#rs chapter

[ashyronfire]

Red Sky at Morning || Chapter 29: Tell Me No More Stories

Title: Chapter 29 - Tell Me No More Stories Rating: M Characters: Grimm, The Grimm Troupe (including OCs), The Radiance

Warnings: Introspect-Heavy, Found Family, Pre-Canon, Time Travel Fix-It Adjacent, Grey-and-Grey Morality, Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Dismemberment, Graphic Depictions of Violence, The Author Likes Gore

Summary:

“Atlas says you’ve improved.” She looked at Pyre, then turned back to say, “Greatly. He keeps talking about wanting to fight you in the Nightmare. He says he feels like you are crippled here, even with your magic.”

Author’s Notes: In the interest of making this available to more people after AO3 crashed, I'm gonna put the chapter itself under a cut as well. Right now AO3 is up and probably fine -- but just in case. :>

CURRENT CHAPTER || READ FROM THE BEGINNING

The Second Cycle - Mulake

Grimm shared in the child’s memories.

There was more to it than just seeing. While he did look through its eyes, he could not describe it as simply viewing. Whenever Pyre brought the child back to the camp, its experiences came flooding back to him like a tidal wave. Every little scratch, every touch, the whispered words, the affection. The spell that bound the child to the charm also bound the charm to Pyre.

Their lives were woven together, kindling to flame and the ash that remained in their wake. He was terribly attached to the hybrid already. Sparring with him was going to be… an experience.

And they had an audience.

Pyre did not seem to mind. He looked very calm as he stepped into the makeshift arena. It was a particularly large grassy field that the Troupe had helped clear out the night before at Grimm’s suggestion, so that the grass was shorn short for ease of viewing and any rocks lingering around were removed to avoid unintentional injury. Pyre had shed his usual cloak in favor of bracers that protected his arms and legs, and a chestplate in crimson that matched Grimm’s own natural coloration. He’d brought with him an elegant nail inlaid with a webbed pattern that brought to mind a damselfly’s wings; the engravings ran from the pommel all the way to the tip, giving the optional illusion of angles to the shape. It was a curved longtail; that, it seemed, was Pyre’s weapon of choice. Grimm did not fight with one at all. He was not that kind of fighter. He was a magician. But Atlas was trying to teach him to fight without the use of his flames.

Against Atlas, that was going terribly. Pyre, he hoped, would prove to be another story.

“Are you sure you do not want to arm yourself?” Nightshade asked him. She had a new set of daggers in sheaths at her side; she held one out for him to look at. “Atlas is adept at forging; he’s been –”

“He is?” Grimm asked, puzzled.

“Yeah,” the moth answered. “He’s been making weapons for all of us. He made Marra the most wicked scythe I’ve ever seen. Alula has a long nail, Atlas has his axe – that thing’s heavier than I am, by the way – and he even gave Reed some daggers like mine. He’s been teaching Mist to use a staff, too. Mist doesn’t really like blades.”

Making weapons for everyone but him, it seemed. He’d known Atlas used an axe, although he’d never bothered with weapons when fighting Grimm. He rarely needed to. He had the physical advantage.

He handed the dagger back. He had a staff, made elegantly by Marra, but he considered it to be more of a show piece than something for actual use. He’d be devastated if it was damaged in combat. All he actually used when sparring was his claws. Maybe he should learn to do more, but it was a rather redundant thought right before a sparring match.

“He never told me he was a smith,” Grimm observed; he glanced into the group assembling around them. Every Troupe member was present, but what fascinated him the most was that Mist was perched near Fae and ignoring everyone else entirely. And he had something over his head: a piece of filmy fabric held in place by woven bands around his mask. “When did our butterfly become so fond of the flashier twin?”

“Fae’s been teaching him about butterfly culture, actually,” the moth hummed. “Pyre gave him that veil. Apparently, there is a lot about butterflies we did not know.”

Did not remember, more like.

He knew, instantly, that veils had significance. The memory came flooding back, unbidden: wearing veils was a social symbol among their kind. Different colors denoted different things. Black was, traditionally, mourning, but adorning it with gems meant that the wearer was of considerable status. The twins did not wear veils, despite being half-butterfly, but clearly, they knew the importance of them.

He did not often think about such things. Who they were before the Troupe was of no great consequence to Grimm. They were his people and he was fond of them as they were. It should have occurred to him, though, that Mist would want to know more about where he came from. Especially since they were both the very last butterflies left in the world of that particular tribe.

Grimm would speak with him after the fight. Not just because he wanted to know what Fae was teaching him, but he also wanted Mist to know what memories he had from Luster. That had felt like a forbidden topic for so long, considering how young the butterfly was when he’d joined them, but…

Not anymore.

Mist was not young in truth now, and he would never be old, either.

“I like his veil,” Nightshade continued. “He’s very fond of it. It belonged to their mother, the twins. Pyre seemed to like that it was going to someone who would take good care of it. That it would be worn for eternity.”

That fit. Pyre was a sentimental creature.

“Speaking of him,” the moth continued. “He brought back the little one. It’s mean of you to send the baby away. Do you not realize how cute little-you is?”

He knew. He even agreed, strange though it might have been for him to admit.

“It is better,” Grimm told her.

“How is it better? You are a part of this family, you jerk. You need to remember that.”

It was better because he wanted to be more than he was. He wanted to be a thing apart. He wanted to learn from others, to take in their experiences, to –

To what?

To fix the holes in his heart, ever glowing like his eyes? To fix who he was, in hopes that he would become someone more worthy of the love that people offered him? Perhaps. Or maybe he was projecting. Maybe he just wanted to look into the mirror and like the person looking back at him.

(Time. Time would give him that.)

“Root for me,” Grimm asked of Nightshade; he twitched his tail and smiled behind his mask. “Your husband beats me up often enough. I need something to assure me that I am not totally hopeless.”

“Atlas says you’ve improved.” She looked at Pyre, then turned back to say, “Greatly. He keeps talking about wanting to fight you in the Nightmare. He says he feels like you are crippled here, even with your magic.”

That was eerily close to how Cross had once described him and, inadvertently, it dug deep into an old wound. There was a time when those words would have paralyzed him. He did not think Cross would ever be a wound that fully healed. He saw the snail in everything. But Grimm was surprised to find that while it did feel a little like being slapped, the sharp ache to his heart faded. Atlas was not Cross, and Atlas meant it as a compliment, in his own way.

(And Atlas hadn’t given up on him, either. Stubborn moth.)

“If I manage to win, I will grant your husband’s wish,” he told her. “I will let him find out what it is like to fight the real me.”

“Can I watch?”

His tail playfully undulated to the side. “Perhaps.” But likely not. He did not like disrupting dreams, but he would make an exception to challenge Atlas in the Nightmare. He wanted to let him see exactly how right he was… because he was correct: in the real world, he was crippled, bound by mortal laws, tied to a physical form. He was not physical in his own world. He wasn’t anywhere close to crippled there.

He'd enjoy that fight immensely. But only if he managed to win. Only if he managed to prove that he could. Otherwise, what was the point? To lose to Atlas, as he had so many times before? No, thank you.

Grimm turned and crossed the field. The clearing was good enough for a normal spar. Pyre met him in the middle of it, and the child left the hybrid’s shoulder to fly over to him. He held one hand up and stroked its wings before sending it to settle on Nightshade’s lap (Complain less, moth).

“Are you sure that you are up to this?” Pyre asked him. “Iris told me you’ve been taking her venom. If you are not well…”

How sweet.

“I assure you that I am fine. Do you intend to use magic?” Grimm hummed, turning his head to the side. At Pyre’s nod, he said, “Then I will, too.”

“I would hope so.”

“Are you ready, my friend?” Grimm asked, with Pyre nodding again, and then he offered a flourishing bow, one wing spread at his side. “Then dance with me,” he purred. The lilt in his voice was impossible to miss. Musical.

He did so like to put on a show.

Pyre did not bow back, though he did hesitate (as though considering doing so – perhaps he’d never seen anyone bow in combat, considering that he had so little experience in it in a less life-or-death situation?). He launched forward with a slash, and Grimm teleported away with a soft ‘pop’ – which was perhaps not the most charitable response, but he was not about to be hit while he was being polite.

Rude, Pyre. Very rude.

He reappeared on the other side of the hybrid, who had whirled to meet him. Pyre raised his nail to parry Grimm’s clawed slash and then struck downward. Grimm danced out of the way of it and swiped again, and –

There was a tempo to it, wasn’t there? He’d called it a dance, and fighting was a dance. One-two step.

(Did practicing with Atlas have a similar flow? You slice, I slash. You back up, I step forward. I retreat and you close distance. Was it always like that?)

The sound of metal hitting his claws was loud. They reverberated and felt numb to him. He needed to get better protectors for them if he was going to use them in physical combat, he realized.

Slice. Parry. Scratch.

Rhythm. There was a melody to each movement and he hummed quietly to himself to match it. Pyre no doubt heard him but did not question what he was doing – which was kind of him, as Grimm did not know.

What he did know was that Pyre failed to dodge one of his attacks, and his claws ripped through his shoulder nastily.

Lost the tempo. Fell out of step. The next two hits landed soundly: one-two scratch.

(Give him a minute to get up.

Would a real opponent? No. But it wasn’t a real fight.

He’d drawn hemolymph first.

But he wanted to win. He wanted to win.

He wanted to win fairly. Give him a minute.)

Grimm scurried backwards, giving Pyre more space. The hybrid leapt back to his feet and then –

Threw his nail across the field. That was unexpected. Grimm dodged out of the way of it, only to be sliced on its return as magic propelled it back to its owner. He felt the wound gape in his side over tender scar tissue.

One-two slice.

He dodged. He parried. He moved like he owned the ground, and Grimm was surprised to find that he felt like he did. There was something incredibly satisfying about keeping the tempo, keeping to the melody, like – like –

Left. Right.

One-two scratch.

(You slice, I back up. I fill the distance with my own claws.)

He landed more blows than he took, but Pyre’s nail managed to nick his wings in several places, and at least once on his arm. It was good practice, even as his fingers started to numb from using the length of his claws to block attacks.

(They were going to be so, so sore.)

Every time one of them fell out of the tempo, they took a hit, he noticed. There was synergy between the two of them, and as long as he continued to hum along to it, he… didn’t falter.

Dirt kicked up under scuffling feet as Pyre dashed at him, both hands clenched on the hilt to swing the blade down, and the reaction was instant. Grimm jumped and landed, squarely, on the edge of the blade. He perched, crouched, fingers on one end and feet under him; his claws came up, then, to catch the hybrid’s face; Pyre’s grip on the blade faltered under his weight, the nail hitting the ground, but Grimm himself did not fall, levitating in the air.

Fire danced from his fingertips and flared, blindingly bright, right in Pyre’s eyes.

“Live up to your name. Burn for me.”

As he spoke, Pyre hissed and half-screamed, stumbling back and clutching his face. That was almost enough to make him feel guilty.

Almost.

Grimm skittered backwards, essence spirals trailing in his wake and he stopped far enough away to avoid a counterattack.

He could end it now. He could –

That thought was interrupted by fire igniting underneath him. Unlike his own flames, which were undeniably scarlet, Pyre’s were a rich orange that seared up like a vortex. If he was anyone else, he would have been screaming as his wings shriveled in the heat.

Instead, he called magic into them. His intention was to use them to wrap up Pyre, to disable him, but that was not what happened. No, as if of their own accord, his wings shot into the ground, burrowing serpentine beneath it. Flames rolled down his back, trailed over the extended lengths, and exploded out of the ground directly in front of Pyre, sending him careening into the air.

…when had he learned—

In the middle of a fight was not the best time to think about the fact that his wings seemed to have taken on a mind of their own; he could analyze it later.

He teleported, then, and when the still-blind hybrid hit the ground, Grimm landed on top of him, claws wrapping around his throat, piercing shell a little.

Pyre coughed. His throat spasmed between Grimm’s fingers. “You’re fast,” he panted. “And your fire is nasty. I relent. I need – I need –”

“Alula will have a salve for your eyes,” Grimm answered, releasing his throat. “You seared my wings.”

“You started with the fire.” Pyre coughed and brought his hands up to his eyes, his nail falling to his side. “Going for the eyes. That is a bit dishonorable—”

“It’s fucking brilliant, actually,” came the brusque correction. Grimm looked up to see Atlas approaching, one hand held out to the fallen twin. “Where the fuck is that when you fight me, princess? Where is this jumping on blades and dodging by a hair’s breadth instead of getting punched in the guts like you like it? Where the hell is any of this coming from? I’ve never seen you do most of that.”

One-two slash.

Pyre took Atlas’s hand and sat up. “Brilliant or not, my eyes –”

“You’ll be fine.” Atlas did not sound sympathetic at all. Grimm had thought that he and Pyre were friends. Or… at least friendly? “Alula will fix you right up.”

Pyre looked incredibly unhappy.

(Pyre was a bad patient, Grimm realized. As bad a patient as Grimm himself was. Even if he was fond of Alula – and he clearly was – he was not relishing the idea of being doted on. Grimm felt some sympathy for that. Good luck.)

The child rose from Nightshade’s lap and flew over to daintily land on Pyre’s shoulder. It mrrr’d quietly, bumping its head into his chin, and the annoyance on the twin’s face dissolved away immediately.

“Your father is a bit mean,” Pyre told the child, to Grimm’s quiet laughter. The hybrid leaned down conspiratorially. “I forgive him, though. Even if you and I are more alike right now than usual. Both of us blinded.”

“It can see,” Grimm corrected. “Through my eyes.”

The little buzz of wings told him that Pyre was aware and did not care. Dissociating the two of them, father, and child, seemed to be preferable. Easier for him to process, perhaps.

