventured close enough to try.”

“Where is he now?” Aemond asks the man.

“Down on the beach, my prince. Eating dead soldiers.”

Criston shudders. Working in close proximity to dragons has not given him a liking for them.

“Can’t leave him here,” Aegon whispers, shaking his head.

“You must,” Aemond says.

“What if it was Vhagar?”

“I’d leave her. I’d have no choice.”

Aegon frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s all too much for him. “Not the same.”

No, perhaps not; Aemond’s dragon may be the largest and most lethal in the world, but Aegon’s bond with Sunfyre is said to be what legends are built of, words written in ink and stone. You watch the agonized confliction on Aegon’s drawn face: can’t leave, can’t stay, can’t fight, can’t run. You say softly: “Could Sunfyre be assigned a detachment of guards?”

Aemond looks at you as if just remembering you’re here. “What?”

“Men could be tasked with ensuring the dragon is secure and fed. From a safe distance, of course. They could report on his health. Then perhaps when he is stronger, he can be reunited with the king.” The king. Again, it stuns you how easily the treason rolls out, like waves bubbling over rocks and sand.

Aemond turns to Criston. “Could it be done?”

“I don’t foresee many men volunteering for the task. But it could be done, yes. Sure.”

Aemond asks his brother: “Would that make a difference?”

Aegon’s eyes drift to you. They are churning with sluggish, clunky thoughts, heavy burdens to bear on raw shoulders. The braid that you wove absentmindedly into his hair is still there. “Alright,” Aegon agrees at last. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” Aemond says. “We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Then he looks to you. “You will come south with us.” His tone invites no argument. He doesn’t even conceive of it as a possibility. Why would you refuse? Why would you, a purportedly devout Green, shy away from the opportunity to nurse your king back to health? You bow your head in compliance. You wonder what is being discussed in the Black Council; you wonder what your father is thinking, what Everett believes happened to you.

“But I have to see him first,” Aegon says.

Aemond does not understand. “See who?”

“Sunfyre.”

“But you can’t walk to the beach,” Criston says. “You can’t walk anywhere.”

Aegon grins, showing his teeth. His dazed, deep blue eyes glitter mischieviously. His hand has not disentangled itself from yours. “Then carry me.”

The deal is struck, like a face minted onto a coin or a bolt of lightning meeting the earth. Soldiers transport Aegon down to the stony, mist-sopped shoreline. Blade-sharp agony is flooding back into his face, but he refuses more milk of the poppy. He wants to be awake when he gets there. He wants to be himself.

The soldiers cannot get too close to Sunfyre; no one besides Aegon can. He is helped off the litter and then tries to amble across the wet, grey sand. After a few steps he collapses. You rush to him, dodging Aemond and Criston’s grasps as they try to stop you.

“No,” Aegon says when you attempt to help him to his feet. He is panting from the pain, his face flushed with torment and exertion. His white-blond hair whips in the wind. “Do not follow me. Not even if I pass out, not even if I’m dead. I don’t know what Sunfyre would do to you.” And then he crawls forward alone on his hands and knees.

Waves crash, spraying saltwater into the air. Crabs scuttle over rocks. Gulls swoop low to claim mouthfuls of flesh from bloated corpses in worthless uniforms. The dragon known as Sunfyre the Golden is curled up on the beach. Many of his metallic scales are singed; the pink membranes of his wings are tattered like lace. His right wing hangs at a ruinously odd angle. You would know how to set that if he was a human. And you could do it without the threat of being reduced to ash and history.

Sunfyre unravels as Aegon nears him, long angular face rising, frayed wings settling by his sides. You have seen dragons before, of course—Syrax, Caraxes, Arrax, Vermax, Meleys—though never from this close. They horrify you. You cannot look at them without thinking of the devastation they sow like a plague, of how they so unmistakably no longer belong in this world.

Sunfyre’s head stretches out towards his rider, a half-dead man kneeling in wet sand and wearing only bandages and loose cotton trousers. Beside you, Sir Criston Cole sucks in a noisy, nervous breath. Aemond watches Aegon, his face like stone. His hair hangs in long, damp waves.

