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lialacleaf · 10 months

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To Care For A Woman

Chapter 5

Simon Riley

Summary: You join the army as a last-ditch effort to avoid destitution, but when you sustain an injury protecting Lieutenant Ghost and earn yourself a medical discharge, you're stuck all over again. Or maybe not...

Warnings: Tension, Simon wants to care for you, small reader, a little bit spicy but not NSFW, man worrying about a woman's safety, typical cannon violence, deception, I'm sorry it's unedited… MARRIED COUPLE THEMES. It’s light but you know what’s happening. Married people doin what married people do. PTSD

Please listen to the song I beg you.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

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Simon wasn’t sure what had made you so shaken, but it had him rattled that you’d seemed so upset, only to brush it off as if it was nothing.

He let the water pelt over his shoulders, soothing the ache from working outside. It was getting colder outside, and he’d started turning on the fireplace in the evenings. He liked to watch you curl up beside it before he’d inevitably carry you to bed when you fell asleep.

Just the thought of it brought a smile to his face. Occasionally he’d catch a glimpse of the scar on your knee when your knight gown rode up on your leg, and he’d feel something tighten in his chest. He needed so badly to protect you, provide for you, and do everything in his power to fix what he’d allowed to become damaged.

He found himself starting into your eyes often, looking for traces of the despair that had haunted his mother’s eyes. He so desperately didn’t want to be like his father. He wanted to be a good husband, as good as someone like him could be. He just hoped he was enough for you.

You shut your laptop with tears in your eyes. Your poor Simon, hiding out here in his cabin all alone to forget the horrors of his past. He was so good to you, treated you like you were the best thing to ever happen to him, and after what you’d just seen, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were.

You sat down on the edge of your bed, tears leaking from your eyes. You understood his decision to help you now. You were alone, and so was he. Now you were alone together, bound by the contract that had saved you from a horrible fate.

You didn’t think you’d ever fallen in love with someone as quickly as you did with Simon. One minute he was a stranger, and the next he was the brightest part of your life. He was your support, your comfort, and your safety.

He was a husband in every way that a man ought to be.

Your head was spinning with the realization that Simon and Ghost had to be brothers. That information seemed distant however, and you were startled out of your thoughts when Simon’s footsteps sounded.

You looked up, and the both of you froze as the man stood before you in…in a towel. There were so many scars across his pale chest, and you noted one on his shoulder that looked relatively recent. Your cheeks responded to the sight with a pink hue, and your eyes widened.

You’d obviously known he was handsome, but this was an entirely different sight than when he was fully clothed, moving about your home with that powerful stature of his.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, casting your eyes away. “Lunch is ready.”

You stumbled out of the bedroom, quickly grabbing your plate and curling up on the couch, waiting for him to join you.

He was wearing a pair of comfortable, black sweatpants and a gray sweatshirt when he joined you on the couch. You finished your sandwich without meeting his eyes, still feeling the heat course throughout your body and the memory of him standing before you in just a towel.

You set your plate in the sink, contemplating your next move very carefully. Your eyes settled on Simon’s form as he finished the last of his lunch.

You could tell he was watching you from the corner of his eye as you plucked his empty plate from his lap and set it in the sink.

You felt unsure about what you were about to do. What if you offended him, or made him uncomfortable?

You shook those thoughts from your head. Simon was nothing but a gentleman. You had nothing to worry about.

He watched you carefully from the couch as you approached him, your arms wrapped around you tightly as you tried to push down your nervousness.

You stopped right in front of him, reaching out to cup his cheek. His confusion was evident, until you carefully slid into his lap, your hands settling on his chest and your forehead pressing against his.

“Y/n,” he said sternly. He swallowed thickly, his hand settling on your waist. “You owe me nothing,” he whispered, eyes searching out your own, but they remained closed as your breath softly fanned across his face.

“That’s not what this is,” you murmured, your lips brushing his own desperately.

Simon cupped the back of your head with one of his large hands, his lips melding with your own in a wet, sloppy kiss that left you panting.

His tongue brushed your bottom lip, begging for entrance as his free hand slid between your legs. You gasped softly, and Simon let his tongue slide against your own.

He nipped at your bottom lip softly, before moving to your jaw, his soft kisses traveling across your throat until he reached the sensitive skin of your pulse point and sucked a bruise into your flesh.

You’d never been so thankful to have worn a dress as you were as his hands learned you, electing just the reactions he wanted.

Your eyes locked onto his, and he watched you with an insatiable hunger. You felt an electric shock at the sight as something feral burned in his gaze.

Your eyelids fluttered, and Simon grinned as he lifted you into his arms, moving with purpose towards the bedroom where he laid you out beneath him with more care than he’d ever used for anything in his life.

“So bloody beautiful,” he murmured, watching your lips part silently and your eyes flutter closed before smashing his mouth onto yours. This was what he was made to give you. His love, himself, everything he had.

The sun hadn’t quite risen, and it was still misty outside from the night of rain and thunderstorms. You were sweaty, and the covers stuck to your body, reminding you that a shower was the first thing on your morning bucket list.

Your stomach grumbled, unsatisfied with your decision to sleep through dinner. The only part of you unsatisfied.

You glanced at the empty spot beside you, and listened for the sound of your husband in the cabin.

You carefully moved to the bedroom door, noting that your knee was very displeased with being made to support your weight.

“Simon?” You called, hissing slightly as you limped into the washroom. You heard the front door open, and your husband’s feet padded softly on the hardwood floors. “Simon,” you called again, and his footsteps quickened.

He peeked around the doorway, his eyes softening when he noticed your pinched features. “Everything alright, love?”

“My knee is a little less than happy at the moment,” you admitted, and he frowned, biting his lip softly. “I’ll be right back.”

You heard him rummage around in the kitchen, mumbling curses under his breath as something clattered, before his hurried footsteps sounded.

“What was that about?” You asked as he reappeared, lifting you effortlessly into his arms before lowering you gently into the tub and turning on the water.

He glanced at your face, trying not to give anything away with his own expression. “A surprise,” he stated.

You couldn’t help but smile softly as he poured soap into the tub.

“Did you make breakfast?” You asked with a laugh.

He simply shrugged in response as he squirted soap in his hands. “Something like that.”

You shivered at the feeling of his hands dragging up your thighs, past your waist, and settling at your collar bones where he massaged the soap into your skin, before cupping his hands in the water and rinsing the suds away.

He placed one of his signature kisses against your forehead, and grabbed a brush from your little basket atop the counter and went to work on the nest in your hair.

You let your eyes slide closed as he washed your hair, feeling him cup your jaw and pull you into another wet, indulgent kiss.

The sound of the drain alerted you that bath time was over, and you opened your eyes to Simon offering you a hand to stand.

You couldn’t help but laugh when he wrapped you in a towel and lifted you off your feet. He peppered your face in soft kisses as he set you down in the chair next to your nightstand, and fished out a comfortable set of loungewear for you.

“Simon,” you said as he pulled the soft shirt over your head.

“Mhm?” He hummed in reply as he helped you lift one leg at a time into your pants.

“I love you.”

You watched him freeze for a moment, and couldn’t help but fear you’d said something wrong. He glanced up at you, his deep brown eyes holding disbelief. Your chest ached.

“I mean it,” you said, gently stroking his cheek.

He looked like he couldn’t breathe, like the same words were lodged in his throat and he couldn’t quite get them out. You didn’t need him to though. He said it every day in other ways.

Simon hadn’t believed he could be loved. He’d expected you to tolerate him, maybe even find some affection for him if he was lucky. He’d never expected you to love him.

And to think, before he’d met you he’d truly believed Simon to be dead. You were blurring the lines between Ghost and Simon, making him feel more like a man than a specter than he had in years.

“How about that surprise?” You urged, snapping him out of his trance.

“Right,” he said, accent thick and voice heavy with emotion. “C’mere.”

He lifted you into his arms and settled you on the couch, before grabbing a cardboard box out of the kitchen.

“Thought you could use an early Christmas present,” he said.

“It’s still November,” you said with a laugh that had his ears turning red.

“Didn’t think you’d wanna wait,” he said, pulling out the smallest scrap of fur you’d ever seen. You felt your jaw go slack at the sight of it. “Found her on my morning run,” he explained, setting the gray kitten in your lap and scratching it behind the ear.

Your hands immediately moved to stroke her soft fur. “She’s adorable,” you cooed.

“Thought you might like to have some company for the next two weeks,” he said, offering you a soft smile, and you couldn’t fight the grin on your face as you pulled him in for a kiss.

“Love you too,” he whispered against your lips.

Simon laid a tarp over the garden box before he left, just in case the weather got bad while he was gone.

You drove Simon onto base with Moonbeam on the seat between the two of you. The kitten seemed rather fond of Simon, constantly clawing at his hoodie sleeve and demanding attention.

“Be safe while I’m gone,” he said, kissing your forehead before placing a loaded pistol in the glovebox.

You watched him go, his duffel bag over your shoulder, and you let out a deep sigh. The truck already felt lonelier.

You reached down and scratched Moonbeam’s head, causing the kitten to purr.

“He’ll be fine,” you assured yourself, before driving off towards town.

The drive felt longer by yourself, even if Simon didn’t typically talk much. You stopped at the bookstore and picked up some gifts for your parents with the card that Simon had left you, and Jesse was kind enough to wrap them for you. After dropping them off at the post office, you made your way back to the cabin.

Moonbeam was perfectly content to sleep on your feet as you read a book by the fire that night, but you still felt the absence of Simon in the house. It was going to be a long two weeks.

“Ghost, the LZ is compromised, do you copy?” Price’s voice rang over the radio, and Simon groaned.

“Fuckin’ drug cartel,” he spat, reloading his weapon. The bodies of his comrades littered the ground around him. “Copy that, Captain.”

“We’re on our way to clear hostiles, hang in their L.T. Soap’s voice sounded over the radio. It had turned into a shit show all too quickly. He’d lost too many men to count.

Enemies fell left and right, especially once Soap showed up with reinforcements. The helo was finally able to land for extraction, and after collecting far too many dog tags, Ghost loaded onto the chopper.

He was sitting in Price’s office days later, his shoulder’s sagging in defeat. The mission wasn’t a success.

“It’s not your fault Simon,” Price consoled. “We’ll get another chance.”

His men wouldn’t get another chance. His men were dead.

Ghost sat in his office, staring out the window and the pouring rain when his phone buzzed.

I can come get you when you’re ready.

He didn’t want to see you, not when he was like this.

Not finished with work yet, I’ll let you know.

He slept in his office that night, head propped up uncomfortably on his desk. He wasn’t sure what else to do. He couldn’t just go home and be in a bad mood, but he was exhausted, and his office was cold and uncomfortable.

He wanted your warmth, the comfort of your shaded bed, and your soft body, but he was unwilling to subject you to this side of him. To the side that was more Ghost than Simon.

Trying to be one or the other was beginning to tear him apart. It hurt. Hurt so bad that he actually felt tears prick his eyes. He was a failure. A failure of a husband, and a failure of a Lieutenant.

So many families that wouldn’t see their loved ones this Christmas. Would never see them again for that matter.

Ghost fought down a choked sob at the thought that he was putting you through something similar right now, making you wait for him in the cabin even though he was alive, and ought to be making the most of it.

He wasn’t sure when morning rolled around, but a knock on his office door pulled him from his morbid thoughts.

“L.T.?”

“Go away Johnny,” Ghost groaned, placing his head back on his desk.

The door creaked open, and Simon glared daggers at the Scotsman. “What did I just say?” He barked.

Johnny rolled his eyes and muttered curses under his breath. “None of that now. Get your head out’ yer arse and go home. Your wife’s here.”

Simon’s head shot up, panic evident in his eyes. “What? Why?”

Soap crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his hip to the side. “Captain and I called her this morning, and told her to come get you. You’ve got,” Johnny paused as he glanced down the hall, “fifteen seconds to get that mask off by the way.”

Simon had never rid himself of Ghost so quickly. The mask was shoved into his desk drawer, and just in time as you joined Soap standing in the doorway.

Your eyes softened as they noted his ruffled hair and the tear streaks in his grease paint. “Oh Simon,” you chided, taking slow steps towards him.

“Come on,” you insisted, tugging gently on his jacket. “Silly, silly man,” you scolded as he stiffly got to his feet and allowed you to pull him out of the office.

“Johnny, right?” You asked as you passed Soap with Simon’s sleeve in your grasp. Soap nodded, a somewhat smug look on his face. “Thank you, both of you, for the call.” You said, patting his arm.Simon rolled his eyes when Johnny looked like a toddler that had just been given a gold star. “And tell Ghost Happy Holidays for me, if you see him,” you added before ushering your exhausted husband to the truck. Part of you wished there was a way you could tell Tommy he was welcome to come spend the holidays with you and Simon, but you had a distinct feeling that the two weren’t inclined to do such a thing at the moment, and if Simon was handling the outcome of the mission this badly, you had a feeling it would be worse for Ghost, and the Lieutenant would likely hide away in some dark corner for the next few days. You wished you could help him, but you didn’t know how.

Simon felt his chest constrict at your words and Johnny grinned. “Oh, I’ll certainly tell him,” he said knowingly.

“I’m sorry,” Simon began, his voice thick. “For not calling. I should have let you know I was alright.”

You shook your head as you slid into the driver’s seat of the truck. “Well that would have been a monumental lie, because you’re not,” you stated, and you watched your husband stiffen, before slumping against his seat.

“Simon, I used to be in this line of work too. There are bad days, I get that. I’m not going to be mad that you’ve got shit to handle, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide it from me.”

You had no idea just how much he was hiding from you. “I’m supposed to protect you from that stuff,” he said gruffly.

You sighed softly, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “And sometimes you have to let me protect you.”

Protect him. The sound of your screams, the splatter of your blood when that knife went into your leg, were all he could think of with those words.

You didn’t miss the flash of fear and panic in his eyes, and you squeezed his hand again. “Everything is going to be fine,” you assured him. You’d make sure of it.