Pyre patted the child’s back and looked sideways at Grimm. “Next time, you will not get a chance to use such underhanded tricks. Think of something more clever.”

He was very hung up on it being ‘underhanded.’ Grimm was of the opinion that winning was more important than honor, to some degree.

He would ask Atlas if he was wrong about. But it did not sound like he was.

A real enemy would not ask permission before wounding someone, after all.

-

“I want to keep records.”

Grimm lifted his head to look over his shoulder. Mist stood in the entrance to the tent, arms folded, the short veil that Pyre gave him covering his face, and his wings were twitching slightly at his lower back. Usually when they moved, it meant that he was agitated. His voice alone gave that away, though. Mist sounded positively distressed.

Grimm had meant to talk to him, he had – he’d just… put it off, in part because of dread, in part because of being busy.

“Fae has been teaching me,” Mist continued.

“Has he?” Grimm hummed. He’d noticed the two of them together while he was dueling with Pyre; he’d retreated to his tent after the fight to let the hybrid and Alula have some alone time, for his own injuries were superficial by comparison. He did not ask where Fae went after the fight. The older twin was still something of a mystery. He’d taken to Mist immediately, but not to Grimm.

“Yes. About butterflies. About my culture.” Mist sat on the end of the table, pulling his knees up to his chest.  “I didn’t know that our people have an oral tradition of storytelling, or that – that some of them keep complex recordings of every culture they visit. Nomadic. Like we are.” He took a long, shaky breath. “We are bad at being butterflies.”

Perhaps.

“So you want to keep records of the kingdoms we’ve visited, then?” Grimm asked, his tail coming up to undulate behind him. He was fiddling with the enchantments on a hilt not unlike the one he’d made for Iris. “What is stopping you?”

“I want you to, too.”

Ah?

He’d been keeping records for a long time. Ever since his first life. He’d started keeping them after Cross – at an off-hand suggestion from Nightshade. They were wrapped scrolls and bound into shellwood or silks to form books. No one in the Troupe had ever seen them. He did not intend to speak of their existence, either.

“Have you seen my handwriting?” Grimm teased. “It is barely legi—”

“You carry on my brother’s legacy. You owe him this.”

Oh, Mist was pulling no punches, was he?

Grimm turned his head to the side and then exhaled. This was bound to come up eventually, he thought. He’d learned of butterfly culture from Luster’s memories. Though it had been so long (how long? Centuries?) he could recall the events of his first body’s life with absolute clarity. In many ways, it was almost as though he and Luster had become one. The others did not remember him – including Mist. Mist knew of him, but could not recall Luster’s face, Luster’s voice, anything about him. All that he knew was what Grimm deigned to tell him.

He'd thought that kinder, once, but –

Maybe it was not.

Butterflies, as a culture, had oral traditions: they told stories around their campfires every night, for their children and for their adults. Legends. Myths. Some were invented on the spot and some were passed down. They performed music for one another, too, and he could not help but wonder if his fondness for it was at least in part fueled by Luster’s. They’d invented string instruments (was that why he’d picked one?). They existed in small packs and traveled. They never stayed anywhere too long. And they kept intricate, highly detailed chronicles, scrolls and books.

Mist was right. Butterflies were nomadic the same way that the Troupe was. Were they really all that different? But the tribe that he and Luster hailed from was different, because they’d settled in one place. They’d devoted their existence to the worship of the void at the shores of the great swell of darkness. Their people adopted Alula and Nightshade’s family and the others that had come with them. When they died, they threw themselves into the void sea as an offering, to return to the nothingness from whence they came. And when they became adults, they partook of it, ingesting it to forever be dying.

Luster’s past was poisoning him, slowly. The void did not give back what it took.

“ – please, I know, but—”

Speaking. Ah. He’d – he’d missed part of that.

“Come again?” he asked. Mist gave him a funny look. “I was thinking about what you asked.”

“I was reiterating that… bad handwriting or not. You’re the last of my people. Other butterflies exist, but you’re the last of my kind. Our kind, really, you’re one of us, but –”

“No, you had the right of it,” Grimm corrected. “Your people. I am a thing apart and I am not the god that they worshipped.”

He’d been thinking the same, though, that while he’d long abandoned Luster’s body, he had a responsibility to uphold his memory. In many regards, he considered himself a living tribute to a people long deceased: the last will and testament of a culture long gone. With that in mind, did Grimm not think that it was a good idea to preserve all that he knew, in case he himself forgot? In case he, himself, faded?

(He, who could not die?)

But…

He was not sure that ripping open that scar was the best of ideas. Mist did have a right to know. He did have a right to learn about the culture that he’d come from, the people he’d left behind. Alula and Nightshade would want to know what they’d lost, too. The problem was that poking a festering wound risked letting them remember it, and they’d given their memories up willingly to him in order to escape them.

(They are not the same people that they were that day on the banks of the void sea. They have grown. They are not alone anymore. No longer are Alula and Nightshade barely adults who’ve lost everything that they’ve ever loved. No longer do they have nothing left in the world but each other. They have you. They have Marra, Atlas, Mist, Reed. They may even have Iris, Fae, and Pyre. They are not alone. Will it hurt them, truly, if they should get those memories back?

Do you want to risk it?)

“You would have me record your people’s history, as Luster knew it, then?” he asked Mist; he let his tail flick to the side. “You may remember things that you would rather forget. Reading it could bring back the memories you gave to me. I cannot promise they are lost forever. If you stare too far into the dark, you cannot be surprised when eyes meet your own. Is that a risk you would be willing to take, my friend?”

Mist may have looked like a child but treating him like one would be disrespectful. Even if it felt kinder to hide from him the things that Grimm knew would hurt. And they would hurt.

Those were not memories that he would enjoy having.

That culture was dead, but they’d suffered in their dying. They were hurt, tormented, purged like a sickness from the earth by his sister. She’d burnt them away with fire. In their dying moments, they prayed to a god that did not answer and might not have even existed.

The void did not feel. It was a vast reservoir of power, yes, an endless fount. And it felt nothing at all for their problems. What care had it, when in the end all would return to it eventually?

The butterflies of that tribe worked hand-in-hand with the snails who worshipped the void’s magic, who were fixated with understanding its very nature. Cross was one such snail, and Grimm – Grimm had his memories, too. They’d intrinsically understood the nature of the void, of Soul, and of the beast that slumbered near that sea, whose blood flowed cerulean and could heal any wound.

Where there is death, there must also be life. All things in balance.

“I need to know my history. I need to know where I came from,” Mist told him, his head bowing. “I want to be a butterfly in truth. Right now I’m just… a strange moth at best.”

“The Moth Tribe has a very similar outlook on history. They do not tell stories as much, but they do keep records. Butterflies and moths have ever been two sides of the same coin. One flies in the day and the other under the cover of moonlight, but you are not that different of creatures.”

Mist fluttered his wings, agitated. Grimm lifted one hand to brush his fingers over the butterfly’s mask. “You know your history. You know your past. You are yourself. You have ever been. What you remember is your truth. What came before is what you left behind.”

That got him a slanted look, a slight glare, and Grimm smiled, a squint of scarlet behind the mask, and then he said, “But I have given you warning enough. I will grant your request. If your heart breaks at the history that you learn – for it is not the most pleasant story to tell, why else would you have given it up? – that is not something I will be held accountable for. Do you agree?”

He could deny Mist nothing.

He’d promised Luster, once upon a time, to look after his brother. Keep him safe, happy, give him the life that he deserved. He might not have always succeeded at that, but he was trying to get better, and if nothing else, he deserved acknowledgment for the effort.

Grimm was trying.

Mist shook his head. “I… I agree. I won’t blame you. But you can’t protect me forever. Not from everything.”

So sayeth he. That would not stop Grimm from trying.

-

Alula’s tent smelled heavily of medicine: a little bitter, with the heavy stench of alcohol only barely disguised by floral notes found in the soaps and cleaning agents. She combatted that scent with candles and her sister’s herb sticks, but there really was no way of ‘fixing’ it. She cleaned wounds. She kept the majority of her tent sterile. She was always soaking utensils. If she was in the process of taking care of someone or had recently, it would always be particularly pungent.

He found it comforting.

It was the dead of night, well after the sun had set. Pyre had retreated to one of the empty tents, with Fae and presumably Iris, and strangely, Marra was not with Alula. She was by herself.

He found her wiping down one of the chairs. Probably where she’d sat the hybrid down when she treated his eyes. Grimm had waited a few hours to give her plenty of time quite intentionally, but –

“The eyes were a vicious move,” the moth scolded. “In a real fight, the right choice. We really must teach you the difference between that and a spar, though.”

“He will heal, will he not?” Grimm asked curiously. Alula leveled him a disapproving stare from behind her mask as he crossed the threshold to sit on her table. He perched like he owned it. She always looked annoyed when he did that – which was, of course, why he did it. “And it gave you an excuse to give him medical treatment. Should you not be thanking me?”

“He’s as awful a patient as you are. Barely sat still once his sight returned. Kept insisting that he had things to do. And do you know, I considered pinning his wings to the floor.” She sounded so exasperated; he was deeply amused.

Grimm pulled his legs up and crossed them underneath him. “I might have been a little mean on purpose. I might be… still upset on behalf of Marra.”

That declaration earned him the most withering look. She pulled her mask off, stepped over in front of him, and yanked him down by his horns to meet his gaze. “Then you should be dropping firebombs in Marra’s eyes as well, because they are as much in the wrong as –”

“Lulu, I am on your side on this. I told them to talk to you,” he interrupted. “Do not berate me so.”

“Stay out of it then.” Her tone was sharp. Disapproving. And exhausted. He immediately felt guilty.

No. It was not his business or his place to tell Alula what to do with her relationships, and never would he presume to do so. She deserved to be happy, whatever it took, and if that meant being with Pyre instead of Marra… he would try to understand. He was attached to the dragonfly, she knew that, but he was also becoming very fond of Pyre. It was a complicated situation.

And she was right. It had nothing to do with him. He was not at all in a position to tell her what to do with her life. But…

He brought his hands up to catch her face and pulled her closer to press his forehead to hers.

“I want to see you happy, mama.” She was not his real mother but she was close enough that he was willing to fake it for her. “If it makes you feel any better, I promise that I will not say anything to Pyre, nor will I try to sway any of your decisions or Marra’s. I simply told them to talk to you. To make choices with you, instead of excluding you. That making them on their own without you involved was an injustice to you.”

The moth sighed and brought one hand up to scratch his horns. The shell was a little loose there, over the ridges where they tapered, and her claws gently dislodged some of the shedding bits. It chased away the itch, so he leaned his head into the touch instinctively.

“They did talk to me,” she told him. “For all the good that it did. It is Pyre that they need to talk to. But you stay out of it. And stop bullying Pyre because you’ve got a favorite. Marra would not want you doing that, either.”

She was right, he knew.

He laid his head against hers, closing his eyes slowly.

“I want them all three to stay with us,” Grimm told the moth and Alula laughed. “Oh, stop. It is not because of the twins at all. They are… an added bonus. For you and for Iris. But she is the reason I want them to stay. She is, not them.”

That made her somber up a little.

“She reminds you of your hurts.” At his nod, Alula continued, “And what you’ve overcome. What you have survived. That’s a poor reason to want to keep someone, though. You shouldn’t offer unless you have a better one than that. Iris deserves to be more than just a monument to your pain. She’s a living, thinking person, with feelings and hurts of her own. You’re not the only one who has suffered.”

He knew that. He did. She was right, though, to say it. Just because he was aware did not mean that he was consciously thinking about it at all.

“And you.” Alula’s words drew him sharply out of his thoughts. “Mister chronically single, wants no relationships, needs no one else, happy-by-myself. When you are in a committed relationship, then and only then do you get to start trying to give me or anyone else advice on that matter. Do you understand me?”

He laughed. She was right. He did not want any kind of relationship of that nature. He was not exactly ‘happy,’ but he did not want to give his broken and damaged heart to anyone else.

Better that he be alone than ever subject someone else to the storm that was his entire being. His was a soul on fire, burning forever. No one else needed to sear.

“Yes, mother.”

#ashe writes #red sky #rs chapter #hollow knight #hk fanfic #hollow knight fanfic

[evakant]

chapter 256: ep.45 (II) // chapter 327: ep.61 (VII)

#oh yoo joonghyuk what you mean to these two..... #orv #orv spoilers #yoo joonghyuk #kim dokja #lee sookyung #rs: my world is here #rs: shall we read it together then #didn't know WHERE to start the chapter 327 excerpt because it's all so good so so good #but i think this works. you all know what i mean here #besides i'm sure it's been said before lmao #orv.txt #fra.txt

[lo-shouldve-been-an-email]

Oh god,is RS really gonna spin it as the reason why the fertility powers hurt is because it’s not true love wtf-

#I could be totally wrong but that’s just the vibe I got from the chapter #I know it could mean that in a non actual sense but I don’t trust RS anymore #anti lore olympus #anti lo #lo critical #lore olympus critical #lo criticism #lore olympus #also fuck Rhea

[silliemop]

RS Y/N AND ECLIPSE COSPLAYINGG SJ Y/N AND ECLIPPPSEE!!

sleuth jesters belongggs to @/naffeclipse

#real steel au #KINDA #sleuth jesters #also kinda #just had the idea and thought it was be a bit funny if y/n’s cosplayed other y/n’s from other aus and sooo THISS #rs eclipse and sj eclipse are VERY VERY DIFFERENT #rs eclipse would literally shut down if he read that one chapter #also just found out i can do alt text on the drawings for the IDs??! #woaaa #fnaf eclipse #fnaf dca #fnaf daycare attendant #fnaf sb au

[cinnaster]

A new chapter is up, yippee!!!