Aegon embraces Sunfyre, clinging to him, resting his face against the dragon’s. They stay like that for what feels like a very long time. Then Aegon crawls back to you, sobbing with pain by the time he is lifted into the litter. You give him milk of the poppy and he accepts it eagerly. He is unconscious again within seconds. Down the beach, Sunfyre looses a soft desolate cry like a plea: Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You might never come back.

~~~~~~~~~~

The drivers have been instructed to proceed slowly and with caution; still, the carriage pitches and jolts as you traverse the Rosby Road towards King’s Landing. In addition to the caravan’s most precious cargo—the Greens’ fragile and intermittently sentient king—it transports also two severed heads: Lord Simon Staunton’s in a basket, and Meleys’ in the bed of a mule-drawn wagon. High above in slate-grey clouds, Aemond and Vhagar are safeguarding your progress. Criston rides on a monstrous warhorse just outside the carriage. You are leafing through a book that you found in the castle library at Rook’s Rest: anatomy, surgery, sicknesses and cures. Aegon is bandaged and heavily medicated in the cushioned seat across from you. While servants flit in and out frequently, you are the only passengers in the carriage at the moment. You do not know that Aegon is awake until he speaks.

“Sinful,” he says. His voice is groggy, only half-here. He is gazing blearily at the illustration on the open pages of your book: a quite detailed naked man, his arteries and veins mapped like the roads of Westeros, his cock bare and sizeable.

“It’s informative,” you reply in your own defense, smiling.

“My father would have hit me for looking at something like that. If he’d noticed.” Aegon smirks, resting his head against the back of his velvet seat. His hair has been scrubbed and rinsed by servants, the braid you made for him undone. “He probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Mine has a great love for all books.” Bartimos Celtigar is eternally turning pages: computations, records, revenue. He does not just sit on Rhaenyra’s council. He is her Master of Coin. He funds her war effort, he fuels her like wood to a fire. “Besides, I have seen naked men in person. No book can scandalize me now.”

A little twitch of his silvery eyebrows: fascination, amusement. “He does not lose sleep over your spent innocence?”

“He has other things on his mind presently.”

“Like what?”

Like helping Rhaenyra win the war. You find a different truth to tell him. “Some men consider one daughter to be too many. My father has four. His attention is thoroughly divided.”

“He doesn’t like you?”

“He likes me plenty. He just doesn’t need me.”

Aegon nods. His eyes travel over you slowly and meditatively, not leering but learning, memorizing slopes and angles, taking you in like he’s never been able to before. He is in the brief lull between doses of milk of the poppy: lucid enough to speak but not so much that he can feel the full extent of his injuries. “Are you married?”

This is a bit of a fraught subject. “I am betrothed.”

“Oh,” he says, with what might be disappointment. “And he wouldn’t rather have you home right now? Putting all that knowledge of male anatomy to good use? That’s difficult to believe.”

You peer evasively down at your book. “He has a role to play in the war. I’ve been given permission to serve in my own way until it is over.”

“Permission,” Aegon echoes. He finds this interesting. He studies you for a while before he asks, his voice gentle: “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. He’s honorable, he’s brave. He’s marvelously formidable. He could carry you around like a sack of potatoes.”

Aegon chuckles, a slow reflective laugh, curiosity, intrigue, something to think about besides the fact that he’s missing half his skin. “Do you fear marriage?”

What is the answer to that question? Do you even know yourself? “I fear being possessed. And having no remedy if the circumstances are not to my liking.”

“You can’t get one of your three superfluous sisters to marry him instead?”

You smile faintly. “No, we’ve met. He chose me, he favored me. I’m not sure why.”

“Probably because you’ve read all there is to know about cocks.” Aegon grins, drowsy and crooked and playful. “Who is he?”

“Just a man,” you say. You can’t tell Aegon more than that. It would give your Black affiliations away.

You are betrothed to the Warden of the North, Lord Cregan Stark.

#aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #hotd fanfic

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darke15 · 8 months

Text

CHAPTER 99: FLASHBACK - A GAME OF DEATH AND DESTRUCTION

To all my live reactors,

Please, please, please, hide your reactions under a Read More cut. I don’t want any spoilers floating around.

To all my Anonymous Avengers,

If you want to react in my asks, feel free. However, I won’t be answering any of them until at least Wednesday if they contain spoilers.

Thank you,

Darke

┍━━━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━━━┑

