#at least id be more inclined to finish it

[chaos-has-theories]

It's here! My TLT Hemospectrum chart. Turns out I'd even finished the description, it just needed light editing.

One day I said to my roommate "Gideon is just so rustblood coded" and then I said "Harrow is definitely a blue blood" and three days later I had this. I'm… sorry? But don't get me wrong, I am deadly serious. THE BUTTS (colors) MATCH

Blank Hemospectrum chart by Rotommowtom, found here. Explanation/Image ID below.

Let's start from the bottom, shall we?

Gideon Nav: candy-red Images: GtN cover; astrological cancer symbol/Sign of the Signless; the scratched out Ninth on Gideon's chapter skull Text: "incongruously red hair" "mutant blood" "the Signless" Additional lines to Rust Class (for her servitude) and Bronze class (for her specific colors)

And, well. She's lesbian Jesus. Just like Karkat and Kankri. Sth sth Gideon's first act being unlocking her cuffs sth the sign of the signless sth Gideon on that fence vs the Sufferer in his Saint Sebastian getup. Quoth also my roommate: "Gideon wearing glasses and her hood is like Karkat greytyping"

Gideon is incredibly Rustblood-coded. Just look at her eyes and hair and the colors on her book.

But it really is no more than coding. Because very clearly, she's actually mutant candy-red! The Signless. She grows up without a Lusus parents and she is treated as a mutant and an outcast by the Ninth House. She's assumed to be at the bottom of the barrel when really she should be all the way at the top.

Rust Class: Second House Text: "A very common class, often used to serve and protect Highbloods, often has jobs tailored to Janitorial work, sometimes has Psychic Abilities" "Second-styled Cohort all scarlet and white" Title: Ranked Captain

The actual Rustbloods. Have you ever looked through the Dramatis Personae of GtN and noticed that the 2nd have seemingly no inherited title* whatsoever? Yeah. And obviously, their house color is red. Plus, compare how Judith only ever thinks she has any kind of cachet around the rest of the houses, even though her one attempt to pull rank fails miserably. ("A cohort captain don't rank higher than a Third official.")

(*Judith does get adressed as "Lady Judith" by Teacher once. Draw your own conclusions, but I think that might be generic towards a house heir with no other titles.)

Bronze Class: Fifth or Seventh? Text: "Are often Gifted with the Ability to Commune with Animals" "brown, long coated suit" (fifth); "'I agree', said her bronze statue of a cavalier" (seventh)

Gold Class: Eighth House Text: "Very often has Psychic Abilities, Often used as External Power Sources" "soul siphoner" "mustard blood" "mayonnaise uncle"; "Nona's eyes were a deep, warm gold" Title: Master Templar

This one I'm the most unclear on. By House colors, it would have to be the Fifth, but I also have reasons to place them higher up in the chart.

Additionally Protesilaus (non-puppeted version ) gets described as "bronzed and vigorous" and a "bronze statue" three times in row. As we've already seen with Gideon, though, I suspect that necros and their cavs can be placed in different Classes. There's 12 of them, after all, and only 9 Houses. I'm inclined to give this one to Pro, and maybe even Dulcie - she and Tavros have at least the wheelchair in common.

This is the one that struck me with lightning and had me go down this rabbit-hole in earnest. "Often used as external power sources". Did you mean: Soul Siphoning?

And: Gold blood gets derogatorily described as "mustard blood" on multiple occasions. Mayonnaise uncle, anyone?

Note that I'd consider placing Silas higher up on his own, but he patently does not have a noble title. Even Teacher just calls him "Master Octakiseron". Still, I've got a tentative line up to Teal for his "justice of the tome".

Olive Class: The Sixth Text: "Rarely having Psychic abilities. The Middle Class."; "nice normal olive" Title: Master Warden

There's an extra line here, linking Alecto's golden eyes to the idea of an external power source. (And Gideon's, of course. There's a theme about only the cavalier characters being Golden.)

Also, while one of the Third House colors is Gold, I have good reason to keep them further up this pyramid. In any case, it's mostly Corona who gets described as the "golden twin" (in GtN). See also this on the question of whether Corona has been used as Ianthe's power source since birth.