First time reader? Start here.

Little excerpt below cut.

Chapter 12: A Turtle Tank Named Krangstine

Honey scanned his creator-father from head to hoof. If he was being honest, the older man didn’t look too good either. Honey had seen it before when he first started down the path to the good side: he was out of magic juice.

“But what about you?” Honey asked with concern-filled eyes.

Isyris faced away from Honey. “We will find another way in.”

“Dad, you didn’t answer my question,” Honey asserted.

Isyris’ ears flattened as he was called that word. The kid always pulled out the parental names when he wanted him to do something. He knew this, but the pressure to appease the youngest rendered him more pliable than he would have liked. More sentimental types might call it ‘going mushy’. Like many times before, the ornate box turtle molded him like clay. Isyris inhaled loudly in annoyance. “If you do not use your Ninpō, then I will not use my mystic powers either. Deal?”

Honey’s eyes brightened. “Deal!”

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt fic #radiant souls #rottmnt radiant souls #rottmnt rs #baron draxum #casey jr #rise mikey #rise april #isyris draxum #krow jones #honey hamato #angel o'neil #SJDSFNKDJFN THIS CHAPTER IS SO. EEEEE #so much action!! it's fun! aaaa! #i had SO much fun with this one

[byakuyasdarling]

I remember hosting the poll about how many people who followed this account knew who Byakuya was in his source and I believe the sample I got was 90% (from memory) and that’s TERRIFYING /POS /LH like y’all know who he is AND STILL LISTEN TO MY “i love my husband, he’s gentle with me” talk?? LMAO, legends /Gen

Y’all know his chapter 2 atrocities and ARE STILL HERE??

#I still have to complete that character analysis and story carrd redoing stuff so y’all know I don’t pull crap out of my ass #but yk me lol #okay I’ve fully out my two cents into chapter 2 anyway before #// he’s actually the most justifiable charcater that did something immoral during the KG and himestly don’t blame anyone #natural human behaviour to act as all the killers did. they were victims to an impossible us versus them situation #none of them would do what they did in reality outside of the KG (evident from D//RS and U//TDP)

[rassicas]

Help me with something: how do you know they’re called the Coikals when their text translates or COIKARS?

R and L are not distinguished in japanese. if you look at text written in English by native jp speakers, it's not too rare to find instances of those letters being swapped on accident

The intent is clear that the pun is on "kouika" and "girl" or "gal" (both of which in kana would be written with a ル (ru/lu) at the end) so 'coikars' reads as a mistake in english

#Even my jp textbook there's the word vocabulary in each chapter and the L and R are switched or there's two Rs in a couple chapters #In haikara walkers graphic design too #Theres a bit that says plofile instead of profile #Asks #inkling language

[seventh-district]

.

#it is 5 hrs past my bedtime and i am awake listening to Two Hearts by Dermot Kennedy on loop and crying over Rotating Shifts. again. #i couldn’t resist the urge to read the latest chapter any longer but i knew when i did i’d get like this #so Why did i wait for my period to roll around. i have made. a silly decision lmaooo #i’ve complained abt it before but i’m conflicted about how much more sensitive it makes me #my nightmares usually don’t make me cry but oh i was a Wreck this morning #so why i picked tonight to read the fic that always makes me cry is beyond me #i have never met a fic before that had me in such an intense emotional grip #and it’s fucking hilarious bc it’s not that intense of a story!! like yeah there’s been devastating parts but i’m out here having to- #-take a break every single chapter bc i’ll read one line that hits my inner child like a truck and i have to take a minute to recover #but the whiplash this fic gives me is so fucking funny and the range in the storytelling from comedy to tragedy is just.. *scream-cries* #it has my favorite characterization of Sun and Moon that i have ever seen #this chapter wasn’t even that sad i’m just Making myself sad about it #but on another level it also makes me sad in the sense that i don’t think i’ll ever be able to write something that good.. #all that i want out of my writing endeavors is to make one (1) person feel as strongly and as much as RS makes me feel #and i don’t know if i can do that. i don’t know if my writing has what it takes bc i can’t even describe exactly what it is #i don’t think it’s a science that can be replicated. things either connect with someone or they don’t #the way Sun goes from worryingly innocent ‘wdym we can’t invite strangers to live with us?’ ‘wdym we can’t adopt an adult that needs help?’ #to fucking. tearing an animatronic in half in a fit of protective rage and blocking access to all dating apps to prevent you from- #-finding anyone else bc he’s your Special Friend and he can’t have his Daydream falling for anyone else!! no no!! #it’s not a new concept but i eat it tf up when Sun is actually the one you should fear the most #like no i don’t think he’d hurt Reader but i dread to think of the things he would do For them #the back and forth between childlike innocence and terrifying intelligence possessiveness and physical capability is just mmmmm 100/10 #and don’t even get me started on Moon. or i Will start crying again #he’s ​like yeah dumbass of course i’m gonna save you every time some POS man tries to **** you. of course i will you fucking crater-head #but i will complain at you about it the Entire way home and then i will steal your fucking toilet paper and pack you a raw egg for lunch #because i hate you 🖤 but Sun loves you and we would both kill for you 🖤 also i drank all of your chocolate milk 🖤 also i hate you :) #anyways i am paraphrasing obviously and dear god i hope no one who actually reads RS sees this bc i do not want my 2am ramblings taken as- #-any kind of Official Thoughtful Analysis of the story ok pls pls pls let me be insane abt my favorite fic without having to be articulate #i just have so many fucking FEELINGS about them. i am unwell. #i’m not even tagging this i’m just hitting post and going to sleep goodnight

[multimagical]

The Ghosts of Melbrew

Book 1 of 12 in the Multimagical Series by Lillian R.S.

Emeline Orman was sixteen when she and her parents moved across the country to the coastline of Washington state. A small town known as Melbrew sat comfortably in the middle of thick woods, so tiny and unknown that it doesn't show up on any maps, making it the perfect spot for malicious activity to go unnoticed.

On her first day of school, she met some rather weird people, who all shared a strange similar interest. This little group had quite the reputation for their knowledge of the town's not-so-secret dark history... as well as all of the unusual things that have been reported to them. It all started with the rich Humphrey family tragedy back in the 1800s, where for years it has been speculated that the mother killed her husband and children.

Being very eager to get to the bottom of all the town's mysteries, one thing leads to another as discovery after discovery begins to pile up, ranging from random holes in the ground, to suspicious buildings in the middle of the woods. Secret doors, tunnels, and books that talk about nonsense seem like they lead nowhere, with no connections!

Though perhaps the most mysterious oddity of them all is the otherworldly gateway surrounded by old fences, tied back to the founding family.

CW: Strong language, murder, and descriptions of gore

34 Total Chapters!

Total Word Count: 142,450

For more information on the Multimagical Series, check my pinned post!

Chapter 1 - "Welcome to Melbrew"

6,025 words

My wattpad / main: @lillianrs

Friendly criticism is welcome for future reference!

Continue reading below the cut, and enjoy! <3

●●●

     It's a dark evening as I begin writing this book. A night where the trees creak outside my windows, with harsh, howling winds in the forlorn wilderness. I'm not sure what finally possessed me to tell this story after all this time, but one thing I've learnt is that you should always trust your gut. So, I'm going where the keys take me, as I trace through my memories.

     It began back when I was only sixteen. So young, so unprepared, so naive, almost innocent. Nothing could've possibly warned me for the journey that lie ahead, for the things I've seen and the places I'd been. For then, in only my teens, my life changed in more ways than I could've ever imagined. I wasn't prepared to have my reality turned on its head, I wasn't prepared to see the truth, and I most certainly wasn't prepared to see the things that were not meant to be.

     I've stayed in this town my whole life. I've seen faces come and go, and am good friends with the ones who've stayed. This place is different than it once was, but it still has some traces of its cursed past, though now faded from time. Somedays it feels strong, like I can feel it through the roots in the Earth. Yet other times it feels distant, and unwilling to show.

     I've experienced a lot in my life, yet nothing has ever compared to the things that I had seen at the young age of seventeen. No one ever believed me, believed us. We never maintained solid proof, all of our camera evidence was destroyed during the ritual, but us seven know the truth... well, us seven, and the others silently involved who now refuse to acknowledge it. But those are all faces who have gone, to where, I'm not sure.

     So, I suppose I'm here now, the next Robert J. Wright, the next Lord Lutho, the next Jane Howell who will become a mere conspiracy in the darkest corners of a library, waiting to be discovered, and inspire the next generation of those who seek the truth. I work at the school now as the librarian, and I take responsibility in preserving the stories here. Though I feel that now in my present, the whispering warnings we've heard long ago are to soon reign true... I just hope that the message can reach others, before it's too late. There's only so much we can do.

--------

     My parents and I had to move across the country when I was sixteen years old. They are both photographers, and had gotten a job offer from a studio in Metalwood City. This studio in particular wanted them to focus on photographing both rural and urban life for usage in magazines and websites. Though we couldn't do this where we had previously lived, as the job specifically required the photos to come from the state of Washington. It had a much better pay than their previous job, and my parents were up for a change of pace, so they took them up on the offer.

     Metalwood was a short 40 minute drive from a small rural town called Melbrew. Living there was extremely cheap, and my parents figured that they could run between the town and city for their pictures. Unfortunately, they were unaware that cheap living often comes with a different type of price to pay.

     This town was founded by two brothers with the last name Melbrew, of course. It lay near the west coast of Washington state, with only a fifteen minute drive to the Pacific ocean. It was kind of in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by lakes and forest on all sides. That was the extent of my knowledge at the time of moving. I wondered if it would even be worth it to live there, but that decision wasn't mine to make. I never got to have a say in much.

     My parents had sprung the moving announcement on me out of nowhere, leaving me with only a few weeks left before the move, the process started immediately. I was mad and upset, but I knew that there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I had to suck it up and go along with it, however sad it may have been. It was hard.

     I enjoyed the last few weeks with my friends the best I could, however good it would be to say a final goodbye to people you would probably never see again. We all promised to stay in touch, but does anyone really? I'll move on and make new friends, and they'll soon forget about me, only to be brought up occasionally with a "Hey, remember Emmy?". It's not sad, it's just realistic. But sticking to the positives, they weren't really the best of friends anyways.

     My last day was depressing, but also quite terrifying, considering I would be moving all the way from western Pennsylvania to the state of Washington. That was on the complete other side of the country!

     My nerves those final few days were dreadful, I remember them all vividly. The rapid heartbeat, the feeling of leaving everything I've ever known behind... It felt like a clock was ticking down to my death and rebirth. In a way I felt I was dying, as overly dramatic as that sounds. I would be leaving everything and starting again, but as scary as the thought was, it also excited me. The death was the hard part, the afterlife is the easy one.

     It took us a about a week to get there, as we had to drive the whole way, but I'm not going to get into the whole moving process as it isn't important. Lots and lots of feilds out in the rural parts of America. Day after day, hotel after hotel. It was almost surreal and creepy, especially at night. A part of me almost wished we had stayed in some sketchy motel that's the only thing on a stretch of road. Now that's where the fun is!

      I sighed a breath of relief when I was finally told that we were almost there. Slowly the wheat feilds turned to forests and trees, that's all there was, just trees. After a few minutes a giant wooden sign appeared, reading, "Welcome to Melbrew". The letters were faded and it was hard to read, but still ledgebale nonetheless.

     I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned off my music as curiosity took its hold on me. Rolling down my window, I stuck my head outside and let the wind and rain hit my face. The smell of water and pine was strong in the air, and the town was rather grey. The clouds in the sky paired with the looming trees blocked quite a bit of sunlight, it was rather gloomy.

     The forest was now less dense as houses stood next to each other, all with their own areas, lawns, and garages, decently spaced apart from each other. Before I knew it, we were pulling into a driveway. With the car now in park and silent, raindrops could be heard pounding against the roof. Of course now is when it begins to pick up and pour!

     It rained for a full two days after we got there, which made moving in much harder than it already was going to be. We didn't have very much stuff though, as taking too much across the country wouldn't be easy. Nevertheless, I was in love with the scenery. All the trees, the rain, the near darkness in midday. It was very cozy, to me, at least.

      My cat was definitely not happy with the car ride, so I'm sure the old senior boy was glad to be out of his carrying cage. His name was Sir. Bennington the Fifth... there were no other Benningtons. Child me just thought it was funny. Nowadays I call him Benny.

     The house that I would now have to call home was of a decent size and stood on a corner street. Its outer panels were beginning to peel, and vegetation coated the lawn with various plants and grasses. When the rain died down afternoon had turned to evening, and the sound of birds, owls, and crickets filled the misty darkened air.

     There was a humble little farm across the road from us, and a few other houses nearby. Other than that, it was pretty vacant, lying near the northern outskirts of the town by wooded area, though the whole town was surrounded by woods, so it's not that special a detail. It felt very secluded.

     I wished we could've moved before the school year started, but I guess I'm also glad it was early on in the year instead of later. I tried to look on the positive side, instead of being pessimistic once I got there and had to confront this new life. There was no point in being sad about something I couldn't change, as much as I wanted to be. I got my sadness out the weeks before, now it was time to move on. Is it toxic positivity? Maybe. I'll get over it.

     That first night felt so... different. I'm not sure how to describe it. The sound of the rain falling on the roof, the wind outside, the eerie quietness of everything else. My practically empty room with nothing but a bed and a box of clothes. The yellow lighting and old-fashioned floral wallpaper, paired with the old, dusty wooden floors that would creak beneath your feet. That smell of dirt, and the ticking of an ancient clock that was left behind. It all made me feel stuck in time.