“Now, we are going to change the world. You and I,” he continued without pause, “Have you not seen it? The entire earth is in near-irreversible shambles. The people, they take and take and take. They play a game of death and destruction and they expect paradise to come from their greed. That is not how it works. You and I know this. Do we not?”

“We have seen it. The both of us,” he answered for you, staring at you with a small smile, “Dictators rule with an iron fist. Government agencies fund and facilitate military coups. Leaders order the destabilization of their allies so that they may play the heroes. Politicians fold to greed, creating war and terror to expand their own wealth.”

Novak finally paused, sucking a hiss through his teeth, “And what happens when one or the other oversteps? Hm? They come to people like me for help and then I send people like you. Why is that? Hm?”

You managed half of a shrug as you took in his words.

“With a few strokes of carefully curated violence, we have fixed their problem.” He smiled brightly, “After all, what does one do with a dictator? A drug runner? A weapons dealer? A human trafficker? A corrupt politician? I use them—”

“And then I kill them.”

┕━━━━━━━━ ★ ━━━━━━━━┙

CHAPTER 99: FLASHBACK - A GAME OF DEATH AND DESTRUCTION

✪ Bᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ Sᴄᴀʀʀᴇᴅ : Aғᴛᴇʀᴍᴀᴛʜ

♜♠ Tʜᴇ Sᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ & Tʜᴇ Sᴘʏ

⧗ Tʜᴇ Rᴇᴅ Rᴏᴏᴍ

☞ Bᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ Sᴄᴀʀʀᴇᴅ: Oʀɪɢɪɴs

»Jᴏɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇ sɪᴅᴇ Tᴀɢʟɪsᴛ

TAGLIST BELOW

@thexbookxnerdx // @fadingbakeryfarmoperator // @rhymingtree // @itsmeatballworld // @kippykasey // @turtleedovee // @onewithnomightypowers // @pixviee // @riahmcq // @thequeenofthefallen // @jesuswasnotawhiteman // @fnnshelbys // @knowyourworth-sellyoursoul // @banbananas // @oikawasblueearbud // @itsarussian // @mrsbarnesinmyimagination // @oopsiedoopsie23 // @luhuhzy // @heyimjustlaura12 // @moonlightreader649 // @sighmurderbot // @useless-creature-213 // @xiyouchan // @bookfeen // @afraidofshrimp // @yjck121 // @born-a-sinner-die-a-martyr // @comfortzonequeen // @essieham27 // @aftermatharchives

#chapter 99: a game of death and destruction #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier x reader #large #bucky x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #battle scarred aftermath

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sorcerous-caress · 8 months

Note

Hello!! I love your writing 😍 Would it be okay if you wrote Karlach, Lae'zel and whomever you wish with a tiefling!Tav that loses both a horn and an eye during a battle and can't quite find balance in their fighting afterwards bc of it?

Reacting to Tav losing a horn/eye

[Hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, nb!reader, Tiefling!reader]

[Karlach, Laezel, Wyll, Halsin]

Karlach

She swears she can still hear it, your agonised scream, the splatter of blood, the crunch of bone being torn apart.

As if the world slowed down for a moment, an eerie quietness surrounding the battlefield for the uncomfortable stretched out seconds. Your companions turning to look at you, clutching your eye with your back hunched.

Dread filled her stomach, one of your horns laid on the bloody floor next to your feet.

She doesn't remember the rest. Only when she stood atop the burnt rubble of what used to be the battlefield, did the all-consuming rage fade away from her mind.

Karlach is immediately at your side after, apologising for not being there sooner.

She's by your side as you heal, making sure to bring you anything you might need. As your struggles to adjust to combat again in the aftermath become more and more evadint, she is one of the first people to suggest fully leaving combat to her.

Yes, you are capable. Yes, she has seen how strong you are. But sometimes life just doesn't go the way we plan it. You can relay on her instead.

You don't have to go back to the cruel world. You can let her take care of it. Karlach really can't afford losing you. She'd claw her way up the heavens and steal you away if your fate took a turn to the worse.

Laezel

She completely disagrees with Karlach. This is nothing but a minor setback if anything. Laezel completely has faith in you to relearn how to find your balance, and she'll teach you if she has to.

As long as you can still stand on your feet and carry a sword, then you can fight in her eyes. She will give her sincere apologies for letting you down in battle and not doing something before enemeis got the chance to best you, but besides it, you'll get no pity from her.

Why is everyone acting as if you died? You're clearly still the same strong and capable person she knows. If anything, each scar is evidence of how your enemies' failure to put you down, you should show your broken horn with pride.

She has enough self awareness not to impose her views on you, no matter how much she thinks her companions are being dramatic and oversensitive, is she noticed you being fully uncomfortable with her approach she will take her leave from your bedside.