AN: Simon is digging his own grave 0_0 reader will have to find out at some point, but what will be the outcome? Ehehehe

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#simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader

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bidisasterevankinard · 2 months

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for the prompts can you do 1 and 8 I feel like they fit so good together

Nonnie, it's a little got way from me (1211 words) because I have strong Tommy feels so. here you are(I know it's not just fluff and I'm so sorry)

Sometimes there are days Tommy just doesn’t want to get up from the bed. It can be simply because he is exhausted after a long and hard shift or because it’s rainy, and cool wind, which walks all around, makes his bones and old wounds ache. Those days are pretty easy to get through. Just take it easy, take painkillers, make sure you’re warm and watch Love, Actually in bed with cocoa. Simple and comfy.

But they're also days when he can’t get out of bed, not because of a little pain, or at least it’s not because of physical pain. There are days in his life when his head attacks him with memories of the army, or bad calls, or all the years he was looking for someone to love him, and, most importantly, for a reason to love himself. Because there were more than enough days he was rough, rude and just simply awful to himself. And all this darkness around him forever found a place in his heart and head, mainly staying low, being overpowered by his self-growth and reasons he founds to love himself anyway, by hanging outs with Eddie, sometimes with Chim and even Hen, and of course, by dates and smiles of Evan.

Evan, this adorable dork, found the way to give him the sun to light his life enough that darkness is scared to get out. But it still is waiting for the moment when he will be too distracted and unprotected to hit again.

Like today.

Yesterday was … a lot. He accidentally met his mother on the market where he went to get some good groceries for the meal he was planning to cook for Evan to make him feel good after the shift. The literal bumping into each other near the vegetables quickly became a screaming match, mostly from his mother’s part, because Tommy way long before stopped to try to to prove that just because he likes men, doesn't mean he's a bad person, or son, or chose the wrong way. Eventually, he just ran away from there.

Then the dish he tried to make burned because he was too distracted crying in his bathroom. He had to order take out.

And then Evan texted him that he couldn't come tonight because they had a long and hard call, and the only thing he wanted was to fall into his bed.They changed plans from a little dinner together yesterday to spending all day together today.

Yesterday ended as awful as it was all day. The nightmare of one of his close calls made him sleep badly after, turning half the night in his bed, trying to get the best position for sleeping, but not succeeding for more than two hours.

So, here he is, miserable and alone in his bed, looking at the clock which shows him that Evan will be here in less than five minutes, but he is still in his bed, in his the most comfy, but really old hoodie and boxers.

Tommy kind of wishes Evan would text him now and rain check again, not wanting to drag the man into his mess, but of course as he thinks about this, Evan opens the door.

“Hey, sleepy beauty, I brought us coffee and your favorite burgers from this cafe you like so much,” Evan’s voice, as always sunny as his face and smile, spreads throughout the small house.

The sound of the sneakers being taken off, then steps to the, as Tommy suspects kitchen, as next he hears sounds of the plates taken out. Next he hears footsteps again and then his bedroom’s door is open, to reveal his boyfriend in his dark skin jeans and burgundy hoodie, Tommy pretty sure Evan was wearing during the tour.

“Hey,” Evan smiles at him, putting plates and coffee on his nightstand, and sits down near his face, putting his hand to stroke his hair.

Tommy will never admit he melts into the touch. But he melts and ready to purr like a kitten being pet.

“Are you having a blanket burrito day?”

“Blanket burrito day?”

“Yeah. I call the bad days, when I can’t get out of the bed because of my leg or because of bad mood, or both, ‘blanket burrito day’,” Evan kisses his forehead. “Are you having this today or you just want me to jump into your bed?” his boyfriend smirks and winks at him and Tommy smiles a little too.

He knows he can joke about that. Say that yes, it was his way to get Evan into his bed and maybe make out or even something more, but he doesn’t want something like that.

He needs someone to hold him. Just hold him and show him he’s not alone and it will get better.

“Can you hug me?” Tommy doesn't like how small his voice sounds and he hates how quick he folded looking at his boyfriend who with one glance knew he was having a bad day. “If-if it’s ok.”

“Are you kidding me? Of course it’s ok. I love cuddles,” Evan smiles at him, taking his jeans off and lying down behind him, putting his hands around his waist.

He makes sure Tommy can feel himself touching every part of Evan’s big body behind him and Tommy wants to cry from the feeling of being safe. Protected. Loved.

They stay like that for half an hour, not talking and Tommy breaks the silence, needing to know.

“You don’t ask questions. Why am I having a bad day? What happened?,” Tommy plays with Evan’s fingers on his waist, “Or you are not even trying to tell me to stop. You aren’t telling me to male up,” he whispers it but in silence and with how close they are he knows Evan hears him.

Hands on his waist only squeeze tighter and then he feels a careful little kiss on his neck.

“We all have bad days. Especially on our job, with everything we saw. It’s normal to have them and you deserve to let yourself be sad if you feel it without trying to move on. You deserve someone to take care of you. And the reason for your bad mood isn’t so important for me to find out, if you don’t want to talk right now. You can do it on your time. Just,” Evan turns them so he can look him in the eyes. Blue to blue. “Don’t push me away. I want to be here, with you not just on good days. I want bad days too. Because you can’t live without them. But,” Evan smiles at him and kisses him so chaste Tommy wants to cry, “you can be not alone. Especially on bad days. You can share the pain with your person, making the burden easy to bear.”

Tommy just nods and lets himself get comfortable in Evan’s hands, feeling how slumber takes over him because the warmth from Evan and his breath lull him into sleep.

“I’ll tell you after the sleep,” Tommy mumbles before falling asleep.

“Take your time, baby,” Tommy feels the kiss on his shoulder, “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Tommy knows it’s not the promise only about today.

read on ao3

prompts

#my fics #evan buckley #911 #evan buck buckley #911 abc #tommy kinard #tuck #bucktommy #tevan #kinkley #911 on abc #bucktommy fic #buck x tommy #buck buckley #9 1 1 #evan buck buckely #911 show

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kaolovess · 8 months

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NAMJOON DATING HEADCANNONS

AUTHORS NOTE: Thank you so much for the support I've gotten over the last few days!! today I got 2 requests??? I quickly whipped this up, (partly because it's been sitting in my docs for a day now ) so I could post it for you guys! if the link doesn't work in this post I'm going to be so embarrassed... Love you! <3

WORD COUNT: 457

He tries to be a romantic. But his clumsiness gets in the way.

He tries to make you dinner ( he burnt the water :( ) but you do everything.

So whipped for you, he would do anything you tell him to do.

100% brings you to art museums

Only has eyes for you 🤭

Trust me he fell HARD for you.

He tried to get his driver's license when you guys first got together but had to stop because of his busy schedule.

Randomly buys you paintings, that he thinks you may like.

Honestly, I think he has quite a bit of dating experience.

If you ever struggle to sleep, he will read to you :(( ( even though he doesn’t sleep till 1 in the morning )

I feel like he somehow remembers every single thing you like, Like. buying something for your birthday when you mentioned it once.

He’s a very understanding and attentive person, so he can tell how you are feeling based on your expression.

Like in my jealousy headcanons, ( link here ) he doesn’t really get jealous, he just has no reason to.

Dates would probably be simple, instead of just cafes, like I said for Jimin, I feel like Namjoon is more of a stay-at-home guy, the only place you guys have dates ( not including home ) is art museums.

He wouldn't mind taking you to restaurants if you wanted though :)

As I said, Namjoon is clumsy. Army probably found out because he happened to have a “girlfriend” and your name slipped out of his mouth during a live. ( he quickly ended it 😭 )

Gives you spoilers on upcoming comebacks

I'm pretty unsure about nicknames for him, maybe “Love” or “Darling”?

He likes to bring you to the gym for company.

Pretty protective, just enough to know you're safe around him.

Definitely has his phone wallpaper as you ( it’s one of the thousands of pictures he has of you)

He probably has an album on his phone that is just his favorite photos of you.

Bought a spinning chair just to put in his studio for you.

Calls you when he gets bored at practice. (90% of the time he’s asking you to get food for him and the boys)

Admires you with his gorgeous dimple smile. :(

Wants kids so badly

Writes songs about you.

Randomly stops in the middle of your guy's house to admire the expensive paintings he bought.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t vent to you till he reaches his breaking point :(

But he DEFINITELY gives the best comfort, his comfort makes others seem like they are barely trying.

Would be excited to meet your parents ( he bought them gifts and everything :( )

Tries to spend as much time with you as possible because of his busy schedule.

#bts headcanons #bts fluff #bts x reader #bts fic #bts x you #kim namjoon #namjoon x reader #namjoon x you #bts namjoon #namjoon headcanons #kim namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x you #namjoon

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romanarose · 7 months

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Please Don’t Go?

Santiago Garcia x Gn!reader

Summary: You beg Santi not to leave for work.

Warnings: Extremely depressed reader, Santi worries they might be a danger to themself. Eating problems but not for weight loss, more appetite loss. References to concerns of self harm in some way. Proceed with caution.

Immersability: reader is gender neutral so you can imagine fem, masc, non binary etc. but I generally write fem so if I mess up on pronouns or something lmk. Santi can carry reader.

AN: Written on my phone bc I’m having a time rn and just wanna lay in bed and think of Santiago. Writing will probably sound worse than my usual bullshit.

*****************

Santi had been forced hit snooze 6 times already. You wouldn’t let him leave.

He knew you’d been struggling, and nothing he could do seemed to help. You didn’t respond to anything he tried. He couldn’t get you to go for a walk; the only time you went outside was when he picked you up and took you. Hell, he’d bought and assembled a porch swing just so that you could stay attached to him since you would not let go.

You weren’t eating. He tried cooking home made, he tried ordering your favorites, he even tried getting you desert for dinner just so you’d eat something. In the end he had to threaten to take you to the hospital if you didn’t at least choke down a few bites per meal; Santiago tried his best to make the most nutritious food he could. Soon enough he figured out you’d eat smoothies, and put all the powders, spinach, and super fruits he could get his hands on as well as nutrition shakes. It was better than nothing.

You only washed when he drew you a bath or showered with you.

You didn’t do any of your crafts you enjoyed.

You didn’t laugh at your shows or read books or listen to podcasts.

You weren’t you.

The benefit of consulting is he could do a lot of work at home, which he did so he could help care for you…. But there was another reason. He was scared to leave you alone.

He frequently texted, called when he could, and if you didn’t answer he asked Frankie Ben or Will to check in. They usually found you catatonically watching mindless TV in a daze.

It was getting worse.

“Hey baby, I need to get going, okay? I can get ready in the room if you want…” Santiago attempted to get up, but you caught his hand. With sad, already tearful eyes at 7 AM, you look up at him where he sat.

“Please don’t go?”

“Mi amor I have to… I have a presentation to do….”

He watched your lip quiver, letting go of his hand and sliding it back under the covers and look away from him, dejected.

“Okay.” You were closing off from him.

“I love you.” He said, again and again and again as he dressed, brushed his teeth, made breakfast and placed a breakfast sandwich in front of you, but only short responses. You weren’t mad. If you were mad, he could handle it… but your were sad, and that hurt him, so, so much. He’d hid all the sharp knives, razors, belts, anything he thinks might be a danger to you, but he didn’t feel right leaving. His gut told he couldn’t go…

Santiago called his boss, an old army pal of his. “Hey man… listen I uh… I’m not feeling good, can Will do the presentation? I can send him over the notes and-“

“No one knows it better than you, Pope. C’mon, you’ve been working on this for months, what’s wrong?”

“I just uhhh I have a cold, that’s all.”

“That’s not it, is it?”

Damn him. He knew Santi too well. “No, it’s not.” Santi explained it, how badly you were doing and how worried he was. That gut feeling.

His boss listened. “Do you think you can come in for just the presentation?”

“Yeah, yeah man I can do that.” Benny could come over for those two hours, keep you company.

“Okay, just come in at noon and then talk to me, we’ll see if we can’t get you some time off for this. After this project is done, me and Will can take on some of your duties.

“I appreciate it I do, but I don’t want you guys to have to-“

“Pope, your family is sick, it’s doesn’t matter that it’s mental. They need you. You’d do the same for us.”

When Santi came back into the room, he found you softly crying and promptly climbed back into bed after kicking off his shoes. Santiago pulled you into his arms and held you close as you cried… softly, he cried with you. He was worried, so fucking worried.

“It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart… it’ll be okay. I’m gonna take care of you. Whatever you need, I’m here… but baby?” With a gentle hand, Santi tilted your face up too look at him. He really was so, so handsome. Dark skin, sharp jaw, and normal steely eyes wet with worry. “We need to get you help, okay? We need to get you in with a psych. We can’t do this alone.”

You consider for a moment before burrying your head into his chest. “Okay.”

*******************

Idk I’m in a mood.

Started writing this, roommate came home and tried talking to me, I was already trying not to cry so she asked me if I was okay which naturally made me cry. I’ve never cried in front of her before so I think she was surprised but gave me a really nice hug.

No tag list bc I’m on my phone and tired but I’ll rb tomorrow with the tag list if I find the energy

Love y’all, please take care of yourselves.

#santiago garcia #Santiago Garcia x reader #gn!reader #gender neutral reader #Santiago Garcia hurt comfort #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction #santiago pope garcia #hurt comfort #tw depression #tw sh

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koostarcandy · 2 years

Text

glitch

summary: a slight malfunction in your brain led to one of your greatest life choices.