     It was very difficult for me to fall asleep. New environments paired with the fear of going to a different school kept me tossing and turning all night. I feel that Benny could sense my discomfort, as he nudged my door open to come sit on my chest. It was only then that my mind felt enough at ease to drift off to the realm of dreams.

     My parents walked me to school on my first day to make sure that I didn't get lost and knew the way. The town is very small and half of it seemed to be abandoned, so I didn't see a need for it, but hey, whatever makes them happy. Once the school was in sight, though, they backed off and waved me goodbye.

     The school was on the other side of the town from me to the south, so it was quite a long walk, about half an hour. The elementary and middle school were separate, but kept in the same general area. They were all brick buildings under the cloudy, grey morning sky that only just then began to brighten. The American flag waved in the wind, the eerie quietness absorbing me once more.

     It wasn't all that grand, in fact, it was quite the opposite. It looked rather decrepit and run down, but not to the point where it looked horrid and grossly unsanitary. Well, I mean, there were a few broken windows boarded up, and vines and grass growing up the sides, but it wasn't, like, dirty.

     Really, I doubt anyone around here even notices the appearance, but my fresh new eyes did. Though despite the vintage look that the town carried, I could still tell that it used to be rather well-kept, even though some areas even looked abandoned nowadays. There was a history to this place, I could just feel it. It was in the air, and on the scars the buildings carried. The stories they could tell...

     I pushed on the double glass doors of the highschool, which were smudged and slightly stained with dirt. They closed behind me in an echoed click, seemingly sealing the outside world away as the sound of wind was left behind me. The main entrance wasn't very spacious, unlike my last school. It made me feel a little confined and claustrophobic, but I was sure I'd get used to it. I was sure I'd get used to everything, though maybe that was still my want to be positive talking.

     The door to my left had a sign reading, "Main Office'', and the door to my right had a sign that read, "Guidance Office", which were both carved into golden plates that now looked brown. Okay, good to know. That was all that was in the entrance hallway.

     I wiped my feet on the entrance mat and made my way to the hallway, though my shoes still squeaked against the tiles. On the wall was a little red sign with directions, which I followed to my homeroom, which would be to my right. The voices of fellow students began to fill my ears, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, I began to feel anxious.

     "Hello, Emeline!" My teacher said as he saw me enter the classroom. I walked over to him and we shook hands. "Welcome to Melbrew High School! I'm Mr. Brown, and I'll be both your homeroom and algebra teacher. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask me or one of the other staff members."

     I thanked him and he told me where to sit, so I took my seat, and sat quite awkwardly. My bookbag sat next to me on the floor, my phone gripped tightly in my hands. People continuously glanced over to me, I tried my best to ignore them. The whole place felt off.

     Not just off, though, it was straight up oldschool. The whole town was. There were no smart boards, nor overhead projectors. Just an old, green chalkboard. The lighting was also pretty dim and more... yellow? Yellow seems to be a favorable lighting choice here, I suppose. I obviously assumed that the budget was pretty low, as I haven't seen just a chalkboard in the class since I was in the third grade.

     As I waited in my seat, I looked around the room to the other students, who thankfully stopped starting at me. Two came up to greet me for a few seconds, but the rest either paid me no mind or just looked over to me. Some gave off weird, creepy vibes with their stares. I felt really out of place, it was kinda giving me impostor syndrome, to be honest. I felt like I shouldn't be there. Just the feeling of being the new kid, I guess.

     I began to get lost in my thoughts, staring into the abyss. That is until I jumped out of them due the unnecessarily loud overhead speakers. We all stood to say the pledge, then the announcements began, spoken by an upbeat girl, which seemed almost humorous to me given the boring scenery... well, either humorous or creepy, but you can be the judge of that.

     "Good morning, Melbrew students! Today is Monday, September 26th, 2016! For lunch today, the cafeteria will be serving spaghetti, tomorrow will be taco Tuesday! The breakfast for tomorrow will be pancakes! If you are going on Ms. Hogg's field trip this spring, your permission slips are due before Christmas break! There are still a few spots open for the book and biology clubs, so hurry and claim your spot fast before it's too late! Speaking of clubs, sign ups for the brand-new history club will be on Thursday, and they will meet every other week! Have a great day, Melbrew!"

     The announcements cut off and students resumed chatting with one another as we waited for the bell to dismiss us to first period. When it finally did, I stayed seated for geometry, while everyone else left. I didn't like the looks people gave me as people walked in for first period. Definitely felt like an invader. God, I was so out of place.

     Once geometry was over, I had to head to my second class, which was a study hall. I wasn't exactly sure where it was, though. It's easy to get lost in a place where every hallway looks the exact same. Everyone fled out of the classroom, except for me and one other student who was taking his time to leave. I guess I'll just go ask him.

     I approached the student, "Hello! I'm new to this school. Would you mind directing me to the library?" I asked as politely as I could.

     He paused what he was doing for a few seconds and looked up at me, before shaking his head and continuing on with what he was doing. He zipped up his backpack, stood up, and answered, "I'm going there. Just follow me."

     He spoke in a monotone, nonchalant voice. He said nothing else, and threw his bag over his shoulder as he walked out of the classroom, not even waiting for me. I hurried to follow him, feeling a bit awkward at his lack of acknowledgement.

     He was Asian with dark hair and lighter skin, though his face looked tired as bags sat under his eyes. He wore an old, grey baseball team hoodie that was now stained with mud, and had a hole on the sleeve. His backpack looked like it was being held together by ductape alone.

     I attempted to make conversation, "Um. My name is Emeline Orman, do you mind me asking yours?"

     He didn't say or do anything at first, as he seemingly ignored me. Thankfully for my own self-assurance he eventually shrugged slightly and said, quietly, in the same toneless voice, "Kai."

     I observed the hallways a bit as we walked, which all had the same beige colored tiles lining the walls. This school's color palette definitely wasn't the prettiest sight for sore eyes, but then again it could always be worse. Gotta remember that optimism, look on the brightside. The brightside being that I felt like I was in a mystery novel, so I'll take it! The buzzing lights and lack of people definitely added a whole layer to the ambiance.

      When we got to the library, he walked off and sat down at a table in one of the more hidden sections of the place, tucked behind some bookshelves near a corner. He immediately pulled out an extremely old looking book from his bag.

     "What are you reading?" I asked curiously, but he just looked up at me, said nothing, and looked back down. I waited to see if he would say anything, but he didn't. "...Am I bothering you?"

     "Yes." he said, matter-of-factly, without taking his eyes off the book. He rested his head lazily against his hand.

     "Sorry, I'll leave you to it." I said, and walked away. I decided to go and look around, I really didn't want to upset people on my first day, that's a good way to make enemies and I was not looking for that, especially in a place that looks like a good setting for a horror movie. Next thing you know you'll be choked to death by a vampire, or something weird like that.

     It wasn't a really big library, but it did have a whole lot of stuff in it. Lots of bookshelves, tables, and doors leading to I don't know where. There were even a few computers, and that's saying something! Usually libraries have all sorts of them, but here there's only four, as it seemed. In a place that doesn't have smartboards, I consider it impressive. They were all already in use, three doing work, while another pulled up games.

     I spotted a little hallway near the back between some bookcases, and decided to check it out. It led to another room, with more tables, and a door with a sign saying STAFF ONLY. Standing against a wall was a large, moveable whiteboard on wheels. There were all kinds of papers on it, held down by magnets. Written in blue marker was a list of clubs, and what days they will meet. I read down the list, and then jumped a little when a teacher approached me unexpectedly.

     "Hello dear, I don't believe I've seen you before, are you that new girl? The Ormans?" The teacher asked as she entered the room. She looked like your classic, stereotypical librarian lady. She had glasses, her hair was in a bun, but she didn't look to be too old.

     "Oh, uh, yeah, that's me. I'm Emeline Orman." I said, and held out my hand to shake hers.

     "Well, Emily, I'm the school's librarian, Mrs. Robinson." She said, and looked to the club sheet I was just checking out, "Are you interested in any clubs? We hold most of the meetings here in this room. It's a good way to meet some new friends!"

     "I might be." I said, shrugging. "What do the different clubs do?"

     "Well, most of them are already full, but we're offering sign-ups for a new club, as you probably heard on the announcements, if you paid attention, that is." She said and chuckled, "Most kids don't. The history club is brand new and just starting out, but there are also a few spots still open for the book club. It's what you would imagine, we give you a book, and you read it, and talk about it with your peers. There's also the biology club, I believe there's quite a few spots still open for that one, if you're interested. Ms. Hogg runs that one. She does lots of expeditions in the woods to look for little critters."

     "Hm. Do you know what they'll be doing in the history club?" I asked.

     "Well, I'm not entirely sure just yet. This year is the first it'll be up. If I had to guess though, probably various activities involving history, I think specifically on the town. I manage the book club, but if you're interested in town history I would ask Mr. Marshall about it when you can. He's room 105."

     "Alright, will do. Thank you, Mrs. Robinson."

     "Anytime, love. If you ever have any questions, you can always find me here."

     I walked back out into the main part of the library and decided to look around a bit to get familiar with the layout of the place, and maybe look at a book or two. After getting bored of it, I went back to the little room with the whiteboard and sat at one of the white plastic tables that were lined against the walls. There was no one back there, so it made me feel more comfortable.

     The time dragged on since I had nothing to do, and I was actually happy when the bell rang for third period. It was time to go to English, which I had to find on my own. Luckily the English hallway was near the library, and all someone had to do was point down the hall. I stepped inside and greeted my teacher, Mrs. Palmer, and she showed me to my seat. Once English was over, I headed to my fourth period class, which was History. I went in and greeted Mr. Marshall. Once the period ended and the bell rang, I decided to ask him about the club.

     "Um, excuse me, Mr. Marshall? May I ask you about the history club?" I asked. "I heard about it on the announcements this morning, and I think that I might be interested in it."

     He looked a bit surprised, and turned to a kid walking out the door, "Dominik," he said, "Where are you heading?"

     "Computer, sir." He answered.

     "Tell Emeline here a bit about the history club. I think you'll be better at it."

     "Sure thing!" He said, and nodded his head out the door for me to follow.

     "Why couldn't he just tell me about it himself?" I asked once we were out of the class.

     "Well, you asked him at the end of the period, and it would take a while to explain. Plus, you're obviously new and I think that he thinks that this is the perfect way for you to make friends," he stopped in the middle of the empty hallway, and stuck out his hand, "My name's Dominik, but you already knew that, because he kinda said my name, but whatever. If you'd like new information on the name though it's Dominik with a K."

     I shook his hand, "Emeline, but you already knew that, too."

      We continued walking, "Did all your teachers introduce you today? I wouldn't doubt if people start calling you Emily, if they haven't already, I've never heard of Emeline. That's like Emily but with extra steps... no offense."

     "None taken. My parents just wanted to be different, but if it helps, you can just call me Emmy. Or Emma, or Em, or even Emily, really. They're all the same thing. Though usually I go by Emmy. Cute childhood nickname that just kinda stuck."

     "Well then, Emmy, allow me to give you a run down." He said, "First of all, NEVER drink from the water fountains after Douglass Bailey has touched them. Just- trust me on that. Secondly, there's a crap ton of weird stuff around here so don't freak out over something strange, it's probably normal. Oh, and third of all, you should DEFINITELY stay away from the northwest side of town. The abandoned part with the park, and the mountains, and the cemetery, and all that. That's practically begging for trouble."

    "Well, that's good to know, I guess. Why is the northwest bad?"

     "Oh, you'll see. Or more so hear. It's impossible not to. We are definitely going to be late for class, but that's okay. Not to brag or anything, but most of the teachers love me. How about my friend and I tell you a little bit about the club at lunch? The history in this place is... well, interesting, to say the least to a new comer." He said as we approached the class.

      "Dominik, you're late!" The teacher said as he walked in the class, but he didn't sound angry at all.

     "I was helping out the new girl Emeline, Mr. Adams. Sorry about that."

     "No problem, take your seats, and Emily, find a free one."

     Dominik whispered towards me, "told you." I smiled a bit.

     A kid with bright green hair started excitedly slapping an empty seat next to them, and Dominik gestured to it with his hand. I sat in it.

     "Who she?" The green-haired kid asked.

     "A new girl who is interested in the history club," Dominik answered.

     "Oh! That's fun, a newbie. I've always wanted to teach a newbie!" They said, and turned to me. "Hi, I'm Cameron! And despite what people may tell you, I am in fact a boy. Actually, I'm just straight up feral. I'm a menace to society. A man in the shadows. An enigma. Cameron Payne Johnson, certified local cryptid freak and proud!"

     "Oh, well, it's... nice to meet you? I think?"

     I looked between the both of them, and I wondered how they could look like they have completely different interests, yet be friends who apparently have common ground.

     Dominik looked like your typical smart person. He was decently tall, and had dark, curly hair that was pulled up into a little bun. A few short curls were falling down into his face, which he pushed back with his hand, then adjusted his glasses. He was black, but more on the lighter side. He was well-dressed, and wore a long beige lab coat over a dark red turtleneck sweater. He looked like the type of kid who would remind the teacher we had homework.

     Cameron on the other hand was short, and had naturally brown hair. Half of his head was shaved, and the part that wasn't shaved was dyed an obnoxiously bright neon green that felt like an assault to the eyes. He wore a black hoodie tied around his waist, and had ripped, black, skinny jeans. His shoes were dirty, old-looking converse. He worse a black T-shirt with a skull on the front, the black clothes contrasted his pale skin. He looked like a mix of punk and emo, and his nails were painted both black and green.

     Mr. Adams began teaching. Towards the end of the period, everyone began to chat again, "Did all of this school's budget go into this room, or what?" I asked.