But you got fed up with people infantlising you, then she will be the first to 6pull you back into an intense daily training routine until you regain your footing.

Wyll

While Karlach and Laezel were too busy arguing about your own fate, Wyll was there for you throughout every stage of healing. He knows what it's it like losing an eye. He can relate to the horror and dissociation that happens whenever you look at the mirror to see a piece of yourself missing.

He still hasn't gotten used to his own horns himself, and losing one of yours must have been painful to bear. He will stay by your side until you feel better, no pressure to discuss the future or your fighting abilities or anything.

Wyll will make sure you don't feel alone, that the dark thoughts don't consume you too much. Share you worries with him, let him help carry your burdens, please. It kills him seeing someone so dear to him suffer when he can't do anything or help.

Halsin

His heart breaks, seeing you coming back to camp limbing and bloodied that day. He prays to Silvanus to ease your pain as he takes shift with Shadowheart to nurse you back to health with healing spells.

Nature can be so unforgiving sometimes, to some animals, losing an eye or horn can be a death sentence.

But he has seen even the most withered of plants suddenly flourish and regain their strength, he has personally stayed up countless nights to care for the weak kittens that their mother refused to even acknowledge.

He has seen them grow, nurtured them into a strong healthy state.

Don't surrendered to the darkness, when the abyss starts whispering about how this is your end and how your potential was wasted you yell at the abyss, bite, claw and fight your way out of this rut.

True strength lies in the heart, give yourself time to rest, and don't rush your healing. Eventually, you'll be back on your own two feet with a new view on the world before you can realise it.

#♡Karlach #♡Halsin #♡wyll #♡Laezel #♡fluff #♡angst #♡hurt comfort #♡tiefling tav #karlach x reader #halsin x reader #wyll x reader #laezel x reader #bg3 x reader #baldur's gate 3 x reader #fluff #hurt/comfort #tiefling Tav

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zapreportsblog · 9 months

Text

❝my little warrior❞

✭ pairing : tsu’tey x reader

✭ fandom : avatar the way of water

✭ summary : a sky person undergoes a remarkable transformation into a Na'vi and finds herself entwined in a passionate love affair with Tsu'tey. Their love deepens as they marry, but their union takes an extraordinary turn when she becomes pregnant with Tsu'tey's heir.

✭ avatar the way of water masterlist

The night was alive with the soft, melodic hum of Pandora's bioluminescent flora. A faint breeze rustled the leaves of strange trees, and the stars above sparkled like scattered diamonds. (Y/N) stood beneath the alien sky, marveling at the beauty of this vibrant world.

Once, she had been a sky person, a scientist sent to Pandora to study its unique plant life. But life had taken a turn she could never have imagined. She had undergone the Avatar program, and now she had her own Na'vi body, a body she had come to love and cherish.

Over time, as she immersed herself in Na'vi culture and explored the lush landscape, (Y/N) found herself drawn to Tsu'tey, a fierce and noble warrior of the Omaticaya clan. His strength, wisdom, and the way he moved with the grace of a predator in the forest had captivated her heart.

However, as fate would have it, another love story was unfolding on Pandora. Jake Sully, the human who had become a Na'vi, had fallen deeply in love with Neytiri, the daughter of the clan leader. Their bond was undeniable, and their love grew stronger with each passing day.

(Y/N) struggled with her feelings for Tsu'tey, torn between her affection for him and the knowledge that Jake and Neytiri's love was destined to be. She often sought solace in the bioluminescent forests, hoping that the wisdom of Eywa, the living spirit of Pandora, would guide her.

One fateful night, as the moon hung low in the sky, (Y/N) and Tsu'tey found themselves beneath the sacred Tree of Voices. The ancient tree's soft whispers seemed to beckon them closer, and their hearts led them to each other. Under the watchful gaze of Eywa, they mated, their love transcending the boundaries of their different origins.

As time passed, the tension between the Na'vi and the sky people escalated, leading to a catastrophic war. (Y/N) fought alongside her Na'vi brothers and sisters, determined to protect the land and people she had come to call home. The conflict raged on, the battles were fierce, and losses were heavy on both sides.

It was in the aftermath of one such battle, amid the scars of war, that (Y/N) received news that would change everything. She discovered that she was pregnant, carrying the child who would be the heir of Tsu'tey, the child born of their love. Her heart swelled with hope and uncertainty, for this new life represented a bridge between two worlds, a symbol of unity and a chance for redemption.