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: fluff, friends to lovers, college au, mentions of sex (cause what are the couples i write w/o abit of physical love <3)

wc: 600 or so

a/n: so spontaneous but im letting the ideas flow before there's radio silence here again :] oktybye ily <3

this was supposed to be a one night stand, a supposed situationship.

long nights with your hands tangled in his hair and him buried in you became an almost everyday affair. you converted from, "nah, relationships are not for me." to, "yeah, that's my man." with pink hearts instead of irises.

you had met jungkook through mutual friends, his best friend taehyung and your classmate claimed that you both would hit it off and that the vibes would be immaculate. you were initially reluctant to go meet anyone, having watched your peers. he wasn't exactly wrong, you both hit it off in a way no one saw it coming. there were stars in the sky and in your head that night, vowing to never settle for less if you were hook up with someone else, if that would ever happen again.

he had somehow snuck his number in your phone after that night giving himself a missed call and saving his contact as "koo <3" because you wouldn't stop calling him that when you were tipsy and giggly and all over him. this is a one time thing, you keep reminding yourself, this will either end very well or very badly.

but how could you stop yourself? night after night, you found yourself throwing away the strict rules you had put up to let in a certain doe eyed man in. jungkook was at your doorstep at 8.35 on the dot almost everyday, a random board game he found in his dorm's extensive attic or you were on his couch at 7.45, scrolling through his amazon prime recommendations. he even helped with your gardening hobby, eagerly learning about new buddies and frequently touching the touch-me-not leaves just to see them close up and giggle like a child who was handed candy.

you admired his innocence in a way, adopting his ways of always looking for a silver lining. somewhere, along the way, one of you caved in. threw all cares away, all your lingering doubts of, "will this stand a chance?"

"you know, i remember taehyung telling me you were off limits, that you were too precious for me."

"and hyungie's right. am i not too precious for you?"

jungkook looks up at you from lying on your chest, warm hands rubbing up and down your back. "finally awake, hmm?" he says, chuckling when you snuggle further into his chest, pressing your ear to hear his steady heartbeat. "wanna stay here forever, you know that," you yawn, stretching your hands so you can try your best to hug him. he slips his hand under your his oversized tshirt, tracing hearts on your shoulder.

he presses kisses to your neck, groaning in delight when your hand massages his head just how he likes it, occasionally playing with his hair and saying you would braid it if he let you.

"get up, my love, we have a whole day ahead of us!"

"just say you want strawberry cheesecake for breakfast, koo."

"how dare you accuse me-"

while jungkook tickles you out of sleep's tight hold, trying to defend himself and saying that he thought it was very obvious he didn't want anything to do with your very yummy cheesecake, you take the chance to grip his wiggling hands knowing he can slip out of it easily. he immediately falls on you, careful enough to not lean his entire weight on you. while he kisses your neck and tries to get you out of bed, you can't help but think how glad you are that you let your guard down, letting him in, like a perfect glitch.

pt time: @armys-dna ; @junsai-tree ; @soobhyun ; @shatzkrinslinzki ; @astronaut-jin-moon ; @cherishoshi ; @fragmentof-indifference ; @userhobis

#jungkook #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #jungkook drabbles #jungkook scenarios #jungkook oneshot #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook x reader #bts x reader #bts oneshot #bts fluff #i fell asleep writing this lmao

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witchysquirrel · 3 months

Text

Epiphany

Chapter Two

The two healers made a rough landing from several feet above the House, but neither of them grumbled as they ran inside and hurried up the stairs. Ravenna pulled open the double doors at the very end of the corridor, revealing walls of books washed in warm light from the fireplace in the center of the room. Rhys and Azriel had done exactly as Ravenna had asked, Cassian lying on a cot, wings up, undisturbed. Madja and Ravenna immediately got back to work in their new infirmary.

Ravenna had always found the practice of healing to be relaxing, the movements rhythmic and organized. Power and energy flowing together to create wholeness and life. She usually relished the way her hands could produce a tangible solution to a problem, channeling life through the Mother with knife-sharp precision and grace. She often wondered if Cassian felt that way, in a very different sense; with his hands that were capable of taking down armies. Unfortunately, she was not enjoying the healing she did now; it flowed out of her like it needed to escape her and pour itself into Cassian’s body below her. She knew it was going to take months of healing, if his wings ever fully healed at all. She paused and took another deep breath. Ravenna knew it couldn’t be good to be having these thoughts while she was actively healing, so she closed her eyes and willed them to leave her head.

Ravenna and Madja spent the next several hours coaxing the fine, membranous skin of Cassian’s wings back together, cleaning out the debris and disinfecting as they went. They spent another few hours carefully applying a powerful healing salve to each wound, then dressed them in adherent gauze and decided it was enough of a dressing for tonight. Ravenna watched Cassian breathe, the skin that just barely covered the muscles beneath still stained with blood and dirt. Madja had placed an intravenous line, and was hooking him up to fluids, when Rhys interrupted Ravenna’s thoughts.

How is he looking?

She paused. Better than before. It’s going to scar badly.

After a disappointed couple of seconds of silence, Rhys said, As long as he’s able to fly again. Another short pause that she chose not to fill. There’s food in the dining room. She pressed a hand to her stomach, the fatigue of the last several days finally setting in. Ravenna was starving, and in desperate need of sleep.

She made her way to the dining room at the far end of the House of Wind. Rhys and Azriel sat at the dining table in silence, Mor standing behind an empty chair on the other side of the table. “How is he?” she asked, immediately upon noticing Ravenna’s presence in the room.

“He is okay,” she said quietly. “He will be okay.” Mor exhaled, a breath that Ravenna could tell she had been holding, and took her seat at the table next to the Shadowsinger. The four of them sat at the table without speaking or eating, staring at the food on their plates. Ravenna finally forced herself to eat, knowing she needed it, but her stomach turned inside out at the attempt. She swallowed and tried again, quite sure she couldn’t do much healing without food, especially after spending the last week expending every last bit of her power.

“What… did that? To him?” Mor asked, interrupting the silence that hung thick in the room.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Rhys answered, leaving no opportunity for further questions. “When you’re finished, you can stay in whichever bedroom you want… shower,” Rhys said, glancing at Ravenna’s mud-caked clothes and blood stained hands. “I assume you’re okay with staying here while Cassian heals.”

She nodded. “Of course.” Ravenna didn’t like her apartment in town much anyways, especially when compared with the House of Wind. “We should bring Madja a plate as well.”

Within ten minutes she decided she could not force-feed herself anymore, and followed Rhys down the hallway to one of the bedrooms that overlooked the rest of the city.

“Thank you for staying,” Rhysand breathed, resting a hand on her shoulder, briefly. “You need anything at all, just let me know.” He ran a hand through his black hair and disappeared.

Ravenna made her way into the oversized black-tiled bathroom adjoined to her new lodgings, turning the shower on. Stepping back, she found the reflection in the mirror looking back at her nearly unrecognizable. Her waist length black hair was still mostly braided, but the front pieces had come loose and were matted to her forehead, curling with sweat. Her face was dark, shadowed with blood and dirt and grime, hollow black-brown eyes staring back at her. The cloak she wore was stained, the Night Court insignia completely covered in a smear of blood that did not belong to her. Ravenna peeled off her clothes, tossing them in a pile in the corner of the bathroom. When the water was hot enough to burn her skin, she stepped under the stream, gasping as the water washed over her, turning brown and red and traveling down the drain below. She scrubbed and scrubbed until her olive skin was raw and red, raking fingers through her hair until it ran smooth and the water ran clear.

Even after she knew she was clean, she remained under the stream, eyes shut, fists clenched. Although war and healing had been her life for centuries, it affected her more than she cared to admit. If she wasn’t distracted, she could still smell the battlefield, feel the crushing responsibility of getting to the wounded as quickly as possible. Hoping her friends were alive. Ravenna hated seeing people die; most of all she hated feeling desensitized to seeing people die. Sometimes she felt as if she couldn’t do enough, that if she could do more, maybe there would be less death.

Most of all, she wished there would be less death.

Epiphany Masterlist

#acotar angst #acotar oc #acotar fic #cassian acotar #cassian x oc #acotar fanfiction

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thetomorrowshow · 10 months

Text

time enough for counting

heyyyyyyy sorry

cw: jimmy is still dead, mourning/funeral stuff, loneliness, brief mentions of blood/being killed

I haeve left the artefaktes in the hands of the living gods. Taeke holde of them bothe and defeate Exor.

Scott rubs his eyes, sits back in his chair. He's read through the Alinar's cramped cursive instructions in the back of the book over and over again.

Because they are instructions, strangely enough. As far as Scott can tell, Alinar wrote his entire plan to defeat Conal in the back of this book, as frustratingly vague as it is.

Written several times throughout is 'mine apologies fore any person who is nowe fighting an daemone, as I have been vayge in my writing. I feare that this booke myte fall into the hands of the enemie, and fore this purpose mine detailes are sparse'.

The details are kind of sparse, but not as badly as he'd expected. For one thing, Alinar details exactly what kind of mountain he'd locked Conal in, specifying that it isn't the exact location that matters, it needs to be a strong holding place connected to Aeor's power. And there's an entire spell written for making a crystal that should be able to trap Exor's Champion. Not that Scott is capable of that kind of magic, but he could give it to Gem and she could probably create it.

The actually frustrating part is the artifacts. Alinar won't describe them, or where they are, or how to use them. He just cites the same 'taeke holde of them bothe and defeate Exor' whenever he mentions them, and twice he writes that he left them with 'living gods', whatever that means.

Scott's pretty sure he has one of the two artifacts already. He'd found the golden antler crown in that cave, and he knows it dates at least back to Alinar, if not before. The scholars that have examined it have declared it to be of magical properties, and he knows that it has a strong connection to one of the only living gods that he knows of.

So he has the antlers. But there is zero description of what the other artifact might be, or where it might be, or who it was given to.

And Scott has no clue where to start.

It's his most important work to focus on, but his councils never give him time to work on it. He is, after all, running a war right now.

The forces of Mythland have joined up with those of the Lost Empire to launch a targeted attack on the Ocean Kingdom. fWhip's still biding his time, sending out spies (which frequently get caught by Lizzie) and little armies to test the waters at various borders. Scott's work so far has mostly been in setting patrols for his own borders, and sending soldiers out to aid the Ocean Kingdom—not desperately needed, but a good show of their alliance. But having all those forces concentrated on the Ocean Kingdom? Giving the other empires plenty of time to prepare their defenses?

Why Xornoth wants to take down Lizzie is entirely beyond Scott.

It's actually been a minute since he spoke with Lizzie face-to-face—two weeks, to be precise.

Fourteen days since that meeting.

Fourteen days since Jimmy's death was confirmed.

Nine days since Scott released an official mourning statement, mostly written by somebody else who had no real idea of what he and Jimmy shared.

And three days since Ilphas gently suggested working with Lizzie to plan a memorial service for Jimmy.

The court, far too late, has ruled that he and Jimmy remained betrothed despite their eschewing of the betrothal law, due to the state of emergency. So added to his mourning robes is a veil, simpler than those he and Jimmy wore during the betrothal period, plain black cloth with a matching hood.

Mourning vestments are generally worn for a year when the death was of someone close, such as a parent or spouse. Or, in this case, fiance.

Scott's stuck in a mockery of the betrothal he hadn't been able to finish for an entire year.

And now he needs to plan a funeral for his love.

Before he can chicken out, Scott grabs his communicator from his new satchel that hangs off his chair.

The satchel was a gift from the Codlands and had arrived the same day the Cod Empire fell. It's hand-stitched, from what he can tell, with a design in blue of a leaping stag and a cod forming a circle on the side, the main bag a demure brown. He finds himself, sometimes, running his thumb along the stitches of the cod in a self-soothing motion. Since he received it, the bag has barely left his side.

It's a humble gift, one certainly not fit for a king. But Scott sees in it the hard work of someone, or several someones, who only wished to show their appreciation and acceptance to the fiance of their beloved Codfather.

Scott carries it as if it holds the same amount of worth as his crown, and his advisors know better than to say anything about it.

Have you any time for a visit to make memorial plans?

He sets his communicator down, flips to a new page in the ancient book. He has an Old Elvish to Elvish dictionary, but it takes forever to even parse through a paragraph of the original story. And this is less the classic tale of the Two Stags and more a history of Aeor, and while that's very helpful and educational, it's stupidly difficult to understand.

His communicator buzzes before Scott can even begin reading.

Tomorrow.

Right then.

Scott should probably inform his council.

Scott stops in the church on his way out of town—strange, for him, but he's trying to show his dedication to Aeor—and just wanders through the hall of paintings there: depictions of Aeor, and Alinar, and other heroes and times.

He halts, meandering, before a large portrait of Alinar that's never seemed to draw him in in the past. He remembers being a child, here in the hall on his way to his religious studies, walking far slower than necessary just to gaze at all the art but passing over this one with little consideration.

In the painting, Alinar sits on his throne, the whole hall laid out before him. His chin is held high, his robes lavish and deep blue, his crown of antlers shining gold. The hilt of a sword sticks out behind the back of the throne, a brown streak of paint against the beams of light filtering in through the grand windows behind Alinar.

Alinar himself is missing his left arm—a common depiction of the king, one that Scott read a scholarly debate about several years ago. The generally accepted theory is that it represents the distance and early death of his closest friend, a desert nomad tribe leader known to the elves as Lisdes—one of very few non-elves that has been granted a presence in the most glorious of heavens for his heroic works. Other theories include that it is a representation of the civil war fought under his reign—when Conal, his own twin brother, rebelled, it was like losing his arm; or that it is a representation of Alinar's control in many parts of the world, with one hand overseeing the elven colonies of the east (long gone) while the other rules from home.

There are many theories, but none have been found true, especially since the depiction isn't universal. Somewhere around fifty percent of the artists that have created a likeness of him do so without the arm, but the others include it. For all anyone knows, one artist forgot the arm and everyone else decided it was so meaningful that they needed to copy it.

The last one is unlikely. There's a folk tale of Alinar and Lisdes journeying together to a mountain of fire to retrieve his lost arm, so it probably had its beginnings in something other than a painting. Whatever it was, the truth has been lost to time.

In this painting, there is no one near Alinar. There are groups of people milling around in the hall below his gaze, but none of them interact with him, or even look to him.

Scott's always thought, looking at this, that Alinar was rather haughty.

Now, he sees him as lonely.

This portrait was painted only a couple of hundred years after his death, titled simply 'A King'. No embellishments of the ancient hero, none but those painted: the crescent moon halo hanging above his head, the jewels hanging from his robes, the carefully-detailed chain earring looping down around his long ear.