     "Dude I don't know, man." Cameron responded, "I always see vids from other people and they've got like fancy tech boards and shit. Meanwhile I'm out here like what the fuck is a smartboard? And apparently libraries are supposed to have like, 30 computers in them? Fucking foreign, dude. These are like, our only computers. I have a theory that the principle is hording money."

     "It is way too early to start on your conspiracies, Cam." Dominik said.

     When the bell rang, class ended, and the three of us headed to the cafeteria together, as we three all had lunch 6th period. They took their packed lunches and sat down at a table, and I went up in line. Once I had my food, I took my tray and went to sit by the pair I just met.

     "Yo, I really wouldn't eat that," Cameron said, "That shit's prolly poisoned or sumthin." Dominik lightly smacked the back of his head.

     "Don't scare her, Cam!" He turned to me, "The food is just a little weird, and he's also like actually insane, so don't listen to him."

     "Oh, please. I'm not insane, I'm just eager for unexplainable shit to be real... and also the food is just one of the minor conspiracies about this place, and the poison is also just one version!"

     "Just let her eat in peace for her first day, she just got here! You can start on your rants tomorrow." He turned to me and whispered, "Though I definitely would advise to pack your lunch for the rest of your time here."

     "Um, okay," I said, laughing nervously. I then changed the subject, "So, about the history club..."

     "Oh, the history club," Cameron said, leaning back a little bit, his hands resting behind his head, and his legs intertwined with the poles under the table so he doesn't fall backwards, "whaddya wanna know 'bout it?"

     "Well, what will you be doing in it?"

     "Well, the question is," he said dramatically, leaning forward. He then slapped his hands on the table, "can we trust you?"

     "What? Why?"

     "It isn't just a history club, Mr. Marshall is just as interested in the weird stuff going on around here as we are. So, can we trust you with the secret of keeping the clubs activities classified?"

      "Of course, my life's boring, this sounds interesting." I said. Cameron narrowed his eyes at me.

     Dominik looked at Cameron, and signaled him to go on. "Keep it to a minimum, Cam, we don't wanna spill too much. Though chill out on the drama, man, it's just town history."

     "Oh, it's more than town history, Dominik!" Cameron exclaimed, "Okay, so, Mr. Marshall told us that he convinced the school that it'll be a club about, well, history, but, actually, we're gonna be divin' into the conspiracy theories of this place. He's a relatively young teacher, about in his 20s or some shit. He said he got an interest in all this because his grandfather knew the Humphrey family, you'll learn about them... If you join."

     "...Sooo, the school thinks it's just going to be about the town's history, but it's for town-centered theories?" I asked.

     "Yup! But there's evidence, oh believe me, there's evidence! It's just not widespread enough. Most people don't even know about the murders. Not to freak you out or anything. It was a long time ago."

     We went on to eat our lunch, having casual conversation... as casual as a conversation can get when someone like Cameron is leading it. Afterwards I was headed to my 7th period class, which was my language class. Soon before the bell rang to start class, a short, bored-looking asian girl walked in. She had to have been about the ages of twelve to thirteen, but visually appeared to be younger. She had bangs and two ponytails on the sides of her head, tied with blue bows.

      She slammed her books down on my desk, "Get out of my seat or I'll throw hands, freckle face."

     "Kimora!" The teacher said, coming into the class, "We will not be 'throwing hands' and calling names in this class. Emeline, could you please pick a different desk? Kimi came in late today, and she's very picky about her seat."

     "Oh, of course," I said, and she greeted me. Her name was Madame Martian. I went and took a different seat, and went on with the class. Kimi was apparently a smart middle schooler who got to come to the high school for language class.

     Finally it was time for my last classes of the day. My 8th period class was gym on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I had another period of my science class, which was my 9th and last class of the day.

     Since today was Monday, I had gym. We played badminton, which was fun. That fun didn't last for long though, as nothing could've ever prepared me for my biology class. Not the eeriness, nor the rumors or weird conspiracies. It was the final slice of my introductory cake of what I was about to be subjected to for the rest of the year.

     It was a classroom near the back of the school, and the walk there felt kind of... off. But it was a different kind of off than the off everything else was. I'm not sure if that makes sense, but it seemed as if all the other rooms in that hallway were unused. To the left, there was one final hall of doors, and it led to a dead end. At the end of the main hallway I was walking down, there was a pair of doors leading to an outside parking lot. Towards the end of the hall, I headed into the room on the right.

     There I was faced with an odd looking classroom, older than the others. As if the other rooms had touch ups done over the years but this one didn't. I noticed immediately that this was the class that had that one boarded-up window I spotted that morning.

     Unlike my other teachers, Ms. Hogg didn't come and greet me, and didn't really look too inviting on me greeting her, so I kept to myself. I sat down in a free seat, feeling very uncomfortable, even more so than before. The worst it had been all day. God, I could've puked. It was so off that it became physical, sickening.

     Ms. Hogg had a vibe to her, and not a good one. She looked both old and young at the same time, and gave me the impression that's she's killed someone before, but I have no idea why. It felt very strange, I was deeply unsettled by that teacher, she gave me a bad feeling in my gut, right down to her voice and physique.

     During class she talked about the anatomy of different animals, and briefly mentioned a project that we'll be starting tomorrow. This was a very biological focused biology class. I thought we were going to be learning about DNA or whatever, but okay, sure.

     I left the class feeling uneasy, and totally ready to leave that damn building and go back to my house. I was caught off guard and startled when I was suddenly pushed to the cold ground.

     "Move out of the way!" A tall blonde girl from my class yelled in a mean tone, "You should pick up the pace next time, I don't like to be slowed down!" She stomped away, laughing with two friends as her heeled shoes clicked against the ground, echoing throughout the confined halls.

●●●

●●●

#lillianrs #Lillian RS #Multimagical #book series #queer writers #writers on tumblr #books #The Ghosts of Melbrew #TGOM Chapter 1 #writing #my writing #creative writing #fantasy series #mystery #paranormal #full chapter #writeblr

[fortune-maiden]

I really can’t wait to see what PokeSpe does with SV

#pokemon scarlet and violet #pokemon special #I feel like this one has so much potential for epicness #both professors doing their thing #twice the trauma for Arven #instead of two of one legendary one box legend is the friendly one the other is aggressive #the paradox mons actually breaking out of Area Zero and everyone coming together to contain them #I still remember RS’s scale of destruction fondly #I don’t remember if there was anything on that scale since #(but I haven’t read past the b2w2 chapters)

[aj-thegreatest]

PomengranMints Update:

Hi guys!

I’m so sorry to do this, but PomengranMints will be taking a hiatus. I’ve run out of my buffer, and writing chapters in a short time frame is not feasible for me. Especially with juggling work and grad school!

I’m hoping the hiatus will be short-ish, though I don’t have an exact time frame. I do feel bad because I know a lot of you look forward to the story! And I hope you won’t forget about it once it comes back. I’m hoping to at least get 3-5 chapters written before I come back (and I’m sorry I’m leaving it on a weird cliffhanger).

Again, I’m so grateful you guys have been checking out my story! If you have any question, please ask me on my Tumblr! I promise I’ll answer when I can.

See you when PomengranMints comes back!

#pomengranmints #lore olympus critical #lo critical #anti lore olympus #anti lo #quiet mumbles #again I feel super super bad for doing this #but I think taking a break to try and build a buffer will hopefully work out #I don’t wanna pull an RS and post chapters I’m not fully satisfied with #and it’s unfair to you guys if I leave you in the dark! #very sad but I hope people stick around/remember the story until the hiatus is over

[pokespebehindthescenes]

Headcanon 7:

Maxie and Archie when filming the scene where they take Ruby and Sapphire to Groudon had to make sure the latter two were not harmed.

The makeup they wore to indicate possession was also not fondly recieved by them, Maxie was actually allergic to the makeup used and it caused rashes.

Maxie and Archie also kept hidden they were going to be killed off.

#chapter 4: rs #behind the scenes #headcanons

[silenthilllz]

Made the mistake of getting back into Megaman because before I had a tumblr, I was so fucking obsessed with Megaman that I read the wiki for all entries because I’ve only played like.. 6 (?) Megaman games and I never beat any of them LOL so I snooped on the wiki for content (watched the NT warrior anime as a kid, I knew more about that than the others except for the X series)

Anyway, I’m obsessing over Blues/Protoman rn and it’s ungodly.

#I AM OK WITH MOST PROTOMAN VERSIONS.l #I’ve played the first classic MM game so I’ve never .. I don’t think I met Blues #EXE however I remember him the most #he’s so fucking pretty #I read megamix and part of gigamix #I could only find three megamix chapters in English and the rest were not so LOL #MEGAMIX BLUES IS SO FUCKING HANDSOME ❤️ #and now… for RS Protoman 😔 #he’s a bastard gremlin who I love and hate at the same time #FUCK WAIT ALSO ARCHIE BLUES I LOVE HIM DEARLY #cat chronicles

[motherofagony]

A HEART FOR EATING // vol. 1

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: post outbreak!joel x f!reader setting: jackson, wy (think tlou pt. 2 minus the golfing) rating: mature, 18+, minors dni word count: 5.6k series summary: a vicious raider attack robs you of human connection and lights a fire of destruction in your life in jackson. joel's fixated on you, and your lives tangle. revenge becomes a needful thing. chapter summary: life goes on after raiders infiltrate a routine patrol. you're a shut-in, and jackson residents tiptoe around your trauma. joel found you after the accident, but you don't know what to make of it. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), protective!joel, mentions of trauma (no s/a, i promise), blood, bodily injuries, death, shitty men, dissociation/triggers, alcohol, angst, sexual tension if you close one eye, the softest enemies to lovers you've ever seen vol. 1 // vol. 2 series playlist a/n: longtime listener, first time caller. yes, there will be smut — in due time. probably a slower burn than you're used to on tumblr dot com, but there will be porn galore, i promise. heavy on the hurt + comfort trope in this one. thank you for reading, i hope you enjoy.

“Get the fuck up!”

The boot connects with your side again, the rounded toe slamming into ribs you’re sure are already broken. You’re trying to play dead, but it doesn’t exactly work when yelps are being kicked out of you. Old Yeller, of all fucking things, comes to mind.

But you’re not sick, not infected. Just wrong time, wrong place.

Blood pools sticky under your head. Voices are filtering in like an untuned radio, gathering static and making you nauseous. Like it’s all one bad hangover or a lucid dream in a realm too far.

“Where are the others?”

Someone else asks the question that you’ve been concentrating on. The knob turns, clearing the radio fuzz just so. You strain to hear, but you don’t dare open your eyes.

“Dead. Not shit on ‘em that was worth stealin’. We gotta fuckin’ go — just leave her.”

A vague twang of Boston wraps around his words. You’d forgotten what it sounded like, how the rs get caught in the back of the tongue and dropped. How the voweled aws are spit at you, the shell of your ear growing numb against the icy concrete. 

Yes, you think. Fucking leave me.

The raider that’s been torturing you for what feels like hours groans as if it’s an inconvenience, an interruption to something he was thoroughly enjoying. Whatever he would’ve done, continued doing, taunts the crevices of your mind. He digs through your bag one last time, and you don’t know what he’s looking for or if there would have been anything at all that would have satisfied him the first time. 

You remember a sliver of skin where his sleeve had bunched, revealing a shitty coupling of star tattoos on his wrist. You can feel your icepick heartbeat behind your eyes, and you wonder if it was a dare over a few beers. A matching tattoo with a lover. The thought lifts you up and out of the crushing burden of pushing air into clenched lungs, only for a moment. It’s no name to grab hold of, but it’s an identifier if you can make it out alive. 

He’d crept up behind you while you were clearing a warehouse that you swore you’d be fine doing by yourself, pushing the cold barrel of something painfully familiar into the back of your head. He was tall, unflinching, unworried, too practiced. He helped you slip the straps of your backpack off your shoulders but staggeringly violent and unkind. Feeling you up for weapons with a disgusting leisure. As if you’d be hiding something gun-sized in your small back pocket.

You’d heard panic and screams outside, and you already knew. Voices outnumbered your friends, and it was almost – almost – funny to think that Tommy said the three of you would be one too many for patrol.

So, when exactly two gunshots hit their targets, it only took you seconds to figure out the score. 

Something significant cracked in you then. Started in your chest and splintered to your heart, head, down to the tips of your toes. There was no fighting back, and you were next.

Now — fractured ribs, a dislocated shoulder, bloodied face, broken wrist, and one concussion later, here you find yourself. The tall one has a thick mustache, something sinister and villainous that seems too stereotypical even for this. At some point there had been a shift, and what started as a robbery now felt like killing for sport.

“Fine. Think she’s dead anyway.”

He kicks you one more time for the cinematic pleasure of it all. 

This time you don’t wince, don’t feel a jerk or twitch betray you. The muscle in your jaw is so tense, the teeth grinding so hard into one another that you expect to open your mouth to a cloud of dust.

An agony you’ve only ever seen in movies is wringing every cell dry. It’s seizing, unrelenting, almost an exorcism in the tensing and writhing of it all. But you keep it beneath the surface, barely clinging to the little control you have. 

You try to count the footsteps that are finally retreating, to breathe around the blood in your nose both dried and fresh. It feels like measuring the closeness of thunder and lightning, some kind of correlation with the distance of a storm. 

The group trails outside, and heavier footsteps of your stolen horses lead them away. Onto the next. Breath idles in your chest, and the clarity that you think will come when you finally unstick your eyelids doesn’t. Everything feels swollen, scorched, raw. Nerve endings clipped and lapped up by the unrelenting lick of wind. A scream climbs up your throat, but the pain isn’t worth the exhale. And you don’t want them to come back for round two.