Upon finding out the news she touched her abdomen, feeling the life growing within, (Y/N) knew that the challenges ahead were immense. But she also knew that the love she shared with Tsu'tey and the bond she had with Pandora's people would give her the strength to face whatever the future held.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, amber glow over the lush, alien landscape of Pandora. (Y/N) stood at the edge of the clearing, gazing out at the rolling hills and bioluminescent flora that stretched as far as the eye could see. It had been weeks since the destruction of Hometree at the hands of the Sky People, and life among the Omaticaya clan had changed dramatically.

Beside her, Tsu'tey, his tall and muscular form silhouetted against the fading light, watched the same landscape. He had become the clan leader, a position he had never sought but had embraced with a fierce determination. The loss of Hometree had been a deep wound in the heart of the Na'vi, and the Omaticaya had been scattered in the aftermath, forced to relocate and adapt to a new way of life.

"(Y/N)," Tsu'tey spoke softly, his voice tinged with sadness. "Our home, our Hometree, is gone. But we must move forward, rebuild, and find a new place to call our own."

(Y/N) turned to look at him, her eyes reflecting the same sadness. "I know, Tsu'tey. And I want to help rebuild our clan. I want to build a new home, one where our people can thrive once again."

Tsu'tey placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch reassuring. "You have a strong spirit, (Y/N), and a heart filled with love for our people. We will find a way, together."

As the weeks passed, the Omaticaya clan worked tirelessly to establish a new settlement. It was a challenging endeavor, but their determination was unwavering. Tsu'tey, as the leader, was often at the forefront, guiding and motivating the clan members. (Y/N), too, played her part, using her knowledge of the land and her skills to help gather resources and build shelters.

One evening, as the two of them sat by the fire, (Y/N) hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Tsu'tey, there's something I need to tell you." Her voice trembled with a mix of excitement and nervousness.

Tsu'tey turned to her, his amber eyes filled with curiosity. "What is it, (Y/N)?"

Taking a deep breath, she placed a hand on her belly, her eyes glistening with tears of joy. "I'm carrying our child, Tsu'tey. I'm pregnant."

For a moment, Tsu'tey was silent, his gaze locked on (Y/N)'s face. Then, a radiant smile spread across his features, and he pulled her into a tight embrace. "This is wonderful news, (Y/N)! Our family will grow, and our love will only strengthen."

Tears of happiness filled (Y/N)'s eyes as she hugged him back. "I knew you would be happy, Tsu'tey."

Tsu'tey kissed her forehead and whispered, "I promise to support our family to the fullest, (Y/N). Our child will grow up surrounded by the love of the Omaticaya clan, and we will build a future where they can thrive."

As they held each other by the firelight, the stars overhead began to twinkle in the alien sky, casting their blessings on this new chapter in the lives of (Y/N) and Tsu'tey. Together, they would face the challenges of rebuilding, parenthood, and a future filled with hope.

The first month of pregnancy for (Y/N) was a period of quiet excitement and newfound awareness. As soon as she shared the news with Tsu'tey, their bond grew even stronger, and they embarked on this journey together with a sense of wonder.

During this initial month, (Y/N) experienced a range of physical and emotional changes. While some women might not yet be aware of their pregnancy at this stage, (Y/N) had a deep connection to her body and noticed subtle shifts.

Morning sickness made its presence felt, though it wasn't just limited to the mornings. There were moments of queasiness that could strike at any time of the day. She found comfort in sipping herbal teas that the clan's healers recommended to ease the nausea. Tsu'tey was always by her side, ready with soothing words and a helping hand whenever she needed it.

Fatigue was another constant companion during the first month. (Y/N) often found herself needing more rest than usual, and Tsu'tey made sure she had a comfortable place to rest and recuperate. The Omaticaya clan members, aware of their leader's impending fatherhood, were also supportive, offering assistance with chores and responsibilities.

Emotionally, (Y/N) experienced a mix of happiness, anticipation, and occasional anxiety. She couldn't help but wonder about the kind of parent she would be and how their child would fit into the clan's evolving dynamics. Tsu'tey was her anchor during these moments of reflection, assuring her that they would face the future together, as a strong and loving family.

As the first month passed, the news of (Y/N)'s pregnancy gradually spread throughout the clan. The Omaticaya celebrated the impending arrival of a new member with joy and hope, and they gathered around the couple, offering blessings and support.