He's a king.

Nothing more, nothing less.

An elf with the role of leadership.

Adorned in gold and rich cloth, secluded above the other elves, looking down almost mournfully upon his people.

It's funny, Scott thinks, that he's never related to this painting. He'd always preferred the one two paintings down, of Alinar plunging a golden sword into a one-eyed monster, a pillar of light shining down on him from a moon above him.

That one seems to hold less wonder than it always did.

In that one, he can't help but see the pain in Alinar's determined eyes.

How much did he lose in his journey to become a hero?

His brother. Citizens of his kingdom. His best friend.

More, maybe, that was never written.

Never remembered.

Will Scott's losses be remembered?

Will Jimmy be more than a quick mark in the history books?

In the 109th year of his life, King Smajor was briefly engaged to the ruler of the Codlands. The ruler was killed in battle.

To an outsider's point of view, that is the maximum relevance that Jimmy has had on Scott's life.

Jimmy isn't some hero, as Lisdes was. He's just . . . just Jimmy. And his time here was short.

Far too short.

Maybe even insignificant. He established—what, ten years of peace in a country destroyed by war for hundreds of years prior? Only for it to be conquered again?

Who is going to remember the only person Scott truly loved?

Now, for the first time in a very long time, Scott sees just how far ahead the road stretches.

If they defeat Xornoth, he will have to survive hundreds of years without Jimmy. He will have to watch his beloved fade from the memory of mortals, as the world changes and he is alone.

Alinar is always alone in the paintings.

And then, after he dies, there will be nobody to anchor any part of Jimmy to this world.

No one lives forever, but even Jimmy's death will not last.

Scott turns away from the hall of paintings, adjusting the veil covering his face. He needs to plan a memorial worth a place in history.

He leaves Rivendell and sets out for the Ocean Kingdom, swallowing back the lump in his throat.

He can't help but think, in future paintings, he will always be portrayed alone.

Scott's shown to a meeting room when he arrives (after he's led to a set of rooms to change from his travel wear and throw some water on his face), and as he waits, examining the carvings on the table, he's reminded of another Ocean Kingdom meeting room, from months and worlds ago, when he had waited half-asleep to request an alliance.

He thinks, maybe, that he was in love with Jimmy, even back then. Back when he knew practically nothing about the man, some part of his soul deep within knew that they belonged together.

Which is a stupid and cheesy thought, as true as it may be. After all, he'd been so worried about Jimmy that he hadn't gotten much sleep in days. What kind of person does that without having feelings attached?

There were so many things to love about Jimmy, too. His sense of humor, the dimple in his cheek, his strong hugs, the kindness in his every action, his perpetually tangled hair, his loud laugh, the soft smiles he reserved for Scott, the feel of his lips. . . .

And he's gone.

And Scott knows that.

And now he has to live with it.

"Hey."

Scott looks up; Lizzie stands in the doorway, dressed in a simple grey dress that hangs off the shoulders. She gives him a small smile but makes no move to join him at the table.

Scott, of course, stands. He inclines his head in a bit of a bow, straightens his crown where it's set carefully over his hood.

"It's good to see you," he says, after what's probably been too long of a time. He waits for Lizzie to step within, but she still lingers.

"I wish they had been under happier circumstances," Lizzie says. "Apologies if I have to be pulled away, my armies are active at the moment."

"All going well?"

"Very," she replies. "As it turns out, it's a little difficult to attack an underwater empire when you can't breathe underwater."

Scott chuckles politely. That makes sense.

They stand in silence for a few more moments before Lizzie sighs.

"Look, Scott," she says. "I don't really want to sit here and talk about my little brother's death. Can we walk?"

Scott hurries to obey, shoving his chair in and tripping over his own robe. Lizzie waits patiently by the door, begins walking as soon as he gets out of the room.

"Not to—not to bring the conversation down—" Scott says, lengthening his stride to keep up (for someone who's only five foot something, Lizzie moves fast), "but . . . isn't that what this meeting is about?"

"Hm?"

"You just said that you don't wish to talk about—about Jimmy," he says, willing his voice not to crack. "But—"

"Joel actually offered to take care of it," Lizzie says. She halts, turns to look out the large windows of the passageway they've been walking down.

Scott stops beside her. They're in an underwater portion of the palace, and out the window is the sea.

A school of fish swim by, right beside the window, beyond them the clear blues of a sun-filtered ocean. Scott watches the waves on the surface (they're only just below) lap back and forth, adding a gentle sway to the floating bits of seaweed and the little bubbles.

"Mezeleans do a three day mourning period," Lizzie says after a moment. "Joel felt bad. He wanted to do more. So he asked if he could plan the service, since he doesn't have a forty day mourning period like us."

Scott blinks. "Sorry, forty days?"

"Yes," says Lizzie. She turns to Scott. "Is yours different?"

Forty days doesn't feel near long enough. That means Lizzie has only—what, three more weeks of mourning? And then she has to go on with her life, as if Jimmy never existed?

"For a betrothed, the elven tradition is one year," Scott tells her, watching her face for a reaction.

Her eyebrows raise, her eyes flick over to his veil before turning back to the sea.

"The court made its decision, then."

Scott nods.

They stand there, silent, staring out the window.

"I can't even imagine a year," Lizzie says at the same time as Scott says, "Only forty days?"

Scott mutters an apology. Lizzie shrugs.

"It gives us enough time to remember the dead, then go on to celebrate their life," she says. "Not long enough that we dwell, but long enough that we honor them. The grief is too heavy to carry it for so long. How can you even survive a year of it?"

"We lead a long life," says Scott. "Most elves live to be a thousand years old. A year isn't so long a time in the grand turning of our lives—can we not give it up for our loved ones?"

That's what he's been taught, at least. Standing here at the beginning of it, a year feels like an awfully long period of time.

He can see the appeal of forty days, even if he can't even imagine it. And worse, Joel—three days. As much time as he spent sequestered in Gem's secret library. That was the entire length of Joel's mourning period.

And suddenly, Scott remembers something that he's been carrying around for the past two weeks.

"I have something for you," he says, reaching for his shoulder bag. Right, he'd left it in the set of rooms that he'd freshened up in— "I found it at Crystal Cliffs—"

"I have something for you, too," Lizzie interrupts. "I thought it looked kind of elvish, but I wasn't sure—"

"Can we stop by my rooms, and I can get it?"

Lizzie nods. "Yours is in the Grotto, we can go on the way—"

And with that, she's off at almost a run, back down the way they came.

Scott follows, robes billowing around him, each step a hard slap against the prismarine floor, as compared to Lizzie's almost silent feet. She stops at the set of guest rooms that Scott had been led to earlier, and he grabs his satchel off the hook just inside the door before she takes off again, to the end of the hall, and down down down a long spiral staircase.

Scott follows, legs beginning to burn. In Rivendell, he usually just glides down cliffs or long staircases. He isn't used to the tight spirals here, no room to spread his wings to their full length.

They go down at least five levels. Scott doesn't really like being underground—even Gem's hidden library had been a little too close for comfort—but he swallows back his discomfort and follows, as Lizzie leads him through a dimly lit hallway and then into a dark, smooth tunnel, walls a beautiful deep blue.

The tunnel's made of glass, he realizes about halfway down, after trying to figure out what material could have been used to create such a mesmerizing blue-ish darkness. It's glass, and through the other side is the depths of the ocean.

As impressive as it is, Scott's not sure he likes that. Water all around him, ready to flood in if the glass breaks under all the pressure? Doesn't really sound like his idea of fun. He can't exactly swim all that well—his feathers get waterlogged instantly and he tends to sink fairly quickly. He found that out when he was around sixty-five or seventy, and Xornoth tried to drown him. Good times.

But he follows Lizzie through the tunnel, trusting that she wouldn't take him down any path likely to break. And trusting a bit more, perhaps, in her ability to save him if he does end up drowning.

Then Scott steps into the room at the end of the tunnel, and feels his eyebrows practically hit his hairline.

This is beautiful.

A cave, small but open, lit by lanterns hanging from the craggly ceiling, lined with shelves and stools chiseled out of stone. The cave sparkles, as if the rock that forms it is actually crystal, or rather, that little specks of gold are woven in so well with the stone that the sparkle has become indiscernible from the rock.

The shelves carved into the rock hold all manners of preciosities, from ancient crowns to sparkling jewels to seemingly ordinary items that glow with a magical sheen. Fishnets hang from the cave wall, and from those fishnets hang exceedingly fine pieces of armor and clothing, some so bright they seem to be a patch of starlight, others made of materials that look like they oughtn't be clothes (is that a dress made of driftwood?). Scott sees a tiara made entirely out of sapphires wired together, a pair of gloves sewn of what appears to be a spider's string, a bundle of bejeweled fish hooks, and a clearly enchanted scepter made of glass all on the first shelf, but Lizzie bypasses all of these things without even a second glance and leads the way to the left side of the cave, where she draws back one of the nets.

She turns after a moment, raises an eyebrow to see Scott still standing in the entryway.

"Right, you've never been down here," she says after a moment of staring at each other. "Welcome to the Grotto, home of the Ocean Kingdom's treasures! Ignore them, though. This is for you, over here."

Scott's kind of afraid that he'll knock something over, considering the fragile items on the shelves and stone stools and the size of his wings. But he inches his way through anyhow, keeping an eye on his every side. His thumb runs along the stitches of the cod on his satchel as he steps sideways around a glowing red rock on a pedestal, each movement careful until he reaches Lizzie.

She's holding back the net on this part of the wall to reveal behind it a little alcove, which begs the question of other alcoves all through this room, hiding who knows what. Scott steps forward, peers within.

Inside this little stone alcove is a pair of soft, blue leather boots, tall and folded over on themselves, the laces a faded white. A script that he instantly recognizes as Old Elvish (a bit of a shock to find here, surrounded by so many unfamiliarities) is pressed into the leather, trailing around the foot and up the back of the boots.

They almost seem to glow.

Scott feels something heavy in his chest, as if his breath has weighed all the way down to his stomach.

They feel . . . powerful. Magical.

Gingerly, Scott picks them up (something ancient pulses out through his fingers as they wrap around the soft leather), turns them over to look at the soles. He's not sure what he expects to find—a label? A size?—but the sole is blank, just barely scuffed from wear.

They haven't been used much, then. Barely-worn.

These boots are the other artifact. Scott's sure of it.

He doesn't know how, or why, but he knows.

He's holding boots that Alinar himself wore. Alinar wore these to face off Exor's Champion.

Was Alinar afraid? Did he stand there, palms sweating, feet flexing in these very boots, just gathering the courage to attack?

Did he think he would survive? Did he doubt himself?

Thoughts that Scott's never had before just push into his mind. In the stories, Alinar is always calm in battle, assured in his power, wise in his rulings.

But now that Scott is almost literally in his shoes, he can't help but wonder if Alinar ever felt the doubts he's feeling. If Alinar felt the pain of his losses so profoundly that he wasn't sure he could go on. If Alinar was scared his plans wouldn't work and he would lose the war, lose everything. If Alinar ever was tired of the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.

"They felt powerful," Lizzie says. Scott starts—he had forgotten she was there.

She's right. They are powerful, even if he doesn't understand how yet.

"I think," he says, putting his thoughts behind him, "that these are very important."

He doesn't say anything else about them. He doesn't say that he thinks they might end the war. He doesn't say that he thinks this is it, he thinks he has both the artifacts now and that means it's time to take down Xornoth.

Instead, he asks, still somewhat in awe, "Where did you find them?"

Lizzie shrugs. "Well, you know the Mezelean mourning period?" she says. "Three days of total isolation. We thought it was best, since I am the queen consort of Mezelea, that I participate in it as well. So those three days I spent down here, cataloguing the treasures. I don't know what many of them are, after all. I found those right there in the wall. When I tried to touch them, they . . . they burned me."

Scott looks at the boots in his hands, then back at Lizzie. "And you didn't warn me?" he says incredulously.

Lizzie seems unrepentant. "I figured you knew what you were doing."

"What I'm hearing is that you were going to let me get burned."

"That doesn't matter. So—what do they mean?"

They could mean everything.

Scott just shrugs, though, and shifts them to one arm so he can reach into his satchel with the other.

From his satchel, he pulls the ancient book he'd found, with the unfamiliar writings and the little bag hanging from the spine.

(Unnoticed, the smaller book that was tucked inside slips from between the pages of the book, falling deeper into Scott's shoulder bag.)

"Gem found a secret library," he explains, handing Lizzie the book. "We thought this looked kind of Oceanic. Can you read it?"

Lizzie takes it from his hands carefully, studies the cover.

She goes entirely still.

"What is it?" Scott prods.

She doesn't respond. She doesn't even seem to hear him, eyes scanning the cover of the book. Trance-like, she reaches for the little drawstring bag, squeezes it gently in her palm.

Before Scott can repeat his question, Lizzie turns to the stool beside her, sweeps off the glowing wooden staff resting there without a second thought. Scott hops back as the staff clatters against the stone ground, shooting sparks from both ends.

She lays the book on the stool, but doesn't flip it open. Instead, she picks up the pouch, hanging by the cord, and pulls it open. She peers inside, then tips the pouch over onto the stool.

"What is that?"

"I . . . have no idea," Lizzie says.

The 'that' in question is some kind of ball, a little wobbly like jelly, blue and flecked with gold and green. It's not quite round, parts of it sprouting with something like seaweed, little leaves poking out in a couple of different places.

It looks gross, if Scott's being honest with himself. He can just imagine the way it feels, squishy and weirdly sticky but not and—urgh, he never wants to touch it ever. It definitely is the kind of thing that would make all of his hairs stand on end and shivers run up his spine. He wants to gag just thinking about it.

"I wonder how long that's been in there," Lizzie whispers, sounding almost awestruck.

"Well, Gem's library hasn't been touched in hundreds of years, probably," Scott says. "So a while."

"Do you think it's crunchy?"

"Why would it be crunchy?"

"Parts of it look like seaglass." Lizzie, daringly, pokes the ball. It jiggles.