You drag the dead weight of your limbs out to inspect what you know to be true, and it’s nothing but bloody snow angels and twisted, awkward angles of your friends. You can’t even look at them, turning your head and squeezing your swollen eyes shut when you check for pulses that aren’t there. 

Snowflakes collect on your lashes and drip pink down your face.

—

Daylight wanes, languid and impatient. It’s been hours trying to retrace your steps back to Jackson, the blood loss slowing you to a stop every five dizzying minutes. Your feet trick you into standing, only for your knees to buckle and bring you down into the snow. Teetering on the cliff of willfully alive and mercifully dead. There isn’t pain anymore, not really, and you’re grateful for the numbing cold, but you can feel your body threatening to cave in on itself. 

Tears don’t come as much as you beg for them, for any type of release that’ll ground you. Enough time has ticked by that someone has to notice an absence of three, but you can’t be sure that you’re even on the right path anymore to meet them in the middle. 

When they find you, if they ever find you, at least they’ll know you tried.

There’s a comfort in that, a warmth that reaches out and grabs you and folds you in like a blanket. It’s safe here, it says. Just lie down for a minute. And you don’t fight it.

Someone’s calling your name now, and it’s a gentle tug back into consciousness. There are frantic hands on your face, delicate and urgent when they take inventory of your wounds. When they say death greets you, maybe it’s this. 

But there’s a Texas drawl that’s murmuring you’re okay, I’ve got you and I know, I know it hurts and shouting instructions to someone else that’s lifting you up, up, up. 

Your fingertips scrape a stubbled jaw when you’re pulled away. The light dims like a blown-out candle. And you’re falling, grasping at anything, everything, nothing. 

You forget the rest.

—

Ten months pass, dripping into spring, then summer, and meeting autumn at its doorstep.

Everything has healed, down to the last scratch. That day feels hazy, and you’d assume it was a hallucination if not for the two friends that didn’t come back with you. The recovery was just as strange, trauma shielding you from the gory parts but not the guilt. Never the guilt. 

Sometimes, you test the memory, prod at it, but nothing new comes to the surface. No recollection of who they were, where they were going, if they were anything more than nameless thieves. It’s probably better this way, but there’s no way of knowing if that’s true.

Fistfuls of flowers collected on your porch, and they seemed to appear out of thin air because no one ever came with them. Anonymous condolences that didn’t want to be seen, and it was an easy guess as to why. You heard rumors, retellings of what happened without much accuracy, but there was nothing to say to correct them. Some of them were angry, and you let them be. Call it penance, undeserved or not. 

Ellie would visit occasionally, sometimes Tommy. You let her play guitar without saying a word, let him bring you books to keep you occupied. Everyone else dodged you, and you didn’t know if it was discomfort or because you were the only one left alive to blame. Probably both.

Since then, they’d kept you busy elsewhere. Projects that hadn’t been projects before suddenly popped up. More hands in the stables for getting horses ready for patrol. Planting vegetables and flowers for food and morale. Playing doctor when the patrols would come back with minor injuries from staving off infected. Being underfoot at the Tipsy Bison, picking up shifts when there was a movie night or some string-lit illuminated get-together. 

Slinking into the shadows and being the ambient background noise in everyone else’s conversations. 

You didn’t have the heart to tell them that you had the farthest thing from a green thumb, that you couldn’t bartend for shit, that the most nurse-like thing you’d ever done was slap a band-aid on a skinned knee. 

An otherness that weighed so heavy you thought it would be better to crush you. Poison that bloomed in the belly of a tight-knit community that didn’t know what shelf to put you on. Who felt like collective trauma was part of the deal, and this was just yours. 

But it softened the blow of your abrupt uselessness. You let it happen. Becoming competent was better than peeking out from drawn curtains. Better than sleeping with your eyes open, watching everyone around you move on while you couldn’t.

While nightmares claw their way up your chest at night and leave you in a cold sweat, flicking on every light that’ll burn to make sure you’re really, truly alone.

The roar of laughter snaps you out of the trance, breaks the eye contact you were making with your fireplace. You wonder absently if you’d tuned out the rest or if everyone had finally huddled together in front of the projector down the road for tonight’s showing of whatever DVD was looted during this week’s patrol. You didn’t usually mind — sometimes even joined when Ellie had enough of your sulking and all but kicked your door in — but tonight feels like an organized, cruel punishment.

You pry yourself from your couch, knocking over the stack of books on your way to the coat rack. Anaïs Nin pierces you with a glare, rotting where you left her. You slip each arm into a heavy coat, tucking one of the books into your bag with a lone cigarette as a makeshift bookmark. It’s cold as fuck tonight, but maybe you’ll linger a little longer after closing down the bar. Maybe you’ll wait until the crowd outside dies down to sneak back into your house, light another fire, and count down the hours until your shift at the stables.

Bartending tonight should be quiet, hopefully only encountering a few regulars that usually kept to themselves and tipped you for doing the same. 

You steal one more warm moment before opening the door and stepping into the flinching cold, taking note of the way words stutter and lose traction when your face registers with the nearby crowd. There always seems to be a vacancy of pleasantries. And you don’t exactly invite them.

Tommy gives you a sympathetic look, tipping his chin up in a half-nod. Ellie lifts a few fingers in a wave, knowing you don’t want the pity but hate the suffocation of nothing at all. You will the corners of your mouth to quirk in a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes and force your legs into a normal pace, almost locking your knees so you don’t break into a run. The debt of an overdue visit with them burrows in your chest. 

The Jaws theme song hums ominously, and you think it’s only fitting.

A few people litter the bar when you meet the cozy blanket of peanut-shelled air of the Tipsy Bison. A pool cue cracks against a ball and sends it clattering into a group of others, a low crackle of some country something crooning out of the jukebox. You shed your coat and your bag in the back, washing your hands under scorching water to shake some feeling back into your bones.

“Just a few tonight. Been slow – you’ll probably be out early. What’s playin’?”

You smile at the thick, syrupy Southern mama accent by your side. Cheryl is no-nonsense, usually slips you a little extra at the end of your shifts, and feigns ignorance of anything about the ugly parts of your past. All she cares about is that you’re eating. There is an undying gratitude for Cheryl. 

“Ah. Jaws, I think.”

She seems to read your mind with a laugh, patting your shoulder affectionately like only a mother can.

“Maybe I’ll go join the sharks. Joel just got here, wants a whiskey ‘fore I head out. You know him,” Cheryl tuts, almost rolling her eyes but you know she likes the caretaker role if you’re any indication.

And you do. You do know him.

Joel keeps to himself almost as much as you do, maybe a little less when it comes to Ellie and Tommy. He’s sort of your catty-cornered neighbor, but not the sugar-asking kind. More like the kind that glances in your direction, holds your stare for a beat too long, and abruptly looks away before anything discernible can appear. 

The closest you ever come to saying anything of substance to each other is when you ready his horse for patrols and intercept it when he’s back safe and sound. You try not to let him catch your gaze shifting to that shiny scar on his head, and you stifle down the question that’s none of your business. 

Maybe he does the same for you.

And maybe he was there and saved you that day, but neither one of you has ever mentioned it since. You don’t know how, and there’s a brick wall around the subject that won’t let you. Enough time has passed that you figure he’d have said something if he gave a shit.

Yet, there’s a deep yearning for his approval, his attention. It’s a mystery even to you, when you think about how savagely indifferent you are to anyone else’s. But you think it’s the magnetism of having him as a witness. The way he could vindicate you and give you an alibi, a heroic complex, but he doesn’t. 

So, the idea that he’s one of the patrons that you can count on one hand tonight… you can’t put a name to what it’s doing to you.

Cheryl makes sure that you’re okay, but she doesn’t linger. She packs up her things with haste, jogging through the cold to join her wife in front of the bonfire.

No one really pays you any mind as you start your closing duties early, and it’s doubtful that the seats will fill any more than they are as the party picks up outside.

Joel sits at the corner of the bar that faces you, and he’s down to a knuckle’s length of whiskey. If he were anyone else, you might wonder why he’s not at the bonfire — but it’s Joel. Social anythings are like a second plague to him.

The thought of having to refill his drink vibrates in the back of your mind, and lead fills your stomach. Small talk that you never quite have with him. It dissipates just as quickly, when you see the way he’s fixed on the sweat gathering on his glass instead of anything else, and when a gust of wind comes in as the door opens.

Max. Anxiety snaps in your rib cage like a rubber band. Something acrid hits the back of your throat and you think it might be blood the way your teeth connect with the soft tissue of your cheek. 

Max had been a recurring character in your bed once. Before. It was never more than convenience, and the way you fucked wasn’t love, not even close. Liberating to think that you never neared the edge of feeling anything except his hand pressing your face into a pillow, performing orgasms that never came. 

There’s no carcass of affection left, so devoid of emotion for him that it feels like a severed limb.

He’s all ego and athletic strength, sauntering up to the bar with a gait that reeks of hours of pregaming. There’s a permanent sneer when he addresses you, a coldness that has nothing to do with the weather.

“Tequila. Two doubles.”

He’s the type to twist the knife of your tragedy in even deeper, making sure to hit all vital organs. The first to question what more you could have done to save his friends, blaming you for leaving them there to die as if they weren’t dead the moment raiders showed up. As if you weren’t almost dead. Anything you’ve said in defense is inconceivable, an excuse, an admission of guilt. He mourns at your expense and often.

Jackson trudges forward, but Max forces you to stay in grief and remember.

“I think you’ve had your fill this week. Drank through your ration on Tuesday, remember?” you say coolly, but a twinge of fatigue colors your tone, giving you away. You aren’t in the mood, and Max finds it easy to light flame to your resolve as-is.

Maria spends hours of careful inventory, and there’s been more than one occasion where you’ve been instructed to cut off a greedy drunk. The vice, the urge to drink in an apocalypse doesn’t really align with the limited stock, unfortunately.

“Yeah, I don’t exactly see Maria around, do you?” A jeer at face value, but you decide in the beat of silence that follows that rule enforcement isn’t worth it tonight. “Sounds like you’ll think of something. And you fuckin’ owe me one, don’t you? Or would you prefer I collect on that another time?”

It’s not worth it. You’re dropping your glare, squaring your jaw, lining up two glasses so that the rims clink. But the way your skin prickles, there’s an unwelcome visitor in his stare, an x-ray vision that you wished Max didn’t have. 

Somewhere down the bar, glass slams against wood and something you know to be amber-colored sloshes.

You try to steady the angry tremble that overcomes your hands as you upturn the liquor bottle. One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.

He holds the ration card to you, taunting you by pulling back when you reach for it, only to smirk and flick it toward you, uncaring of where it lands. You shove it into the mouth of the register with the violence you wish you were brave enough for.

“You can leave now.”

“That so? Mouthy now that you have an audience?” Max gestures cruelly to the grand total of four patrons, five if you counted Johnny Cash.

It stings, but dully. You’ve heard worse – even if not to your face – and it’s all kind of anti-climatic if you considered the low-budget production they always try to make out of you. The words eventually all sound the same, nothing punches quite the way they intend. Still, your cheeks burn as if on cue, and —

“She told you to get the fuck out.”

A low timbre erupts, easily mistaken as pure venom. There’s a sway in the way your senses glitch and then still, and reality swirls at the edge of your periphery. Pool balls stop their roll, murmured chatter ceases, and even the fucking jukebox settles on an instrumental to lean in and listen. 

You dare to look over at Joel, whose demeanor looks more akin to statuesque and threatening than his curved slouch when you first clocked in. He’s standing, flexing his fists so hard that you think they might shatter.

Max backs off but subtly – you can see the way his puffed chest deflates even though his glare doesn’t. He finishes off one tequila before backing up with the other dangling in his fingers, both hands turned palm-out in mock surrender. 

A deep annoyance plucks at his brow, but he knows he’s flirting with a black eye. 

Max flashes a middle finger, lets his grip relax after downing the glass in his hand, and it crashes to the floor with a wincing shatter. He’s gone before you can string together any curses, and would it have mattered anyway?

Then, there’s scattering, the bar flies wordlessly agreeing that anywhere is better than the awkwardness of being here. Cards thrown down, beers drained, and there’s an uneasiness with the way they shuffle outside towards the rest of the group. A dance around the broken glass that isn’t their problem. You pretend not to notice, though you try to hide the redness that stains your cheeks as you bring a dust pan over to the mess.  

You feel eyes on you and, all too suddenly, you realize that Joel didn’t follow them.

“Careful. Here, lemme do that.”

He’s kneeling, taking the pan from you. Knuckles brush yours a little too long and electrify, zapping you. You mutter something like thanks and it’s too ungrateful, too tired. A woodsy scent fills your nose, and you’re hard-pressed not to lean into his collar and bookmark it.

Glass slips into the trash with a tinkling, shimmering sound. You’re already back behind the bar, hands busying with something else, tidying up the already-tidy. Letting him slip outside with the crowd, heavy with satisfaction that he came to your rescue yet again. 

But he’s sat back down, watching you with an odd intensity. He’s never assessed you like this, at least not that you’ve seen. A different sort of undressing than what Max gives you. You meet his eyeline warily. Vulnerable, waiting for your predator’s jaw to unhinge and devour you whole.

“He always talk to you that way?”

A quiet, lethal question hangs in the air, so quiet that you could’ve chalked it up to your imagination. But evidenced by the white-knuckled grip Joel has on his glass, the measured way he brings it to his lips, it was real. Controlled, scary even. But real.

Your mouth opens to answer, then closes. You consider in a beat’s time how it would sound to laugh it off, then stop yourself. It would be too forced, too desperate of a sound to be convincing. You’ve never been the unfeeling, unaffected type.