Jade Class: Fifth House? Text: "Oddly a very rare class. Tends to the Mother Grub and assists young grubs" "A strong relationship with both Tettares and Chatur" Title: Lady (and Seneschal) of Koniortos Court

This one was a bit more difficult, but Camilla is described as having "olive skin" twice (those being the only uses of the word in all three books). Also, just vibes-based, I asked around, and this was the result.

More importantly, maybe: "the middle class". You will find that noone below this line has a noble title, while everyone above does. Yes, everyone.

Slightly unclear here, except that Magnus and Abigail have the strongest parent vibes I've ever seen. Their whole house uses those parent vibes as political weapons, okay. Lipsticks, chainsaws, and how the fifth "skinned itself over with such airs of civilization…but they were spirit talkers, and speakers to the dead. And the dead were savage." Relatedly: "Abigail Pent blazed like a flare from a blue and Alien sun…. Abigail was soaking wet, wreathed in hot mistlike shimmers by spirit magic… A reek hit Harrow like a faceful of snow: water, brine, blood." Compare that to Kanaya's shiny rainbow drinker form.

I am also having thoughts about Nona being called a "green thing". Sth sth mother grub, and the ability to repopulate humanity.

Teal Class: Seventh House Text: "Often Legislacerators, and often deals with judicial issues"; "Her dress was a (concoction) of seafoam" Title: Duchess (and Knight) of Rhodes

See also sth sth representation of disabilty as seen in both Dulcie and Terezi, and potentially even how Cytherea causes Gideon's death, while Dulcie tells Harrow that she might still be saved. Compare to Terezi killing and then saving Vriska to save everyone… le shrug, as the kids say.

Colorwise perfectly correct, and a Duchess definitely belongs into the Bluebloods.

I don't know what to think about the "Judicial Issues" - hence the uncertain line connecting to Silas and the "judgement of the tome" - but admittedly Cytherea is at Canaan House to mete out her version of justice.

Cerulean Class: Ninth House Images: HtN cover Text: "Sometimes has the Ability to Mind control others"; "'You can control my body,' she said. 'You can read my thoughts.' 'No. Not remotely.'

Somewhat unclear. But the line about whether or not Harrow can control Gideon was always… hm. Is "borrowing perceptions" really so much different from mind reading? Besides, mind controlling Gideon is like Harrow's #1 activity starting in chapter one, even if she does it through considerable planning. And of course once we get into the permeability of the soul, looking at "your most intimate memories" is the least of your troubles.

Anyway, Harrow is just so blue-coded. It's her cover, her vibes, and listen: Teacher and Aiglamene call her "Your Grace". It's the correct style for a Bishop or Archbishop, but it's also solidly intriguing considering it's also used for Duchesses and Kings (real life) and Lyctors (NtN).

Indigo Class: Fourth House Text: "Often possesses high levels of Physical Strength and Nobility"; "blue hood". Title: Baron (and Knight) of Tisis

The Dreadful Teens wear blue. Strength, Nobility, Fidelity, and the Emperor.

Purple Class: Third House Text: "Highest Landdwelling Caste, keeps lowerbloods in check"; "Ianthe's pallid purple irises" Title: Princess of Ida

Violet Class: Third House Text: "Royal bloods that ensure the safety of the empress"; "deep, liquid violet"; "I won't tell her. You can't do this, doll, not now."; "1950s-style human greaser" Title: (Crown) Princess and Prince of Ida

Things get properly interesting here. Because yeah, blah blah, highest titles of the nobility, "royal bloods" and princesses; and Naberius' connection to pre-scratch Cronus Ampora.

But while Coronabeth's eyes consistently get described as "violet", Ianthe's are only ever "purple". Or occasionally "dying violets". "Violets on dialysis." Definitely not true violet, no matter how much Ianthe tries. Also, Ianthe "Gatekeep" Tridentarius loves to keep lowbloods in check. It's like her favorite thing.

To get our purples mixed up even more, it's the Fuchsias that traditionally fight with tridents in Homestuck. Tridents, Tridentarius, Trident Knife. Though of course -

Fuchsia Class: First House Text: "The Ruling Empress, has the power to enforce and influence all castes"; "Necromancer Divine, King of the Nine Renewals, our Resurrector, the Necrolord Prime" Title: The Emperor

Do I really need to explain that? He's the Emperor. Of course he's at the top of the pyramid. His "Stop" spell thingy is just the cherry on top. What else could there be to say?