"Why would you touch it?" hisses Scott, just barely suppressing his gag reflex. "Great, now you probably have diseases."

"Say I were to take a bite out of it."

"Do not take a bite out of it."

"I'm not going to! But say I were. Would it be slimy, or chewy? Or crunchy."

"It doesn't matter, because you aren't going to eat it."

"Don't tell me what to do, Smajor."

"Oh, for Aeor's—" Scott cuts off the curse with a little sound—not a scream, or a screech, nothing undignified like that would ever leave his mouth—of fright as the staff on the floor shoots out sparks again, almost seeming to aim for him.

"Your god is mad at you for invoking his name to stop me from eating the thing," Lizzie says somberly. "He wants me to eat the thing."

Scott puts his hands in the air, still holding the boots. He shouldn't try to argue, it'll only make her more set in her ways. "Look, when you die after eating it—because that thing absolutely will kill you, look at it—tell Jimmy that I tried to stop you, and you made the choice yourself."

Lizzie lets out a snort of laughter, something that both relieves Scott (it was an okay joke to make, they're both starting to heal) and scares him (he just mentioned Jimmy and he isn't crying, he made a joke about his dead fiance, it should hurt more than it does).

"Of course. Any other messages to pass along before I experience this delightful new fruit?"

So, so many things. He oughtn't take this seriously, really—they're just kidding around, Lizzie isn't actually going to eat that thing.

"Just tell him I love him," he says, going for a light tone. It falls flat, sad, and Lizzie just looks awkwardly at her feet.

"If I could've changed anything, I would have," she says after a moment. "That warning message you sent? Hours after I got it, we received word from the Cod Empire that the attack had begun. I can't help but feel . . . maybe I should've gone to check on him. Called him to the Ocean for some reason. But . . . . maybe that wouldn't have really made anything better, would it?"

Scott opens his mouth to protest—Jimmy being alive would make things quite a bit better, in his opinion—but Lizzie continues.

"You haven't been there, Scott," she says mournfully. "The Codlands. It's . . . it's bad. And whether Jimmy was there or not, they would've been conquered. At least, with Jimmy's death, they feel like they have a purpose to keep fighting. Keep going. They think if they annoy Sausage badly enough, he'll just give up on them. If Jimmy was here right now, I don't think they'd have the motivation. So if anything good comes of Jimmy's death . . . I hope it's that."

Possibly the most bleak and depressing thing Scott's ever heard Lizzie say, and it absolutely makes him want to cry.

He's not going to cry, though. Despite the fact that Lizzie said the words Jimmy's death twice just then, and said that maybe good would come of it, Scott isn't going to cry.

Instead, he hefts the boots in his arms, and Lizzie, still looking away, picks up the book again and loops the cord hanging from the spine around her fingers.

"You have the boots," she says, voice a bit thick. "I have the book. Sounds like a deal. Want to shake on it?"

Scott does his best to smile. "Of course," he says, shifting the boots more to his left arm and extending his right.

Lizzie's hand meets his, cool and soft, his thumb brushing against a scale on her knuckle.

Maybe it's his imagination, but as his hand grips hers, something sparks up his arm.

Something electric courses up through his veins, up his arm and through his shoulder into his throat and down to his toes, and Scott doesn't move, frozen by the feeling, but Lizzie's hand jerks a little and he looks up to see her wide-eyed, a frown creasing her brow.

They stand there, hand in hand, unmoving.

All is silent.

"That felt important," Lizzie says in a hushed tone.

"That was some sort of deal with destiny," Scott agrees, looking down at the boots in his grasp, the book in Lizzie's.

These are both something very, very crucial.

And now to get to work.

He isn't able to get straight to work, though, only managing to find two books on artifacts and their qualities before he receives a summons to Jimmy's memorial service.

It's held at the Overgrown, and Scott arrives in his best mourning vestments, the Cod-made bag on his shoulder. Ilphas accompanies him, along with three guards.

Lizzie is seated beside him, at the front, hair braided behind her and dress long and layered, gently melding from light grey at the top to black at the hem. Joel sits behind the pulpit, anxiously shuffling papers for the eulogy, dressed normally but for the black sash across his purple coat. Katherine is across the aisle, her normal lavender dress replaced by a blue floral-patterned one, flowers weaved into her hair.

Shelby takes her seat behind Scott, a handkerchief clutched in her hand, dressed in a brown three-piece suit. Gem sits beside her, squeezing Scott's shoulder briefly, wearing her normal but in black.

Pearl finds a place behind Katherine, wearing a sunny yellow shirt under a grey dress, her sunflower crown sparkling on her head. The place beside her, reserved for Pix, remains empty.

The next three rows seat their various guards and advisors, one row left open for the three leaders that had to be invited, but know better than to show up. Scott won't hesitate to kill a man at his fiance's funeral, and he imagines that there would be a bit of a line behind him to pummel the dead bodies.

And behind them, the chapel is full of various minor royals that had been able to make the trip. Scott recognizes several elves, a Mezelean duke, and a representative from the Grimlands who seems very uncomfortable beside the fae that he's seated between.

There are also, to his surprise, near the back of the seats, a handful of Cod people, their finest clothes shabby and their heads bowed.

Scott turns back around in his seat when he catches Ilphas glaring at him. It isn't proper to be peering over his shoulder at all those who file in. He's a king, his job is to look kingly.

So he stares, blankly (hoping he looks at least somewhat enigmatic), at the pulpit.

And the service . . . the service is nice. Joel gives a nice eulogy, and Katherine says a couple of words, and about halfway through the service, the group of Cod refugees perform a traditional Cod song of farewell, which absolutely brings tears to Scott's eyes.

But it doesn't really feel like Jimmy. Jimmy was awkward, and hotheaded, and loud, and funny, and full of so much love. And even though Joel calls him an idiot three separate times during the eulogy, Scott just feels like the whole ceremony is too stiff and polite for it to be right.

And then Lizzie stands up, and makes her way to the pulpit for her closing remarks.

She gazes out among the people, chin held high and eyes solemn. When she speaks, her voice carries all the way to the back of the airy chapel.

"I knew the Codfather better than anyone," she starts, regal and measured. "I knew his character, his dreams, all his likes and his dislikes—or, most of them. Some of them I had no interest in knowing, but I'm sure Lord Smajor can tell you all about them."

A light chuckle ripples through the crowd. Scott feels his cheeks go just a tad bit paler. Lizzie catches his eye to give him a bit of a smile before turning back out to the congregation.

"I knew Jimmy," she continues. "And I know that my brother would never run from a fight. He was brave, and stubborn, and maybe a little stupid—which I can say, because he was my little brother. It was that bravery, that stubbornness—that loyalty that he had, that kept him from backing down. Even at his last moment."

She pauses, eyes on the back of the crowd. "Jimmy fought until the very end," she says, the words strong. "Even as the sword of a Mythland soldier drove past his armor, he fought. Even as his lifeblood spilled from him, he fought. Even as he fell to his knees, he fought."

Her voice is shaking suddenly, not with grief, not with anxiety, but with anger—hot, radiating anger. And Scott's face is wet, the veil sticking to his cheeks, a lump in his throat that he keeps trying to swallow away; he'd made it this far without crying but he hadn't heard those details and he can't control the tears.

Where did Lizzie get details about Jimmy's death?

"My brother fought for your freedom, and died for your freedom," declares Lizzie fiercely, tears sparkling in her eyes. "I would therefore urge you to defend your people, your country, and fight back against the evil of this demon! Don't let Jimmy's death be in vain. His people are currently in the captivity of Mythland, subjected to poverty and brutality, and if there is anything that we can do to keep the memory of the Codfather alive it is fight. Fight for their freedom, for your freedom, and for the eternal freedom of all who have already lost their lives in this war. Fight for Jimmy."

And on that dramatic note, she steps away and sits down. Scott can feel (not quite hear, more the sight of her shoulders shaking in his peripheral) her breathing heavily beside him, somehow managing to sound angry without even making a noise.

Silence.

Not a member of the crowd so much as coughs.

After a long moment, Joel stands again, steps up to the podium.

Scott expects him to be anxious, awkward. He can't well look around behind him, but he can imagine that quite a few of both Katherine's and Pearl's people would be unhappy with that speech, as both empires have currently declared neutrality in the conflict. He expects Joel to make some sort of vague statement about how everyone is doing their part, and maybe remark on how bold Lizzie's words had been with a nervous little laugh.

Joel doesn't do that, though. Joel levels his steely gaze at the crowd and says, words precise and cut-off, "Thank you for your words, your majesty. I'm sure that we will all find them enlightening and instructive."

Joel's mad, then. Scott's seen Joel's performance anger, his blustering and shouting and shaking of his head. He's never seen this frigidity, so perfectly the opposite of Lizzie just moments ago.

He's a little bit glad he turned down Joel's invitation to speak. He doesn't know how he would have competed with the two of them.

"Thank you to all who attended, especially those refugees from the Codlands. Our hearts and swords are with you in this time of loss."

Joel takes another moment just to look out over everyone, face stony, eyes cold. He nods sharply.

"Have a good evening."

Nobody moves. Scott resists the very strong urge to glance around.

Then Joel steps away, and Katherine stands up, and there's the great bustle of everyone else standing and whispering and gathering their things.

Scott doesn't get up. Instead, knowing that he's being watched, he turns toward Lizzie and shakes her hand with a small nod.

"How do you know what you said?" he mutters to her.

Lizzie smiles in return, brushing a pink strand of hair that's pulled loose from her braid behind her ear. "Everarda, a Cod refugee in the Ocean Kingdom," she says in a similar tone. "She witnessed it. She only managed to escape last week."

Of course people witnessed Jimmy's death. He doesn't know why he subconsciously assumed that no one had.

Scott can't even imagine watching his fiance die like that. He can't even imagine Jimmy on his knees, pain in every line of his face, soaked in blood, yet still swinging his sword at anyone who comes near, desperate to defend his people even until he eventually collapses.

He can't imagine the hoarse cries tearing from his throat as he's stabbed, the shuddering of his shoulders as he strains to lift his sword, the clanking of his armor as he falls to his knees, the tears in his eyes as he watches his people fall around him.

And Scott definitely can't imagine that maybe, in those last moments, he'd turned his eyes upward and begged for Scott, searching the skies for his first and final hope.

"Scott," Lizzie murmurs, a note of warning in her voice.

Scott blinks, and a tear falls from his lashes. Not good. He's meant to be stoic and unfeeling and respectable, and this is the second time he's cried in public in the past hour. In the past ten minutes, even.

People are watching. Ilphas is probably going to kill him. Kings aren't supposed to cry, they aren't supposed to actually have feelings.

Hopefully it isn't too noticeable. He has his veil, after all, but his eyes do get uncommonly red when he cries. Anyone could easily see the way his eyes scrunch as he wills himself not to cry, the tears, the splotchy redness, the way his shoulders tremble just the slightest bit.

"Have you heard from Pix lately?" Lizzie says suddenly, staring past Scott to Pix's empty seat. "He was one of Jimmy's closest friends. He should have been here."

Scott doesn't know. He hasn't seen Pix since the End.

He doesn't think about it for long.

He sits there, and thinks about nothing, particularly not Jimmy, until it's time for him to leave.

And when he gets home, he dives right back into his books.

Two days later finds him alone, in his study, head achy from crying, angry at the fruitless searches and his own inaction.

And Scott's done waiting. He's done researching, done preparing. Lizzie's speech hit a chord near his heart.

If the fight won't come to him, he'll bring the fight to Xornoth.

Scott reaches into his satchel, hanging from his chair, and grabs the boots.

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probably-iron-deficiency · 8 months

Text

Victim

📌ao3 link

summary: More treasures than could fill a cave, more leisure than an oasis, more willing and able bodies than could fill a ravine, and Kalim would give it all up in a heartbeat to keep Jamil by his side. or, After Jamil's overblot, Kalim finds himself isolated in his home, reevaluating the only true friendship he's ever had. He should probably stay away from Jamil. He doesn't, and it's for the better.

✦pairing✦ JamiKali

✦CW✦ suicidal ideation, Kalim kills a guy but its for Jamil so-

✦tags✦ Introspection, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Post Book 4, Pre-Slash

✦word count✦ 4k+

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄✧⋄⋆ fic below⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄

Jamil was right. Kalim was undeniably, in mind and soul, selfish.

His knife-sharp words had dug an open wound into Kalim which hadn’t stopped bleeding since his overblot. It had been two weeks since the event, and Kalim found himself back in his own home. After hearing reports of “magical abnormalities” at Scarabia, his parents had requested that Kalim and Jamil return home until the term started again. No one knew what had happened during winter break, and in perhaps the last unspoken bond between Jamil and Kalim, they would never find out. It had been five days since they had returned home, and he hadn’t seen Jamil once. The palace was big enough to never interact without arousing any suspicion. Kalim’s room was essentially its own luxury suite- he didn’t have to leave it, so he didn’t. The space felt large and empty without another’s presence, and Kalim was left to fill the void with the things Jamil had said.

With nearly a week of isolated thinking on it, Kalim knew that he was selfish. Maybe not in worldly things- he had enough of those to satisfy the greediest man a hundred lifetimes over. A verifiable army of people willing to flip themselves inside out just to get on the heir’s good side, allowing him to bypass any and all struggles that an average mortal might face. Of course, none of this was necessary: Kalim was nothing if not charitable, and despite the displeasure of the Asim treasurers, he was more than willing to give back where he could.

And Kalim didn’t want any of it.

More treasures than could fill a cave, more leisure than an oasis, more willing and able bodies than could fill a ravine, and Kalim would give it all up in a heartbeat to keep Jamil by his side. Maybe not physically- Kalim would never force Jamil to stay somewhere he hated (not that Kalim knew Jamil hated him until recently). His heart would be enough, wherever Jamil’s body was, his love would placate Kalim. Kalim wanted the one thing that wasn’t- couldn’t- be handed over to him, and despite his riches, he couldn’t let it go.

Kalim was selfish.