It’s clear that he knows the answer, has probably seen it with his own eyes, but it’s like he wants a green light to set his sights on some other more sinister and deserving prey.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s been through a lot,” you say, half to yourself. It’s easier this way.

“Does matter. So’ve you,” Joel says, even quieter, like he’s trying to contain an angry edge that threatens to bleed out. The calm is almost worse. In a way, you wish he would loosen the leash on his rage. Or break something to satisfy the urge in you that wants to do the same – you’d give him permission to do that. This is too unreadable and ambiguous, too much room left for agonizing interpretation in how he grits his teeth and pulses that muscle in his taut jaw. You want to yell, let out what’s long pent-up. Yes! Yes, it does fucking matter!

But you don’t. You keep the rag tight on the lip of the pint glass in your hand, rotating it past the point of needing to be cleaned. The rub of the microfiber cloth makes you itch, and your teeth scrape again at the inside of your cheek.

It leaves your mouth before you can catch it and shove it back down.

“Why do you care?”

Joel looks up at you now and you think that you’ve already overstepped during your first, real fucking conversation. He finishes off the whiskey and puts it back down carefully. He stands up, each slow step over to you spiking your blood pressure, your breath shifting into neutral. 

It’s the way he’s fixated on you, a litmus test for any sarcasm. The way a chill creeps into the base of your spine and slithers up each vertebrae despite the warmth you feel below your waist. And when he comes behind the bar, reaches for the glass in your hand and puts it down gently, you wonder if that tug has always been there. 

Fuck.

“You think I don’t care?”

Tiny hairs at your nape stand at attention in a near-salute. The web of intrusive thoughts tangles between you, and you’re acutely aware that this is the closest you’ve ever been to Joel Miller – that you’ve been conscious for. That feeling rushes back and bursts in your chest, the comforting honey in his voice that’s been haunting you since he found you crumpled in the snow. 

The omnipresent, sharp tang of whiskey sticks to the slightly graying stubble that you want to reach out and touch. That you want to feel the scrape of in places that makes heat pool deep in your belly. His flannel is unbuttoned at the top, the column of his throat ridged and tense. 

Focus.

“Why are you saying this now?” you say, and you want to hold your ground but his admission is akin to mesmerizing.

He thinks for a minute, his eyes smoothing over every angle in your face. They look past you, just over your shoulder, like he’s asking himself the same thing.

“Knew you could handle it. ‘Til you couldn’t anymore.”

There it is. You let it sink in, clicking that last piece into place. Always observing you from a safe distance, the buzz of something unsaid ringing in your ears when he’s around. How he listens to your interactions, but never too closely. Watching for weak spots. And tonight was the weakest of them all, letting yourself be humiliated by the only person that knew where to bite just right.

You feel laid bare, too seen. Pissed that he can witness your struggling, thrashing, drowning with outstretched arms and kicking feet and decide when and if he’ll pity you.

And this time, a laugh does slip out – humorless and breathy.

“The same way you can handle whatever’s making you drink alone on a Friday night? Don’t act so holier than thou, Joel. I’m the wrong one.”

“Watch it.”

You don’t mean it. Not really. But you’re so angry, a wasps’ nest that’s been taunted and poked at after being left to its own devices for too long. Sometimes violence feels more intimate. Safer.

And he’s using that gravelly, terse tone with you of all people, and you want to fucking lose your mind.

When he doesn’t say anything else, just looks at you and waits, they leave their home in a wave. Burying stingers where you know they’ll hurt. Once more, with feeling.

“Are you looking for a ‘thank you’?”

Joel’s mouth quirks, but it isn’t a smile. It only stokes the fire, and you know what he’s doing. Letting you win, begrudgingly because you’re being an ass. But you haven’t had a win in the last ten months, only loss after devastating loss. He’s throwing you a raft.

“No. Just tryin’ to help, ‘s all.”

Your nostrils are flaring in sharp inhales that you can’t control, and you physically jab at him, your own tightly wound chest dragging in the hive for a final, practiced nosedive. “I don’t fucking need your help, Joel.”

He’s snatching your wrist, holding it in a vise, but there’s a flinch in his expression. Joel hardens, sliding that cool armor back into place. Sizing you up one more time, committing you to memory. A curt nod, plucking that chord of roughness in his tone that makes you ache.

There’s a glare you’ve never seen from him, like disappointment and disdain wrapped up neatly in one package. Delivered with a dagger straight to your heart.

“We’ll see. Not s’good at that, are you?”

And it’s a KO you allow, one you’ll lay with. But he’s leaning in, invading your space. You move to retreat and cower, the way you’re accustomed to, but Joel’s grabbing a fistful of your shirt and fastening you in place. His mouth’s at your ear as if he’s telling you a secret. 

“Good luck bein’ a fuckin’ martyr.”

The pressure loosens, as does his grip, dissipating like some ghostly presence. He leaves without another word, and something inside you snags and unspools. 

—

You don’t see Joel for days. 

Three days to be exact, torturous and fluid days that feel like trickling sand, but blend together in an indistinguishable slideshow when you zoom out. You time your breaks perfectly at the stables so you don’t run into him, and you ask Cheryl to cover for you on Tuesday, ignoring the strange look she gives you – the resident workaholic. 

It’s a sort of avoidance that you don’t want to acknowledge or look directly in the eye. If you did, it would mean that Joel affected you more than you want to admit. Or that he’d sized you up in an expert way that a categorical stranger shouldn’t be able to.

You should be livid, and you are… in a way. But mainly you want to shrug your skin off, your unease for being so dissected by him. Just unzip it all and let it pool at your feet, stepping out of the pile one leg at a time. The pinch, the untethering of you and the man that could read you without translation.

And when it’s 9 o’clock and you’re making tea as you trudge through a book without really reading anything, you glance outside at the house across the street and it’s so dark that you think it may have swallowed him whole.

Or he’s hiding from you, too.

—

It’s finally Thursday, and you can’t put it off any longer. You’re running out of food, you promised Tommy you’d lend a hand with feeding the horses – and there’s a dull itch to see Joel again. You don’t even know what you’d say, if he even wants to bother with you after the other night. Part of you hopes that you fall backwards into the acquaintance of saying nothing, that you have permission to rewind past whatever this nagging feeling is.

It’s quiet outside – a lazy day. The snow on the ground is melting, patchy in spots where sunlight or kid-feet caught it at just the right angle. The greenhouses are so fogged and frosted over that you’re grateful you can’t see the death-rot inside. It’s not quite growing season yet, but close, and you long for the added distraction in your day if this is the alternative.

Anything to pass the time and not think about Joel and his hands touching yours. The fabric of your shirt oozing between his knuckles when he forced you chest-to-chest. 

When you make it over to the barn, his horse is gone and there’s almost – almost – a twinge of relief. You’ll be done before he gets back from patrol. You won’t have a chance to swallow the apology that will rise in your throat like bile, but maybe it’s for the best.

You’re elbow deep in feed when there’s a yelling that cracks in the air. You freeze, waiting to hear a suffix of children’s laughter, but it doesn’t come. There’s a confused sort of shouting, and the gate at the border of Jackson slams and rattles like you’ve never heard before. 

Shaky hands wipe at your pants, and you step out, a hand shielding your eyes from the glare of the sun.

Joel is slumped atop his horse, upright but hardly. There’s a cut somewhere on his head that streams a blurry red, and the horse whines when Tommy sprints to meet it.

“It’s Joel! I need some fuckin’ help here!”

And without fully connecting the dots or measuring the severity, you just run. Colliding with the crowd that’s formed, shoving elbows and shoulders as if in a trance. Like something’s pressing you from behind, throwing all its weight into pushing you forward. 

You blink and you’re helping Joel down, Ellie’s tattooed forearm somewhere in the jumble of limbs. Tommy’s jean jacket stiff from the cold.

You don’t have to look in a mirror to know that you’re pale as a ghost. The moisture strips from your mouth, joints moving as if by marionette. Blood is already drying and caking in the creases of your hands. Knowing it isn’t yours makes you feel sick.

“‘M fine, Jesus Christ,” Joel coughs, a jagged edge in his throat that sounds anything but. There’s something underneath his coat that’s soaking through, blossoming a dark stain on the front. 

Images keep shifting every time you blink, like you’re losing time in between and someone’s slamming the fast-forward button until it jams. Joel groaning on a makeshift stretcher. Ellie’s frenzied feet following as they take him to his house.

The tall one on top of you, squeezing your windpipe. 

Your head cracking against the pavement. 

Two gunshots firing. 

Snow in your bloodied, matted hair. 

“You’re okay, I’ve got you. I know, I know it hurts.”

Ringing grows loud and shrill in your ears. Tommy’s in front of you, calling your name. Shaking your shoulders. 

“– need you to go fix him up –”

And you’re falling back into the present, vision shifting back into focus. You’re nodding, clinical now. You’ve seen worse, and strangely, that’s comforting. 

“– whatever supplies you need, I trust you –”

The weight of Tommy’s confidence steadies you, tying up the loose ends that have untwined deep inside. You run through the mental checklist of what’s in your medical bag at home – stashed in your closet on the very top shelf. Bandages, antibiotics, sutures. But if you’re dealing with a bite…

“I got it. Promise. Keep everyone out, alright? I’ll let you know.”

He pauses, catching up with the subliminal thing that waits in the air between you. Wariness paints his gaze, and you know he knows what you’re afraid to say. 

Tommy nods, but you’re already running.

#my writing #a heart for eating #ahfe #outbreak!joel #jackson!joel #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fanfiction #motherofagony

[stariikis]

ni-ki as your study date •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

synopsis ; the price you paid for choosing an athletic boyfriend over an academic one? no practical help when you're drowning in mysterious equations and symbols. but at least he's good at comforting the perfectionist in you.

pairing ; athletic!nishimura riki x academic achiever!reader genre ; fluff, established rs wc ; 802 warnings n notes ; dear readers, these two are mentally suffering because one doesn't care and the other cares too much! trigger warning, bio phys chem and math mentioned..

“-And during PE we played badminton, and Jake hyung was soooo bad today. He kept trying to smash but missed the shuttlecock.” Beside you, with his “I-swear-I’ll-finish-three-chapters-today” Physics textbook hardly opened to the first page, Riki doesn’t stop rambling about the various sports he’s played today. You’ve heard enough about the goals he scored during an impromptu morning game of football. The way his best friend fumbled during a badminton match. How his legs ache from standing in the sun for hours during baseball training. You’re about to tug him out the cafe by his jersey. 

“Are you going to start your notes or what?” You shove him with a lighthearted tone, barely concealing the exasperation behind your words. “All that talk about wanting to finally get an A but you still keep yapping. About sports, no less.” 

Riki rolls his eyes and mock-salutes in your direction. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Taking a sip of your matcha latte, you sigh resolutely and return to examine various electronic configurations. Perhaps now, Riki will leave you in peace… 

Only five minutes later, you’re snapped out of focus with a sheepish nudge. 

“What’s a moment…” “OH my days Nishimura Riki how can you not know what a moment is that’s like basic physics you’re supposed to have known that since we started chapter TWO.” 

Shrinking under your scoldings, he glances back at his textbook, reads the definition and looks back towards you. “I don’t get it.” 

With another heavy sigh, you scoot closer and attempt to explain as simply as you possibly can. However, he’s deliberately distracting you, with playful caresses through your hair and touches of kisses as smooth as silk on your cheek. You’ve got to be turning a beetroot red, but you ignore the warmth spreading through your cheeks and continue on. 

“Now repeat what I just said to you.” Refusing to give in to his silly antics, you cross your arms and lean back. Swiping the hair his fingers touched, not too long ago, out the way. 

He pouts, knowing him acting cute is your soft spot. “That’s not fair.” 

“Why?” You press, but relent and hunch back over your notes. “You know what, just focus on relearning your balanced forces. Do you remember what the principles of moments even is?” Oh wait, he doesn’t even know what a moment is. The way he blinks once at his textbook and blinks twice your way proves this. 

“At this point, I’m not dead, you’re more cooked than I am. And I am cooked.” 

Gasping scandalously, he whisper shouts, “You’re literally my academic goal, what are you on? I wish I had the motivation you did. Okay, more like I wish I had your grades, but we both know that’s not happening.” 

He gestures to all the bruises he’s obtained over the past week, scratches and wounds that demonstrate how dedicated he is to all the sports he partakes in. They’re his own personal souveniers. Although most fade quickly, some leave scars burning in his skin, but he’s proud of them all even when you express your concern for him. 

He’s always been like that. Dismissive of concerning matters because he enjoys showing people how strong he is. Internally and externally. The complete opposite of him, one Maths question you get wrong and you start questioning the very bane of your existence. 

You fall into silence, looking back at your notes. You have lost track of where Chemistry starts and ends, your paper copy of the periodic table crumpled and defaced from your bursts of frustration. You may not show it, but there’s so much going on in your head it’s hard to escape the fog you’ve mentally put yourself in. With the crazy STEM course you’ve chosen, you know that you’re definitely on the train tracks with a sign pointing towards a crash site. 

Either you shut yourself out and pass with flying colours, or you enjoy life and fail miserably. There’s no in between. Is it so hard to want to maintain a social life and a healthy relationship, while topping your class and achieving high honours? Perhaps it is. 

Noticing your sudden stillness, Riki panics. “You’re stressing out again. Why are you stressing out again? You’re doing well. Well, compared to me. Should I just do bio? Things with numbers are always complicated..” 

You laugh as he looks back at his noteless textbook. 

“Anyway, I think you’re doing just fine.” Riki murmurs, massaging your back with his hand. “Don’t overwork yourself and you’ll be fine. Just like you were, and always will be. Do you want me to test you?” 