Tsu'tey, who had been busy with the responsibilities of leadership, took moments to connect with (Y/N) and the life growing inside her. He would place his hand gently on her belly, feeling a sense of wonder as he imagined their child's future among the Na'vi.

The first month of pregnancy for (Y/N) was a time of gentle transitions and growing anticipation. She and Tsu'tey faced the challenges and joys of this new chapter with love, determination, and the unwavering support of the Omaticaya clan.

The second and third months of (Y/N)'s pregnancy brought with them a deeper sense of purpose and a heightened awareness of the challenges ahead. Balancing the responsibilities of helping the village rebuild with the anticipation of their growing family tested both (Y/N) and Tsu'tey in unique ways.

As the weeks passed, (Y/N) found herself adjusting to the physical changes of pregnancy. Her morning sickness began to ease, bringing some relief. Still, she had to be mindful of her energy levels and listen to her body's cues, which sometimes meant stepping back from strenuous tasks. The healers of the Omaticaya clan continued to offer guidance and support, ensuring her well-being.

Tsu'tey, as the clan leader, faced a relentless stream of decisions and duties related to the village's reconstruction. He leaned on the strength and resilience of his people, delegating tasks to clan members to ensure the new settlement continued to grow. At the same time, he made a conscious effort to be there for (Y/N), recognizing that her well-being and their growing family were his top priorities.

Together, (Y/N) and Tsu'tey navigated the challenges of rebuilding their lives while preparing for the arrival of their child. They shared moments of quiet reflection in the evenings, talking about their hopes and dreams for their family. Tsu'tey often spoke about teaching their child the ways of the Na'vi, passing down the traditions and values of their clan.

The Omaticaya clan, aware of their leader's impending fatherhood, rallied around the couple. They helped with household chores, ensured that (Y/N) had access to nutritious meals, and offered their wisdom on parenting and raising a child within the clan. The sense of community and support was a constant source of strength for (Y/N) and Tsu'tey.

During the second and third months, (Y/N) began to feel the first flutters of the baby's movements within her womb. Each kick and twist filled her with awe, reminding her of the life growing inside her. Tsu'tey would often place his hand on her belly, feeling the gentle movements, and they would share smiles and whispered words of love for their unborn child.

While the challenges of rebuilding their village remained, the anticipation of their growing family served as a beacon of hope. (Y/N) and Tsu'tey knew that their child would be born into a world of resilience, love, and unity, surrounded by the warm embrace of the Omaticaya clan.

During the fourth, fifth, and sixth months of (Y/N)'s pregnancy, the physical demands of carrying their child became more pronounced, and (Y/N) found herself struggling with feelings of frustration and inadequacy. In the vibrant world of the Na'vi, where strength and agility were highly valued, she couldn't help but feel like she was falling short.

As she watched other pregnant Na'vi women in the clan continue to ride their ikran and participate in hunting expeditions, (Y/N) felt a growing sense of frustration. She had always been an active member of the Omaticaya clan, and now, as her pregnancy advanced, she found it increasingly difficult to keep up with her usual activities.

One day, as (Y/N) sat by a clear river, her thoughts weighed down by her perceived shortcomings, Jake Sully approached her. He had lived among the Na'vi and understood both their culture and her unique situation as a human who had become one of them.

"(Y/N)," Jake said gently, sitting down beside her. "I've noticed that you're feeling down lately. What's been bothering you?"

Tears welled up in (Y/N)'s eyes as she confessed her feelings of uselessness. "I see the other Na'vi women continuing their daily activities, riding ikran and hunting, and here I am struggling just to walk without feeling exhausted. I feel like I'm letting everyone down."

Jake placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I understand why you're feeling this way, (Y/N). But remember, you were once a human, and human women have different experiences during pregnancy. Your body has been through a remarkable transformation, adapting to the ways of the Na'vi. You're carrying a child who will be part of both worlds, and that makes your journey unique."

(Y/N) looked at Jake, her eyes filled with gratitude. "But I still want to contribute, to be a part of the clan's activities."

Jake nodded with a knowing smile. "You don't have to be a warrior or a hunter to contribute, (Y/N). Your wisdom, your love, and the unique perspective you bring to our clan are invaluable. You're carrying the future of our people, and that's the most important role of all."