In all honesty, Kalim knew that somewhere, deep down, he knew what Jamil was doing to him before his overblot. He could’ve- should’ve- said something to Jamil, no matter how badly the conversation would’ve gone. But the idea of losing the only person that had ever only helped Kalim and never harmed, the only person that had ever stayed. Kalim, tactless, cemented excuses to his lash-line and greedily continued his blissful naivety.

He wished for a moment more of peace, and it had nearly cost him everything.

(It had nearly cost him Jamil.)

Kalim remembered a conversation he had with Azul when they were cast into the desert.

“He betrayed you, Kalim. Don’t you understand that? Aren’t you angry?”

Even now, weeks later, he wouldn’t call it a betrayal. It wasn’t fair to Jamil.

It would break Kalim.

Ah, perhaps he was being selfish even now. Perhaps Jamil had wanted to betray Kalim, wanted Kalim to actually boil into rage, give Jamil a decent opponent to pit his years of oppression against. Even this Kalim could not give him.

Kalim vouching for Jamil did nothing to nullify the brutal whisperings of the Scarabia students. Some lamented Kalim’s inefficiency, his spinelessness in being controlled by Jamil in the first place and his continued failure to remove Jamil from his post. Others, less scared of the potential recoil from the vice-housewarden, spoke of Jamil as a ruthless dark magician. An insignificant, ungrateful moon that stole its light from the ever generous sun.

Kalim had heard worse rumors about himself, and figured the students were entitled to their opinions. (He knew Jamil had heard worse about himself, too, and that he probably didn’t care about the ramblings of some third-rate underclassmen).

(No one but Jamil’s opinion mattered, anyways.)

It had been a… vaguely mutual decision to cut contact as much as possible after Jamil’s overblot. No longer bound by his facade of complacency, Jamil had made it very clear very quickly that he had no intention of looking after Kalim for the time being. Kalim didn’t mind that, really. He wanted Jamil to do what made him happy, and if seeing Kalim as little as possible made up for years of Kalim’s blindness to his feelings, then Kalim would gladly oblige.

(Secretly, Kalim felt as though he had been ripped in two- his only lifeline to real, truthful connection severed. He barely slept, barely spoke, barely moved. Sometimes, when the moon shone clearly overhead, Kalim would sit on the balcony, legs dangling 14 stories over the Asim gardens, and wonder if it would’ve been better for Jamil if Kalim had just gone along with his plan and died. Jamil wouldn’t do anything for Kalim that he wasn’t obliged to do by familial pressure- Kalim knew that now. But Kalim would do anything for Jamil. Right now, if Jamil were to knock on his door and ask him to slit his own throat, Kalim would be dead before he hit the floor. If only Jamil would ask something of him.

Dizzily, he wondered if the scented candles Jamil used to light for his baths looked forward to being used.)

Despite their lack of contact, Kalim still heard a knock on his door twice a day. Outside would be freshly cooked food, sealed in containers with a tamper-proof charm in place. Kalim clung to these moments like no other, even though Jamil was always gone by the time he got to the door.

Jamil wanted to be left alone; it was obvious. After spending almost 17 years of your life with someone you despised, of course you wouldn’t want to see them. When school started up again, it would be harder for Jamil to avoid Kalim- as Housewarden and Vice of Scarabia, there would be no end to the amount of time they would be forced to be together. Especially since Kalim was, admittedly, useless at his leadership duties without Jamil as his loyal advisor.

But Kalim was selfish.

5 days was the longest he had ever gone without seeing Jamil. Not a single soul had come to check on him in his near week of being home, not that Kalim blamed them for that. It was Jamil’s job to check on him, supposedly. (On the second day, Kalim realized it never should have been his job. He never should have been forced to be Kalim’s servant in body and friend in words- it was only time before he became Kalim’s enemy in mind.)

Fleetingly, he wondered how many days it would take someone to stumble upon his body if he died here. He wondered if, in the end, it would be Jamil who found him.

Kalim, alone in his room, was unraveling at the seams.

He wanted to see Jamil. He needed to see Jamil, make sure he was still ok. Make sure, even if childishly, that he still existed outside of Kalim’s view. Just a glimpse of him would be enough- it was late, if Jamil’s ironclad routine still held true, he would be asleep. It would be quick.

Kalim was so, truly, selfish.

Smooth, cool stone chilled Kalim’s bare feet as he padded lightly through the hall. The estate was built to ward off heat, and a brisk night breeze came through the paneless windows, palm leaves swaying in the wind. He shivered, pulling his arms closer to his chest. Jamil would chide him for walking around in pajamas in the middle of the night. He would have, anyway.

Luckily for him, Jamil’s room was not too far from Kalim's own. When they were around 10 years old, it was decided that Jamil would stay in suites designated for higher ranking members of the Asim family rather than the servant residences where his own family lived. Officially, the reasoning was that Jamil had been such a loyal retainer to his young master Asim that he was being rewarded with lavish living conditions. At the time, Kalim was just thrilled to be closer to his best friend- they could have sleepovers practically every night! Now though, Kalim wondered if Jamil was moved closer to his room just so he could serve him better, protect him more easily if someone were to stage an attack. Did Jamil even want to move out of his family’s home, back then? Did he cry when his parents told him he had to leave, or did he just accept it apathetically, resigned to his life sentence? Kalim wasn’t sure which was worse.

At the expense of a 10 year old Jamil, a 17 year old Kalim easily traced the dark path between their rooms, expertly dodging open windows and lights shining from the rooms of those who had not yet gone to sleep or had just woken up. It would be better for everyone if he wasn’t seen.

Kalim slowed as he approached the door, muscle memory guiding him directly in front of it. He paused, breathing deeply. Jamil’s senses were needle sharp after years of guarding Kalim, he would have to be exceedingly careful if he didn’t want Jamil to wake up and notice him. Somewhat ironically, Kalim’s own senses were sharp, if not sharper, than Jamil’s; attuned to hearing even the slightest changes in footsteps or the faintest smell in a freshly prepared dish. 17 years of protecting someone, no matter how you felt about them, would hone your abilities to react, defend, fight. 17 years of expecting to be murdered, even if you were known as an unbearably loud person, would allow you to nearly disappear.

Kalim’s nose twitched, a peculiar scent drifting from the room. Sharp, almost as if someone had made sparks from sanding down metal, but capped with something more heavy. Magic.

It would be near imperceptible to the average mage, but Kalim was on par with beastmen when it came to his uncanny ability to identify things by scent. Normally, he would expect this smell to be close to other practicing magic users, especially if they were back at Night Raven, with students laboriously practicing spells over and over until they had worn themselves out.

But didn’t overblotting stop you from using magic normally for a few weeks? Kalim remembered Leona using his own overblot as an excuse to get out of Housewarden duties, citing his unpredictable magic as “too dangerous” to do work. Even Riddle had taken some time off after his overblot, much to the surprise of Kalim. When he asked Riddle about it a few days after he returned, Riddle explained that overblotting would leave the victim, no matter how strong they were, in a very weakened state afterwards, before he had quickly changed the subject.

Kalim squinted. Something wasn’t adding up.

Silently, he took another step forward. The uncomfortably familiar smell of molten copper burned Kalim’s nostrils, and he clutched his hand to his face to stop himself from coughing.

No. Jamil must have cut himself on something, or maybe his wounds from the battle reopened. But then, why the thick scent of magic that clogged his sinuses the closer he moved to the door? Jamil shouldn’t be able to do magic like that right now, not without risking himself. It was 3 in the morning, what would he even be doing?

Something moved sharply in Kalim’s peripheral, and his eyes quickly followed the movement. From under Jamil’s door, lit by the moon, shadows danced mockingly at Kalim.

Nauseous, he recalled a conversation overheard a few years prior. Kalim, looking for Jamil, had overheard him talking to someone. Not wanting to intrude, Kalim had waited behind a large stone pillar until an “appropriate” time made itself available. Accidentally, he began to eavesdrop.

“I’m lucky they only go after Kalim.”

“Jamil! Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not? It’s true, Najma. It’s a good thing most of his kidnappers are as stupid as they are shortsighted.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they take Kalim, someone will just go and save him, taking them out in the process. Me? I’m not worth the manpower. The Asims would pay the ransom and wouldn’t send anyone to investigate… I’m curious to see what I’d be worth, though.”

Kalim had soundlessly fled the scene, imploring himself to forget what he had just heard. When Jamil found him in his room hours later, he either didn’t notice or didn’t care to ask about Kalim’s red-rimmed eyes and blotchy face.

Surely not. Kalim crept forward. Surely the world would not be as cruel as to force Jamil to suffer further, not after he had nearly perished for simply wanting to be free. He held his breath, hand reaching for the cool brass of the doorknob. Surely he was simply over-tired- anxious from days of solitude away from Jamil’s watchful eyes. Slowly, he turned the knob. The door was unlocked.

The world had never been particularly kind to them, had it.

A horrible portrait invaded his sight, lit like a silhouette. Jamil, looking smaller than Kalim had ever seen him, struggled fruitlessly in the grasp of a horrifically muscled man. His hair had been ripped out of its careful braids, arms bent at an unnatural angle. Blood trickled like satin down the side of him, and the smirking man held a silver, red-stained dagger at his throat.

Time seemed to slow as two pairs of eyes locked on Kalim’s intrusion. Quickly, he realized a few things. 1) The man was unmasked, meaning his plan was to grab Jamil and leave as quickly as possible without being seen. 2) His towering physique confirmed this- assassins tended to be slimmer, more agile, needing only to slip through a window and take out their prey. This was a bruiser more commonly seen in the market’s alleyways than infiltrating the estate, Kalim was more than familiar with his type. Their goal was simply to take, not kill, by any violent means necessary. 3) Even in Jamil’s weakened, magicless state, the intruder hadn’t bothered to use any spells himself to make the job easier. He wasn’t a mage.

Kalim’s heart beat loudly in his ears, drowning out the surrounding sound. No one moved, the struggle frozen in a fragile state of shock. Kalim’s eyes flitted to Jamil’s face, taking in the sight of him. His mouth was hidden behind one of the large hands of his attacker, but his eyes met with Kalim’s.

For the first time in 17 years, Jamil’s gaze stared back at him with fear.

“Don’t move, little rich boy, and your servant will be just fine.” The man smirked. “What’s one of these, anyways? You have hundreds, I’m sure you’ll be fine until we get our money’s worth.”

Kalim used to vomit after Jamil saved him, hands still bloody from whatever sad battle had played out. He stopped getting nauseous after the 5th time it happened. After a year, he only found himself worried about the state of Jamil, carefully checking him over for any cuts or scrapes.

Jamil had killed for Kalim countless times, under instruction. Kalim wasn’t sure if Jamil would kill for him under different circumstances. But Kalim would do anything for Jamil.

A tidal wave of emotion battered the rocky cliffs of his mind. The ever-present naivety that had been hairline fracturing for a lifetime, held together only by the fear of nihilism was chipping, cracking. Slabs of his principles and boulders of his morals crashed into the white-capped water of his soul, forming a whirlpool that churned and pulled.

Freezing cold something pulsed through his body.

Terror. Rage. Love.

In a flash, magic poured out of him, glinting like razor blades under the light of the moon. Deadly fast, it crashed into its target.

The man holding Jamil froze, the muscles in his arms tensing violently. Kalim cricked his neck, and the intruder fell sideways, staring at the young heir in shock. Suddenly, he coughed. And coughed, and kept coughing, hands grasping futilely at his own throat as he began to choke up water, fresh and clear. His writhing gave way to desperate pleads.

“Plea-ugh. Mer- mercy.” He gasped in between breaths.

The tempest of Kalim’s soul sneered. Mercy? What mercy had they ever given him? What mercy had they given Jamil? There was no answer, and the ocean rose again.

Vessels burst in the man’s face, quickly overtaken by the mounting pressure within his body. His tears flowed equal parts blood and water and his eyes bulged from his skull like an unfortunate fish drawn too quickly from the depths.

In hindsight, it was almost too quick.

The man let out a final wheeze, perhaps a scream if his lungs hadn’t already burst, and his bloated corpse fell uselessly to the floor.

His life, like poetry, spilled into cool stone.

Kalim stood, fists clenched hard enough to draw blood, body thrumming with the aftershocks of his magic. It seemed fitting that the most powerful storm he ever summoned was one for Jamil alone.

Jamil.

Kalim rushed forward, gathering Jamil in his arms. The latter breathed harshly, wincing as his injured arm was moved. Kalim shut his eyes, willing the reserves of his magic to come to the surface. He muttered enchantments as he skimmed his fingers across Jamil’s skin, wounds knitting themselves slowly back together. He would still need to be tended to by a proper physician, but healing magic was instinctual, and known to grow stronger with intent… Jamil would be safely in the clear, if not a little uncomfortable.

A hush fell over them as Kalim finished his work. Normally, after Jamil had protected him from someone (killed someone for Kalim), Kalim would try to fill the silence by chatting about some inane thing. Whether or not Jamil responded was besides the point- he just wanted to let Jamil know he felt safe, even if the words he spoke fell on deaf ears.

This felt different, somehow, and Kalim for once found himself with nothing to say. Instead, he allowed himself to focus on the sound of Jamil’s steady breathing- clear airways, no major injuries, no lingering scent of poison. Kalim had learned to appreciate this single comfort: the calm after a storm, and the two of them safe on the beach.

“Kalim.” Jamil’s voice was somewhat gravely, most likely from being choked. Kalim gripped Jamil’s shoulder tighter.

“Jamil, are you feeling alright?”

“You made sure of that.” He huffed, and Kalim felt the contents of his stomach churn anxiously. He couldn’t think of something to say, so he didn’t.

“Kalim. That man…”

“He’s dead.”

“Ah…” Jamil coughed weakly, body shuddering against Kalim’s. Kalim watched silently as the last of Jamil’s cuts sealed themselves up.

“Your braids came undone.”

Jamil shifted against him, and Kalim paused to see if he would turn to face him. He didn’t.

“It takes a long time to do them, right?” He nodded without responding.