“That’d be nice…” You smile, watching his eyes light up a little too eagerly when he closes his textbook. “But you’re just saying that so you don’t have to study anymore, right?”

how life be feeling rn, send prayers

#stariikis #enhypen #nishimura riki #enhypen x reader #enhypen riki #nishimura riki x reader #riki x reader #enhypen niki #nishimura riki x you #nishimura riki enhypen #nishimura niki #riki nishimura x reader #niki au #riki fic #riki x you #riki fluff #ni-ki x reader #niki fanfic #niki x reader #ni ki #ni-ki #riki #riki x y/n #ni ki x reader

[crazyunsexycool]

My little love

Chapter 26

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x enhanced!Reader

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: just fluff, implied smut at the end,

A/N: here’s some good old fluffiness for our favorite family. A little bit of Fury and Lottie interaction.

Series masterlist

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s beefing.” Lottie says as she takes a seat at the table. She smiles at Fury who stares at her from his place at the front of the room.

“Beefing?”

“She means briefing.” Henry says as he walks in right behind Charlotte. “She can’t say her ‘Rs’ and ‘Ls’ sometimes.”

“Hm. And where are your parents?”

“Mama will be here in a minute.”

“Good, you know kids shouldn’t be in briefings right? There is a lot of information that can’t be talked about outside of the meeting.” Fury says.

“Yup, you talk about secrets.”

“What secwet?” Lottie looks over at Henry curiously.

“It’s like a surprise, you can’t say anything about it.”

“Oh, no say suwpwise. Am good.”

“You still can’t be in here.”

Lottie pouts and crosses her arms while Henry giggles at her antics. You walk in a minute later with a few agents in tow.

“Your dad is waiting for you two down the hall. He said he had something fun planned.” You lean down and kiss Henry and then Lottie before she hops off the chair.

Once the kids are gone and the door is closed Fury begins his briefing.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Alright doll, let me make sure you’re strapped in correctly.” Bucky says as he looks over the seatbelt on the car seat. He tugs on the straps and when he’s satisfied that everything is in place he closes the door and walks around to Henry and makes sure his seatbelt is on properly.

Steve slides into the passenger seat as Bucky starts the car. He turns back and smiles at the kids.

“Ready to have a fun morning?”

“Yeah.” They both say at the same time.

“What did Y/N say when you told her you were taking them into town?”

Bucky looks at Steve out of the corner of his eye and gives a little shrug. The SUV is already in motion and heading toward the main gates of the compound.

“You didn’t tell her? Are you insane?” Steve is slightly panicking and the kids giggle in the back seat as his voice goes up in pitch. “We are so dead.”

“I’m sorry what’s the issue? You know why we’re going out and I want the kids to be involved in it. They’re with us, plus Nat and Wanda are meeting us there.”

“I’m too young to die. There’s so much I haven’t experienced yet.”

“You’re being so dramatic. Everything will be fine.”

****

Wanda pushes off the car she’s leaning against once Bucky parks behind her. Steve gets Charlotte out of her car seat and Bucky helps Henry. Both of them run to Wanda and hug her as if they haven’t seen her in years.

“Where’s Nat?” Bucky asks as both men walk up to her.

“In the store she’s checking the security.”

Nat walks out to meet everyone.

“Everyone has already signed NDAs and all of the security is good.” She tells Bucky before explaining the emergency exit routes.

While they were only a few minutes away from the compound this was the first time the kids had been outside of it. Anyone and everyone they’ve ever interacted with were agents. They were very surprised as they kept looking down the street. Bucky takes a knee in front of them.

“Ok, do you remember what I said?”

“Stay close.” Henry says.

“No wunning away.”

“What else?” Bucky asks.

“Listen to you.”

“Or Steve, Nat and Wanda. And don't touch anything.”

“Kay.” Lottie says as she takes Henry’s hand. They walk side by side as they follow the adults inside.

“Sergeant Barnes, my name is Victor and it is an honor to be able to help you today.” An older man no taller than five feet with a big belly and balding head greets Bucky as soon as they walk in. He smiles and holds his hand out which Bucky shakes. “Before we get started I would like to thank you and Captain Rogers, you saved my father during the war. If it hadn’t been for you and the commandos who knows what would have happened to him.”

Steve offers Victor a smile before he ushers everyone further into the store. Other than two other employees the store is empty and closed so that Bucky could shop in peace. One of the other employees walks up to Bucky and the kids and leans down to their eye level.

“Hello little ones, would you like a hot chocolate?” She asks.

Henry and Lottie both look at their dad for permission. He gives them a nod but Henry is way too shy to speak up.

“Yes pwease. Bubba habe one too.” Lottie answers for him. The employee smiles and excuses herself.

“Sergeant Barnes, why don’t we sit over here and we can talk about what you’re looking for.”

“Well it’s simple. I’m looking for a ring.”

****

They had been there for about 45 minutes. None of the rings Bucky had been shone felt right. He had even asked everyone’s opinions on the rings and they didn’t really like them for you either. Fortunately the kids were entertained by some crayons and coloring pages so they weren’t fussy.

Bucky was about to give up when he felt Lottie pat his arm.

“Are you ok doll?” He asked as he looked at her.

“Found it dada.”

“What did you find?”

“Wook it.” She said as she pulled his arm toward a display case at the front of the jewelry store. “This one dada. Mama wikes it.”

Victor immediately opens the back of the display and starts pulling out one ring but Lottie stops him. This happens until finally he grabs the set she was talking about.

The ring was beautiful. It was gold and had an art deco style to it. It would have been something he would have picked back in the 40s for sure.

“Are you sure, doll?” Bucky picks Lottie up so that she can see better.

By now Steve had joined him and was holding Henry so that he could also look at the ring. Nat and Wanda were also looking and gushing over the choice.

“See it dada.” Lottie says as she touches her head. Victor looks completely confused by what Lottie’s saying but no one seems to notice.

“Ok, I’ll take it.”

“Do you know what her ring size is?”

“It doesn’t matter, she can adjust it.”

“Are you sure about that? I wouldn’t want her to lose it.”

“She works with metal.” Bucky says and it dawns on Victor who he’s referring too.

“I will box this up for you right now.”

Victor walks away while Steve, Nat and Wanda talk about the wedding and proposal. Lottie wiggles her way out of Bucky’s grasp and looks around at all the beautiful jewelry. After a few minutes she pulls Bucky toward a display with necklaces and bracelets and points at one specific item.

~~~~~~~~

Bucky and the kids walk into the apartment a few minutes after you did. It was a good thing Bucky had asked Nat to keep the ring hidden.

“Woah did you guys go shopping without me?” You joked as you watched the trio walk in with bags in their hands.

“Yeah.” Henry says happily as he sets his bags on the couch.

“Habe fun mama.”

“Wait,” you looked up at Bucky. “You really went out? Did you take the kids?”

“Yeah.”

“Mama, habe suwpwise.”

“Just a minute sweet Angel.” You say as you take Bucky’s hand and pull him toward the kitchen. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Steve, Nat and Wanda were with me. We were out for maybe an hour and a half.”

“But hydra is still looking for them. What if they have people placed in the town? What if someone would have taken them?” You ask worriedly.

“Hey,” Bucky cups your face so that you look at him. “I wouldn’t have taken them if it wasn’t safe for them to go. We didn’t go far and it was only a few stores. Besides, Lottie saw the trip and she knew it wouldn’t be bad.”

“Ok. You’re right I’m sorry it’s just I worry about them.”

“It’s because you’re a good mom. You have all the right to worry about them.” Bucky smiles and leans in to give you a few kisses.

“Mama, can I show you what we got?”

“Of course, sweet boy.”

“I think the only problem we do have is that they’re little shopaholics.” Bucky murmurs as you walk back into the living room.

You laugh as you take a seat on the couch and let Henry and Lottie show you everything they got. It went from something simple like some shoes to a video game console that Nat insisted Henry needed. A few video games and extra controllers so that you could all play together. He even went so far as to get a few toys and treats for Alpine.

Charlotte got a few more bows and extra nail polish for her ever growing collection as well as extra kid friendly makeup. It also seemed that she went by an art store because she had all kinds of painting and drawing supplies. Thanks to Steve you were sure. But what caught your eyes was the little plastic bead kit she had.

“I used to have something just like this to make bracelets with.”

“Can make together, mama.” Lottie says as she holds up the kit.

“Of course we can.”

After that she showed you one or two more pairs of sunglasses as well as a pretty new dress and a purse. Finally she grabbed the last bag which had the name of a jewelry store on it.

“Mama, habe suwpwise.” She pulls out a long velvet box and hands it to you.

“For me?”

“Yeah mama.”

You open it to find a locket in it.

“Oh sweet Angel, it's beautiful. Did you pick it out?”

“Yeah mama, wook it.” She says as she pulls on a chain around her own neck and she reveals the same locket.

“We have matching lockets. I love it.”

“Open mama.” Lottie says as she struggles to open her own.

Once she does though she shows you what’s inside. She looks up at you and smiles as she displays its contents. On one side there’s a picture of Henry and on the other it’s a picture of you and Bucky. She points at yours and you open it. Inside there’s a picture of Bucky on one side and a picture of the kids on the other.

“Oh this is perfect. I love it so much, thank you.”

You bring her up to your lap and give her a hug.

“I got you something too.” Henry says as he gives you a bag.

When you open it you find a lovely summer dress inside.

“Henry, this is beautiful, did you pick this out all by yourself?”

“Yeah, daddy just helped with the size.”

You bring him in for a hug. “It’s perfect and I love it, thank you.”

“How about we have a family date.” Bucky says as he gets up and starts cleaning up.

“A family date? That sounds fun.”

“It will be, Sugar. Meet me on the roof in an hour and a half. I’ll have everything ready.”

“Alright kids you heard your dad, let’s go get ready.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When you and the kids get up to the roof of the compound you’re surprised again. A picnic has been laid out as well as a projector and a screen. There are also a few board games set to the side for you to play together.

“This is amazing.” You say as you step up to Bucky and wrap your arms around his waist.

“I’m glad you like it. Now everyone, go get comfortable.”

Henry and Lottie run over to the laid out blanket and pillows and pick their preferred spot. Bucky offers you his hand and you sit down. Then he starts fiddling with his cellphone until the projector is running a movie. It’s more for background noise than anything else.

After everyone is done eating you move on to some board games. You teach the kids, and Bucky, how to play candyland as well as chutes and ladders. Once the board games are done Bucky shows you that Henry’s new game console is also connected to the projector.

After showing Bucky how the racing game works you all get ready to play. While you and Lottie are happy to just play together Henry and Bucky get very competitive. They push each other or cover each other's eyes. It’s very childish but entertaining to watch. It gets to the point where they completely forget they��re playing a video game and start to play-fight.

“Yay mama!” Lottie exclaims from your lap.

Immediately Henry and Bucky stop their play fighting to look at the screen and realize that you in fact were in first place.

“That’s not fair.” They both say at the same time and you laugh.

“Well if you would have focused on the game instead of trying to cheat you would have won.”

“Wook mama.”

“Look at that Lottie you came in 8th place. Good job.” You say with a chuckle because Henry and Bucky still hadn’t crossed the finish line.

They scramble to get their controllers and at least beat each other but they come dead last. You and Charlotte laugh at their matching pouts.

“Let’s play again. I’ll beat all of you this time.” Henry says as he starts to reset the game.

“How about you two play and Lottie and I will be over here making bracelets?”

“Fine but I wanna play against you too.”

“That’s fine by me. I know you can beat your dad because he’s an old man and he doesn’t know what he’s doing but it’s going to be harder to beat me.”

Bucky holds a hand over his heart. “Me old? You wound me Sugar.”

“And grumpy.”

“No, don’t say that.” He fake cries and Lottie runs to Bucky and hugs him.

“Mama, no say that. Not nice.”

“That’s right, it's not nice.” Bucky gives you a wicked grin while he lets Lottie hug him for a bit longer.

“I’m sorry. Could you ever forgive me? I’d do just about anything.”

“I’ll think about it.”

You roll your eyes as Lottie pulls away and gives Bucky a kiss on his cheek. He murmurs sweet little loving words just for her to hear which make her preen under the attention. By the time she finally sits back down on your lap you have what you need to start showing Lottie how to make bracelets.

“Ok the first thing we have to do is pick out some colors. What do you want to start with?”

Lottie examines the colors before picking three.

“Make fo Steebie.” She says as she starts to grab some red, white and blue beads.

“He’s going to love it.”

You teach her what she needs to do and she picks up on it rather quickly. After about three bracelets are made and a few rounds of video games you call it a night. Bucky sends you back down to the apartment while he cleans up.

****

The kids had fallen asleep rather quickly in Henry’s room. You didn’t even get to read more than three pages of the book they had chosen. But they had a big day so you couldn’t blame them.

The extra time did give you a chance to change into something more revealing. You could hear Bucky walking down the hall and then checking in on the kids before making his way into your shared bedroom.

“Sugar? I’ve been thinking a lot about forgiving you.” He says playfully. “And I’ve been thinking about what you could do.”

“Would this help?” You open the door to the en suite bathroom and step out in the lingerie set you’d chosen.

“Fuck Sugar, you could give an old man a heart attack dressed like that.”

“Good thing you’re not old.” You quip as you stop right in front of him.

Bucky picks you up and tosses you toward the bed. The sudden movement causes you to yelp and Bucky is on top of you before you realize what’s happening.

“You gotta keep quiet Sugar,” he says between pressing kisses up your neck. “Or else you’ll wake up the kids and I want to have a seepover with just you tonight.”

You giggle as your lips meet his. And you both get what you want, a seepover with just the two of you. Once you're asleep on his chest Bucky can’t help but picture when he asks you to marry him. He has it all planned out and he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with you.

Ch 27

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