Touched by Jake's words, (Y/N) wiped away her tears. She realized that her journey through pregnancy was bound to be different, but it was no less significant. She had a loving partner in Tsu'tey, the support of the Omaticaya clan, and the wisdom of Jake to guide her through this unique experience.

As the months passed, (Y/N) embraced her role as a mother-to-be with newfound confidence. She may not have been riding ikran or hunting, but she was nurturing a new life, one that would bridge the gap between two worlds. With the support of her loved ones and a sense of purpose, she found joy and fulfillment in the path that lay ahead, ready to welcome their child into a world of unity and understanding.

The seventh month of (Y/N)'s pregnancy brought with it a sense of eager anticipation. As her belly continued to swell with the growing life inside, she and Tsu'tey decided to set aside a special day to choose names for their soon-to-arrive baby. It was a tradition among the Na'vi to carefully select names that held deep meaning, reflecting the hopes and dreams for the child.

One warm and tranquil afternoon, (Y/N) and Tsu'tey found a quiet spot beneath the shade of a large willow tree by the river. They sat cross-legged on a woven mat, facing each other, their hands intertwined. The gentle breeze rustled the leaves above, and the sounds of the forest provided a soothing backdrop for their important task.

Tsu'tey spoke first, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I've been thinking about names for our child, (Y/N). For a boy, I like the name Nari. It means 'strong,' and I hope our son will grow to be as strong as our clan."

(Y/N) smiled at the choice. "Nari is a wonderful name, Tsu'tey. For a girl, I've been considering Aluna. It means 'peace,' and I want our daughter to bring peace to our hearts and our clan."

Tsu'tey nodded in agreement. "Aluna is a beautiful name. Strong and peaceful, just like you, (Y/N)."

They continued to brainstorm names, taking turns suggesting options and discussing their meanings. For a boy, they considered names like Tarok, meaning 'brave,' and for a girl, Neytiri, in honor of their dear friend and fellow clan member. Each name carried a special significance, representing qualities they wished for their child.

As they deliberated, (Y/N) felt a deep connection with Tsu'tey and their growing family. She realized that this was not just a choice of names; it was a celebration of their love, their hopes, and their shared future. The anticipation of meeting their child in just a few short months filled their hearts with joy.

After much thought and consideration, they settled on the names. For a boy, they chose Nari, a name representing strength, and for a girl, Aluna, embodying peace. With these names in mind, they felt even more connected to the life growing within (Y/N)'s belly, eager to welcome Nari or Aluna into their loving arms.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, (Y/N) and Tsu'tey held each other close, their hearts filled with gratitude and excitement. They knew that the journey ahead would be a remarkable one, and they were ready to embrace it together as a family, with Nari or Aluna at its heart.

The eighth month of (Y/N)'s pregnancy brought with it a sense of camaraderie among the Na'vi women of the Omaticaya clan. Neytiri, who had become like a sister to (Y/N) and Tsu'tey, was more than happy to lend her support to the pregnant women of the tribe. It was a time when the women came together, sharing their experiences, wisdom, and traditions.

On a bright and sunny morning, the pregnant Na'vi women gathered beneath the shade of a massive tree in the heart of the clan's new settlement. They sat on woven mats, surrounded by baskets filled with vibrant blooms and fragrant herbs. The air was filled with the sweet scent of flowers and the soft hum of conversation.

Neytiri, with her gentle smile and nurturing spirit, led the gathering. She had graciously taken on the role of guiding the expectant mothers through this phase of their journey. (Y/N) sat among the women, her pregnant belly a testament to the life she carried within.

As the women worked together, weaving intricate flower crowns and arranging the blooms into beautiful bouquets, they shared stories of their own pregnancies, recalling the joys and challenges they had faced. Some spoke of the excitement of their first child, while others offered advice on coping with the physical changes that came with pregnancy.

Neytiri, with her wealth of knowledge, shared traditional Na'vi remedies and practices that could alleviate discomfort and promote the well-being of both mother and child. Her presence was a source of comfort and inspiration for (Y/N) and the other expectant mothers.

"(Y/N)," Neytiri said, turning to her with a warm smile, "You are a part of our clan, and your journey is a unique one. You may have been born human, but your heart is Na'vi. We are here to support you as you bring a child into our world, and we are honored to share in this experience with you."

Tears of gratitude welled up in (Y/N)'s eyes as she nodded. She had come to love her Na'vi family deeply, and this gathering of women was a reminder of the strength of their community. They were united not just by blood but by their shared values, traditions, and the bonds they had formed.