Gently, Kalim allowed his fingers to brush through the ends of Jamil’s long hair. How long had it been since he’d touched it? Since they were kids, maybe. Since Jamil was forced to lower himself to Kalim, and stopped allowing Kalim to do anything for him.

Brushing back a section over Jamil’s shoulder, Kalim began to weave patterns into his hair, the night breeze working against his progress.

Kalim’s hands were not shaking, and Jamil’s breath didn’t hitch, breaking the silence as he cried.

~~~~~

“Kalim, your food is getting cold.” Jamil sighed, folding up some of Kalim’s school shirts.

“Sorry, Jamil. I’m not that hungry.” Kalim gazed out the window, halfheartedly stirring his cup of tea.

“It’ll be a waste if it goes off.”

Kalim was lost in thought, the familiarity of the situation somehow off putting. It had been one full day since Jamil’s attempted kidnapping, and one hour since Jamil had knocked on Kalim’s door, waking him up for the morning with breakfast in hand. Kalim wouldn’t lie, a part of him was absolutely thrilled to have Jamil back taking care of him. The longest week of Kalim’s life had come to a close, in theory it would be easy to simply return to their normal routine. After all, they would return to Night Raven in 2 days time- it would be better to go back to how they were.

In the past, Kalim would gladly take this opportunity without a second glance. But now, knowing what he knew about how Jamil felt… Did he want to? Was a facade of subservience and friendship truly better than the truth?

Kalim knew now that he didn’t have to work for most of the things in his life- they’d all been handed to him without his knowledge. He knew now that those achievements were frail and paper thin, and the happiness he had paraded was one of the fingers that had strangled Jamil’s freedom. Maybe if Kalim worked for the things he cared about just a little more, they wouldn’t disappear like an illusion in his grasp.

“Jamil?”

“What is it?” He didn’t look over, continuing to pack away Kalim’s clothes. Kalim took a breath, letting the spoon rest in his now cold tea.

“We need to talk.” Jamil halted his work.

“About?”

Kalim stood, walking over to stand behind Jamil.

“All of…” Kalim gestured around, “This. Everything.” Us.

Jamil resumed, walking to Kalim’s closet and pulling out more of his uniforms, expertly avoiding eye contact.

“I suppose it was only a matter of time.” Kalim blinked.

“For what?”

“You know for what. Look, I’m not gonna tell you I’m sorry about what I did to you, because I’m not. School’s starting in a couple days anyways, and you’ll have forgotten all about my overblot-”

“Your overblot?”

Finally, Jamil turned to face him.

“Obviously. Don’t worry, once we’re back at school we’ll go back to normal anyways, I’ll take care of everything.” Jamil rolled his eyes, but Kalim could tell he was hiding something. Kalim clenched his fists.

“No.”

“What?” He raised his eyebrow, looking incredulously at Kalim.

“No, I,” Kalim was overtaken by a resounding urge. Jamil, in all his genius, didn’t even know what Kalim was talking about. He had to make it clear now, no matter the consequences.

“I don’t care about your overblot, Jamil! I mean- I care, I care about you, I care about how you were feeling so bad so quietly that you had no choice but to self destruct- but not in the way that maybe I should. I’m not- I haven’t been angry at you. I’m scared.” Kalim’s eyes welled up with tears, and he steadfastly ignored them.

“It was bad enough to lose you as my closest friend. But the other night I almost lost you for real. All for what, because you have to protect me? Because I’m stupid and naive and all that other stuff you said? Because I’m an Asim?” Kalim’s chest heaved, and he brought his arm up to hide his face and avoid looking at Jamil’s.

Jamil was silent, and Kalim didn’t want to imagine what sort of expression he was making.

“What happened the other night wasn’t your fault. You know how those guys are, they could’ve gone after anyone. It’s all money to them.” Jamil’s voice was slow and steady, and Kalim tried to cling to it.

“It was my fault, though! If people weren’t always coming after me, you would’ve been safe!”

“You can’t help who you were born to, Kalim.” He chuckled humorlessly, “And neither can I.”

Maybe, at some point earlier in his life, Kalim would have accepted that. They were both simply filling their roles, an heir and a servant, both seemingly content with their positions. Kalim would eventually take over the family business with Jamil at his side, and maybe they could live in some sort of amicable facade with a want for nothing. But Kalim, given everything, wanted none of it.

“I would give up my name for you, Jamil. I would give up everything.” He took a step closer, forcing Jamil to look at him.

“I would give you everything.”

For once, Jamil looked at a loss for words. Silver eyes filled with an emotion that Kalim couldn’t quite read, and his lips parted as if he were going to speak. No sound came out, and Kalim looked away.

“I’m sorry.” Kalim spoke unnaturally quietly. “For everything.”

A moment passed, and Kalim began to turn away. Suddenly, Kalim felt himself pulled into a hug. Jamil brought him close, arms wound tightly around his back and waist. Kalim gasped softly, immediately relaxing with Jamil’s touch. He brought his arms around Jamil, and took the chance to listen to his heartbeat. When was the last time Jamil had hugged him, and not the other way around? Had it ever happened? Kalim didn’t know.

“We’re not friends.”

Kalim smiled weakly into Jamil’s chest in spite of himself.

“Ok.”

“I won't baby you anymore- you need to learn how to do things for yourself.”

“That’s fine.”

“But if what you said about us being rivals or equals or whatever is true, then you have a long way to go.”

Oh.

“You have a lot to learn if you want to even get close to catching up. I won’t hold back.” Then, quieter. “Guess I have to stick around to see if you can do it.”

Kalim smiled, and he felt more alive than he had in almost a week.

“I won’t let you down, Jamil.”

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst fic #kalim al asim #jamil viper #jamil x kalim #twisted wonderland fics #guys we need to have more kalim introspection #im so serious right now him and jamil have endless angst potential.#tragic lovers #in themselves and together #but theyre all eachother has #like do you think you get almost murdered for your entire life and have your one safe person betray you and you stay mentally WELL???#angst with a happy ending #twisted wonderland angst

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next-autopsy · 6 months

Text

A/N: Well, hi there! Okay so Joe needs to apologise asap! This is his attempt I guess… idk what’s happening anymore man

Based on the actors portrayal/hbo show and written with no disrespect to the real life veterans. Also all images found on Pinterest.

TW: I don’t think there are any…

Tags: @malarkgirlypop, @panzershrike-pretz

Made of Glass

Chapter nineteen: An Itchy, Army Issued Blanket

Their barracks were dark and quiet when the ladies returned. Charlotte was all but dragged to her bed by Connie and Betty, who then immediately started getting ready to pass out on their own cots.

Lucy and Blythe were inseparable, snuggling together on a bed too small for the two of them, by now all the women had noticed the lovey dovey behaviour between them. No one said anything, no one minded.

Bernadette had spent the entire cab ride sniffling and wiping at her face where stray tears fell. No one had mentioned what had happened with Liebgott, though all of them witnessed it, except Charlotte who was in a world of her own and wouldn’t remember anything from this night.

She changed her clothes and brushed out her hair, too tired to walk to the bathroom and finish her nighttime ritual. Before Birdie could climb under the covers of her awaiting bed, Frankie made eye contact with her. She shook her half empty pack of smokes at the mousy haired girl and flicked her head toward the door, a silent invitation.

Bernadette sighed and joined the Italian woman outside. She might feel better if she spoke about what happened. She hadn’t quite figured out why his words got to her so badly, perhaps talking to Francesca could help. They sat on the wooden steps as they usually did. Rossi lit a cigarette and passed it to her friend, then lit her own.

Francesca wouldn’t push, of course she wanted to know exactly what was said and what tone was used, but she wanted to avoid more tears if possible. Seeing Birdie quietly crying and then trying to pretend everything was okay, upset her more than she cared to admit.

“I don’t know why I cried.” Her words were void of emotion. Frankie only hummed in response, waiting for her to share what was on her mind.

“He’s always been kind of mean. I thought he actually hated me…. But then something changed.” Frankie was more than curious, she thought back to the uncomfortable night she watched from the shadows. Rossi liked people watching, she picked up on hidden feelings or underlying vibes easily. Whatever had or hadn't happened between Birdie and Liebgott perplexed her. And apparently, she wasn’t the only one.

“Joe was really… I-I thought maybe, just maybe we could've been friends.”

“But?” Francesca prompted, eager to hear more of this odd dynamic.

“But, he thinks I'm the worst.” The words cracked as the downcast woman spoke them, her eyes focused on the floor, her shoulders sagged in defeat, even her bottom lip protruded in a pout.

“I’m sure that's not true…” The older woman consoled. Bernadette was sweet and witty and an oddly likeable person. Francesca had specifically tried not to make friends with anyone but Birdie managed to wiggle her way into her heart and now she couldn’t imagine not being friends with the little firecracker.

“No, it is. The words he used were: Arrogant, conceited bitch.” She didn’t even have one second to feel sorry for herself as Frankie instantly counter argued.

“Ha. You are the least arrogant, conceited person I've ever met. And you're definitely not a bitch.”

“Not according to him.” Now she was sulking, pouting and feeling sorry for herself. The attitude change was phenomenal. From Francesca’s perspective, Birdie had always been confident. Not overly but enough to tough it out with her self righteous Captain.

“Why do you care what he thinks of you?” Maybe Rossi would have to give the poor girl some hints, she obviously hasn't picked up on her own feelings for the man who bullied her. It would explain her need for his approval and why his comments affected her the way they did.

“I-” She couldn’t answer, she didn’t know how. Why did she care so much about what Joseph Liebgott thought of her? “Because, I- I don’t know.”

“I think I do.” She would have to tell the southern girl, it was her duty as best friend. She couldn’t let her go on like this, it was down right embarrassing.

“Enlighten me.”

“You like him.” The George company woman spoke plainly, no point sugarcoating it.

“What? No, you're way off, he’s so- But he’s- He is a pigheaded jerk. I-I don't like him.” Birdie spluttered, stumbling over her words and giving Frankie an incredulous look.

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself? Either way, I don't think it's working.” She paused to let the words sink in, “Come on, you need some sleep.”

————————

Letting go of Birdie’s arm and watching her walk out the door, surrounded by her girlfriends, caused a pang in Joe’s chest.

He was at fault and he knew it. Joe didn’t mean the harsh words and he shouldn’t have said those things about her, whether she was listening or not. And now, he sat at the bar, gulping down whatever alcohol came his way.

“Liebgott?” No answer, he preferred to mope in peace. But Tipper wouldn’t sit by and watch his friend beat himself up over a girl, especially because he had money on the two getting together before they were deployed.

“She’ll come round.” Ed wasn’t really sure what else he could say to soothe the situation. But he had noticed the girl in question harboured feelings for his brooding friend, and he definitely knew Joe felt some type of way about Birdie.

The issue was getting them to recognise their own fondness of each other and stop messing up. It was like the pair were stuck in blatant denial, not even considering the reason why they were always so drawn to one another, constantly needing to make comments to gain the others attention. To Ed it was transparent, which is why he was so confident about the running bet in Easy company, Joe and Birdie; Will they? Won’t they?

“I think she hates me now.”

“What? She didn’t before?” Tip was trying to lighten the mood, but Joe wasn’t having it. He continued to feel sorry for himself, drinking yet another pale yellow beer.

“No… I don't know- she was, we were... It doesn’t matter now.” The alcohol was affecting him, he couldn’t think straight and his words came out as incoherent mumble.

“You should apologise.”

“You think I don't know that?” Joe’s snark was intact regardless of how much he drank.

“Hey, I’m just saying.” Ed paused, “If you made a meaningful gesture… something only known between you two…” He trailed off, letting Joe put the rest of the thought together in his mind.

“Yeah? Like what? In case you didn’t notice, we don't exactly have the best track record.” Liebgott was mad, not at his friend, just in general or at himself. His patience with Tipper’s chit chat was running thin.

“Well, what do you have?”

—------------------

While weekend passes were more common now than back in Toccoa, they were still highly sought after. Joe had a plan to smooth over the mishap with Bernadette and it meant spending a precious pass at the library reading, instead of getting shitfaced at a bar.

He prayed it would work, that Bernadette would forgive him and let his unkind words fade away. Joe had already decided on a place and time and now he needed to convince one of her friends to bring her to the spot. She probably wouldn’t meet him there if he asked, so he’d have to be sneaky.

Approaching Francesca Rossi was intimidating. She had a reputation of not taking shit from anyone and Joe had hurt seemingly her only friend. Plus, Birdie most likely told the Italian woman about his colossal fuck up, so he doubted she would be on his side.

“What do you want?” Her eyes narrowed at the man walking toward her.

“I was hoping you would help me with something.” Joe knew he had to be straightforward with the George company woman, put his cards on the table and hope for the best.

“Why?” She hadn’t stopped glaring.

“Look, I’ll be honest. I fucked up, with Birdie. I said some things I’d rather not repeat… And I’m just trying to apologise.”

“What do you need?” He hadn’t expected it to be that easy, so he stood still for a moment processing, before he explained his plan to her. It felt dumb to say it out loud, but when Rossi gave him a nod and a half smile, promising to do her part, he thought: maybe he was doing the right thing.

“One thing before you go…” Francesca called out to him as he turned to leave, he stopped and looked at the woman over her shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“You hurt her again…. I will kill you.” There was no hint of a joke in her tone, no curve of her lips. She meant it and she wanted him to know she would follow through. Birdie meant alot to her, she didn’t have many women friends so she would hold onto the southerner for the rest of her life, kill for her, die for her if necessary.

“I know you will.”

“Good.”

—----------------

The night came. Joe was nervous. He told himself it was due to all the facts he had to memorise and his anxiety was about messing up in front of an expert.

Something in the back of his head said her name and the idea of his nerves coming from his need to impress this specific woman ran through his brain. Maybe it was a little bit about Bernadette, but he couldn’t dwell on it too much. He had places to be and apologies to set up.

—--------------------

Francesca was good at keeping secrets and hiding things. So when the time came, Birdie suspected nothing. Frankie told her friend she needed her help with something and led her outside and into the dark with no explanation. Birdie didn’t question it, Francesca wouldn’t steer her wrong, she trusted the woman with everything she had.