As the day passed, the women wove their stories and their flower crowns together, creating memories that would forever be etched in their hearts. The eighth month of (Y/N)'s pregnancy became a time of connection and celebration, a testament to the beauty of unity and the enduring spirit of the Omaticaya clan.

The ninth month of (Y/N)'s pregnancy was filled with eager anticipation and the feeling that their child's arrival was imminent. She stood with the other Na'vi women, watching the horizon for the return of their mates, husbands, brothers, and fathers from the hunting party. The air was charged with excitement, and a sense of unity enveloped the waiting group.

As they scanned the distant landscape, (Y/N) suddenly felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. She gasped, clutching her belly as a warm rush of fluid signaled that her water had broken. Panic and realization washed over her, and she turned to the women beside her, trying to convey her urgency with wide eyes.

Without hesitation, the Na'vi women swiftly guided (Y/N) toward the healing tent. Her contractions intensified, and she couldn't help but cry out for Tsu'tey, her voice filled with longing. She wanted him there with her during this pivotal moment, but the urgency of the situation pressed on.

Inside the healing tent, the skilled healers and midwives immediately recognized that (Y/N) was in labor. They began to attend to her, guiding her into a birthing pool and providing comfort as the contractions grew stronger and closer together. Despite their best efforts, (Y/N) was already deep into labor and had to begin pushing.

Each push was met with determination and courage, but (Y/N) continued to call out for Tsu'tey, her heart aching for his presence. Her strength wavered, but she drew from the support of the healers and the women around her.

Meanwhile, the hunting party returned to the village, led by Jake Sully. Jake had noticed (Y/N)'s and Neytiri’s absence amongst the crowd of woman, a healer approached Tsu'tey with a sense of urgency, relaying the news of her labor. Panic and worry etched across Tsu'tey's face, and he wasted no time rushing to the tent where (Y/N) was giving birth.

Inside the tent, (Y/N) lay in the birthing pool, her body glistening with sweat, her voice filled with both pain and determination. Neytiri, her trusted friend and clan sister, stood by her side, offering words of encouragement.

And then, in a moment that felt like an eternity, (Y/N) gave one final push. The room seemed to hold its breath as she brought their child into the world. With a triumphant cry, her baby boy took his first breath, and the room erupted in joyous celebration.

Tsu'tey entered the tent just in time to witness the miraculous moment. His heart swelled with pride and love as he rushed to (Y/N)'s side, tears in his eyes. Together, they marveled at the tiny, precious life they had brought into their clan.

Neytiri, with a grin that stretched from ear to ear, announced, "It's a boy!" The healing tent filled with cheers and laughter, and the clan members celebrated the arrival of the newest member of the Omaticaya clan.

In the midst of the joyous chaos, (Y/N) and Tsu'tey shared a moment of profound connection as they held their newborn son in their arms. It was a testament to their love and strength as a couple and their unwavering bond with their Na'vi family. The birth of their son marked the beginning of a new chapter filled with hope, unity, and love.

Later that night, as (Y/N) rested in the birthing tent, Tsu'tey sat by the soft glow of a bioluminescent plant, cradling their newborn son in his large, gentle hands. The baby nestled peacefully against his chest, his tiny fingers curled around Tsu'tey's finger.

Tsu'tey looked down at the sleeping infant with a soft smile, his deep amber eyes filled with wonder. "Your mom says babies on Earth are tiny," he whispered, his voice barely above a hushed tone, "At first, I didn't believe her, but now, seeing and holding you, I can confidently say your mother was correct."

He chuckled softly, his tone filled with love and amusement. "You are a little warrior, aren't you? Just like your mother and your father." Tsu'tey's heart swelled with pride as he continued to speak to his son.

"You have a world of adventure ahead of you, my son," Tsu'tey murmured, his voice filled with a promise, "And I will always be here to guide you, to protect you, and to love you, no matter how old you may get."

The baby stirred slightly, his eyes flickering open for a brief moment before drifting back into peaceful slumber. Tsu'tey's heart melted as he watched his son, marveling at the tiny life he held in his hands.

With a tender kiss on the baby's forehead, Tsu'tey continued to whisper words of love and protection into the night, ensuring that their newborn son would always know the depth of his father's devotion and the warmth of their family's embrace.

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