After a few minutes of walking, the two women came upon a clearing with an olive green, Army issued blanket laid down upon the grass. A gas lantern lit up the immediate area.

Just as Bernadette began to wonder what was going on, Liebgott came into view, stepping into the light that shone from the source on the floor. Birdie’s jaw hung, she looked between the man and her friend who had brought her here, feeling somewhat betrayed.

“Frankie? What the hell?” Were the words she finally managed to get out.

“You got two options, Birdie. Stay here and hear him out… or we walk away. I’ll punch him in the throat too, if you want.” All three of them considered the words carefully.

“Fair.” Joe shrugged, knowing he deserved it.

Francesca eyed the younger woman as she pondered her options. She knew the outcome, it was plain to see which one Birdie would go for, the look on her face said it all.

She was curious, Joe intrigued her beyond words and even though he had said some things that hurt Birdie, she still craved his attention, to be around him, to listen to whatever he was about to say.

Bernadette didn’t have to say it, she just gave Frankie a look and the black hair woman was on her way, not before shooting Liebgott a stern glare.

“I didn’t mean it.” Joe broke the silence that was growing between the two.

“But you still said it.” She couldn’t let him get away that easy.

“I know… I shouldn’t’ve. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you.” Birdie had already decided she’d forgive him but she wanted to drag it out, see him sweat. She knew first hand how scary Frankie could be, the fact that he had talked her into this project of his was apology enough in her books.

“I am so sorry, Birdie.” His words were genuine, he truly was sorry. He would have said it a hundred more times if she wanted him too. His pride aside, he wanted her to know it. Talking about her like that was not something that would be repeated. Hurting her had hurt him, maybe Tipper was right, maybe his feelings for her ran deeper than he thought.

He wanted to be her friend of course, she was always so smiley and happy, it was easy to get along with her. Joe enjoyed his time around her, even before, when all the words they said to each other were dipped in sarcasm. He actually enjoyed the witty comebacks she came up with, he liked that she wouldn’t let anyone walk over her. She always had something to say and he found himself wanting to listen more and more as time went on.

“What’s that for?” Birdie nodded her head to the blanket, trying to steer away from acknowledging the apology.

“Huh? Oh..” Lieb looked behind him, “Come here, sit. I want to show you something.” He sat and patted the empty space next to him. Birdie followed instruction and lowered herself onto the itchy blanket.

Joe leaned back, propping himself up with one arm and pointing skyward with the other. Birdie copied his stance, turning her chin up and watching where he pointed to.

“See that? That’s the Little Dipper-“ Birdie’s attention was pulled from the stars above them and to the guy casually dropping constellation names.

“Wait… it actually is… how did you know that?” She imagined Joe, head in a book, studying star clusters so he would have something to talk to her about and it made her stomach flip. Had he really done something like that for her? She was vaguely aware that he didn’t care for studying or reading novels, so if he had done that it was solely for her benefit.

Lieb let his arm drop, turning his head to face her. The eye contact made Birdie want to twirl a strand of hair with her fingers and giggle like a schoolgirl- Damn, maybe Francesca had been right about her liking Joseph Liebgott.

“Magic.” His face was stoic and serious as he whispered the word to her, like it was a secret. Then, his infamous smirk broke onto his face and Bernadette couldn’t help but grin back at him, the butterflies in her tummy were going crazy, but she tried to play it cool.

“Ah okay. I see: This is your apology? Impressing me with your new found knowledge of the stars?” Said with feigned disinterest. Joe hadn’t stopped watching her, her mannerisms were endearing. Yes, he definitely wanted to be friends with this girl.

“It depends.” He broke eye contact, attempting to give his heart a moment to catch up.

“On what?” The country woman had completely forgotten about the twinkly lights above them, something else was far more interesting at this moment.

“Is it impressing you?”

It most definitely was. Joe pointed out several well known constellations and even gave a couple backstories. Birdie already knew everything he was telling her but she humoured him and listened with interest at the tales he told her.

At one point the two lay down for a better view of the starry black sky. Their arms brushed up against one another and neither attempted to move away. They ignored the shared touch, pretending it wasn’t happening but the pair could feel exactly where their bodies met and they revealed in the warmth.

A/N: does his apology suffice? I think stargazing is going to be a Birdie/Lieb thing from now on.

I love hearing from you guys, so please feel free to comment or dm me!

~ next-autopsy ~

Chapter twenty

#band of brothers #easy company #hbo war #joe liebgott #made of glass #band of brothers fanfic #fem oc #oc #next autopsy #made of glass chapter nineteen #ed tipper

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madwomansapologist · 1 year

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Hiiii I was wondering if I can get a Klaus x gf reader where Bonnie wipes her memory of klaus as a way maybe to get revenge on him but they didn’t know all that Klaus did for her so all she can really do is sit in the boarding house till something happens. So bc klaus is klaus he finds witches of his own (maybe Davina because reader was/ is her best friend and when she heard about what they had done to her she helps gets revenge) and Davina either makes Bonnie or does it herself to give her memories back but also due to the stress of having everything pushed back into her head she’s in some kind of coma and klaus had to go into her head and help her piece them back together if any of this makes sense id appreciate this

Have we met before? | Klaus Mikaelson

synopsis: Bonnie had enough. Everything she wanted was to live her life at peace. She wasn't looking for problems, but they all seen to find her. And don't matter how much she tries, he always end up hurting her. Bonnie could be sad for you, but Klaus Mikaelson had it coming. [1K]

warnings: angst with happy ending. vampire stuff. damsel in distress. no one dies.

ps: thanks for your request my love! God, that reminds me of a ep on Harley Quinn and.... you may say I took a little bit of inspiration. Anyway, I hope you like it!

Bonnie never mean to harm you. Bonnie never mean to use your compassion against you. Bonnie never mean to trap you. Bonnie never mean to hurt you.

But enough is enough.

She knew that you wanted to stop that war. You were truly trying to make Klaus give up on this plan against Elena. He was already a hybrid, so why he wanted an army so bad? What rest to conquer? Bonnie knew you wanted peace, and she used that against you.

Bonnie tried, but she couldn't hurt Klaus Mikaelson in a way that really matters. In a way that would stop him. Elena, Caroline, Alaric, Damon, Stefan, Jeremy, herself: they all lose family, lovers, friends, themselfs. And Klaus didn't lose a damn thing. Bonnie didn't knew how to hurt him that badly, not until she saw the way the hybrid glare at you.

Klaus care about you. He goes for you when he is hurt. He look for you when he need a opinion. He actually listen to what you say. And when you bleed, he get scare. "His heartbeat almost turn me deaf," murmured Damon when you hurt your knees trying to stop Klaus from killing him. That surprised Bonnie. Klaus didn't feel hunger or desire: the hybrid only feel fear.

Bonnie had nothing against you, but you should know better.

Bonnie called you saying that she had found a way to give Klaus what he wanted, but that she needed you help to make him agree. "I will help you," you said soflty. That break her heart later. How you believed her. How you truly did. "What I need to do?"

You got to her house without telling Klaus anything. If a powerfull witch found a way to stop him, you were sure that Klaus wouldn't be happy about you helping her. But what could you do? Sit and let he burn everything around him for more power? You just wanted to go back to New Orleans. And you aren't the only one to think that way, Elijah want the same.

"I am so glad you call me" In front of her, you couldn't imagine what would happen. You didn't notice how, while you drunk all the tea she made for you, Bonnie didn't take a sip of her cup. "What will we do?"

"I found a way to make him understand that nothing on this city really matters", the witch aswered.

You lick your suddenly dry lips. You were looking for the right word, but they all became a mess. It was like none of them matters anymore. It was difficult to open your mouth.

"That is," you hold the cup tighter. You look down, seeing those green leaves, and realize that Bonnie didn't told you what she made for you. It was sweet and nice, but it didn't taste like anything you had before. A burning spred through your mouth. "All I could ask for."

"I know," Bonnie smiled. She stand up and walked to your armchair. She kneel in front of you and took the cup from your hands. You tried to grab it, but your arms didn't move. You couldn't move. Bonnie caressed you hand, you saw it, but you didn't feel her touch. "Now is time for you to close your eyes. I promisse it won't hurt that much."

Klaus could understand if you needed to spend a day alone. Klaus could understand if you decided to not join him and Elijah to dinner. Sometimes you need to be alone, and that include not being around your loved ones. Klaus could understand a lot of things, but he respect his instincts.

Something was wrong. Klaus didn't had a way to know that, but he knew. Something is wrong. He could had said to himself that he was being dumb, but that would be lying. You wouldn't simply evaporate. Thats not something you would do. If you wanted space, then you would had said that. Something is wrong.

Klaus made his hybrids go after his lover. All he wanted was to hear the right combination of words. Your mate is fine. Your mate was just enjoying a time with some friends. Your mate lost her phone. Your mate is safe. He waited for the last hybrid with a necessity to cry. Part of him knew that only the last hybrid would be able to say something more than sorry. But Klaus couldn't imagine that he would came with you passed out on his arms.

"I found her passed out around the neighborhood." Probably the hybrid continued talking, but Klaus wasn't able to listen. All he could do was to look at you.

You didn't look like you were sleeping. Your cracked lips, the way your eyes continued moving even closed, how your lips murmur something that he wasnt able of understand. Your pink nails dug wounds against the soft skin of your hand, You didn't look like you were just sleeping.

"My love," Klaus took you from the hybrid and carried your body to your shared bedroom. Tears burned his eyes. "I will take care of you."

Under the blankets, you still not responding to his voice. He caress your hair and kissed your forehead. Klaus knelt down in front of you, with the lights off, and cried. "I will avenge you," said Klaus. "I will burn whoever hurt you."

A knock on the door made Klaus look up. "I called Davina," informed Elijah. He thought about saying this another time, but he knew what his brother needed: a target. "She was found near Bonnie's house."

Klaus kissed you forehead again, then got up and locked the door. Ignoring Elijah, he walked to whatever room was next to him. There, Klaus broke all the furniture. "I should have killed her when I had the chance."

"Maybe, but that does not matter anymore." Elijah hold him close, trying to make his brother's brain work again. "But now we need to help her. Niklaus, don't do anything that could harm her more."

"Where is Davina?"

"Rebekah is bringing her." Elijah walked away. "I know what you want, but don't hurt the witch. Not yet."

"It was a spell," Davina was sit beside your sleep body. "But it wasn't made for she to be paralised. No, something went wrong with it."

"Can you save her or not?" Shouted Klaus.

Davina looked at him. Rebekah didn't even let her chance her clothes, she just entered her home saying that her presence was needed. Her nightgown was covered by a cardigan Elijah gave to her.

"I think so." Davina turned to you. She put her forehead against yours, feeling your cold skin. Davina thought Rebekah was rude about not saying why she was need, but now she understand. If she explained what happened to you, how sick you look, Davina would be still crying. "But I will need help."

"More witches?" asked Rebekah.

"No. I know that the spell went wrong, but I don't know what spell she is on. What I know is that she is awaken somewhere inside her head. I've done that before, and it is easier if someone that share a bond with her help me."

"I will do anything." Klaus got closer to Davina. "Just tell me, and I do it."

Davina got up. She walked around the room, trying to calm herself down. "I need you to wake her up."

"We all tried," Rebekah breath out. "It didn't worked, as you can see."

"You will need to find her", Davina ignored Rebekah. She guided Klaus to the other side of the bed. "And you need to do it quickly. Do you understand me?"

Klaus lay down beside his lover. "Do what you need to do."

"Help my girl," Davina licked her lips. "Ille ad eam. Inveniet eam intus. Eam ad ille." Klaus convulsed, it was like lightning had hit him. Unable to do anything to find himself, Klaus held the hand of the woman he loved. "Ille ad eam. Inveniet eam intus. Eam ad ille."

And as soon as it started, it ended.

"It's done." Ravina turned to those other Mikalesons. "Now its on him."

A white room. Nothing more than a white room. Klaus stood up. It was so bright. As he walked, he realized he couldn't actually see any wall. He keep walking, and walking, and walking. Until the saw the oak door.

It burned when he touched it, but he was able to get to the other side.

Now, all he could see was the green of the garden. He didn't knew this place, but he could felt the love. It was innocent. It was warm. It was safe. If smell like childhood. And she was sit there, with a butterfly walking on her finger. She was awake, and smiling, and not hurt. She was... safe.

"Have we met before?" You asked, still looking at the butterfly.

"You could say that," Klaus felt a little bit tipsy. What he need to do? Suddenly he couldn't remember. It was so warm. So safe. "Do you like here?"

"You could say that," a smirk appeared on your face. "You don't belong here, do you?"

Klaus breath in. "I don't think so but I... I can't remember why I am here. Do you know why I am here?"

The butterfly decided that it had enough of you and fly away. You looked at him. "I don't even know why I am here. I just know that I have to forget something, but maybe I already forgot it."

Klaus sit beside the woman, admiring the garden. "So why don't you just go away? Keep walking and maybe you can find something."

"Maybe. But I am affraid of what I could find. So affraid I can't even walk." Klaus reached out to her, his stronge hands waiting for her touch. "I do it with you."

"Are you sure? You are not affraid of what we could find out there?" You asked. "It could be anything."

"I hope so." Klaus smiled. "I hope we could find anything. Maybe we can even find everything. Isn't fun?"

And when you touch his hand, everything just...

"They woke up!" screamed Elijah.

"Who wouldn't with you screaming like that?"" You yawned. When you felt Klaus's height on you, your smile was natural. You hugged him back. "Happy to see me, darling?"

"Do you remember what happened?" Davina asked. Your smile found a way to be even brighter. "The witch promissed it wouldn't hurt that much. She lied."

"Say what you want me to do", Klaus finally was able to use his words. He didn't let you go. You couldn't wish for something different. "One word from your mouth and she is dead."

You hesitated.

"You can have your fun," you said, finally. "I just want to watch."

"As you wish."

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