…I'm SO glad you asked. Cherub time!

Alecto: Lime Green Images: green cherub spiral Text: "The dominant personality will then completely consume the other, integr8ting it in such a way that only one is left."; "Muse of Space"

John Gaius: Candy Red Text: "I mastered Death, Harrowhark; I wish I'd done the smarter thing and mastered Time."; "Lord of Time"

Aaaand that's it! Thank you most kindly for reading all this, and if you have any questions, ideas, or frustrated noises to make, come scream at me please :D

I've talked about this before, but John and Alecto are absolutely a Lord of Time/Muse of Space duo. Active vs Passive, life vs death, and the process of a cherub maturing is eerily like Lyctorhood.

There's been plenty of theorizing on whether John actually does control time. Personally I don't think so, but it's certainly suggestive! And if John's the metaphorical mutant red, it's exactly what passed on to Gideon ("lipochrome. recessive") while the lime green neatly ties Alecto back to her "green and breathing thing".

#the locked tomb #homestuck #chaos has theories #my favorite tag! returned from the war! #personal thanks to jods-duplicitous-sluts and my-mountain-hyacinth for indeed kicking me until I post this. thank you for your service #tlt meta #best beloved

[mania-sama]

rule #27 - drunk on pride

Rule #27 - Drunk on Pride - Fish in a Birdcage

Bungou Stray Dogs Pairings - Akutagawa Ryuunosuke/Nakajima Atsushi Tags - gunshot wounds, drinking, mild hurt/comfort, no ability users au, mild gore, medical inaccuracies, light angst, stitches, no armed detective agency au Summary - Akutagawa and Atsushi have been on the run from the Port Mafia for a year and a half. In an altercation with the Mafia during their stay in a faraway country, Atsushi takes a gunshot to the leg. Akutagawa has to pull out the bullet before lead poisoning can set in. Unfortunately, the only anesthetic Atsushi has is two bottles of vodka and the fear of pain. Word Count - 2,529 Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own Whumptober 2023 - Day 14: No Anesthesia See my full Whumptober 2023 Challenge on Tumblr or Ao3

Two bottles of vodka rest in the small area around Atsushi’s hotel bed. One gradually empties down Atsushi’s throat, and the other remains if, for some ungodly reason, the forty percent alcohol content isn’t enough to get him blackout drunk. He already wants to throw up — liquor has never settled particularly well in his stomach. He continues to guzzle vodka anyway because the pulsing pain in his leg is worse than the hangover he will undoubtedly have.

Several bottles of water are waiting for him in the refrigerator, but he doesn’t think he’ll need or want them. Akutagawa patiently waits in the other bed for the alcohol to settle in Atsushi’s system. His handgun waits an inch from his hands, the safety turned off and loaded with fresh bullets. Dirt, blood, and grime have already stained the white sheets' top layer of both their beds, more so Atsushi’s than Akutagawa's. Atsushi doesn’t have the privilege of showering just yet.

“This tastes horrible. You know I hate vodka,” Atsushi groans, setting the little-over-halfway-finished bottle by his waist. He shakily wipes away the liquid remnants from his lips.

“It’s the highest alcohol content they have here,” Akutagawa says nonchalantly, but the stiff set of his jaw and tensed shoulders betray his concern. “If you hate it so much, try not to get shot next time.”

It nearly takes more restraint than he has to not launch the other full bottle directly at Akutagawa’s head. The only reason he doesn’t is because he knows they need to be careful about how much money they are spending. They still had large amounts of several different currencies saved, but money can be burned just as easily as it can be stolen. A freak accident could force them to have to foot the uninsured expenses of a real hospital visit, or they could be cornered and need to hop several countries at once. Fake IDs, weapons, bribes, and plane tickets don’t come cheap.

In any case, the vodka is a luxury item. He can’t bring himself to throw it away so easily. 

“I hope it's you next time,” Atsushi settles for. Unfortunately, his words contain none of the bite he intended.

“There better not be a next time,” Akutagawa replies with a thin layer of firmness that only comes from anxiety. He lays an idle finger on the handle of his gun.

His voice is sobering enough for Atsushi to knock back a couple more gulps. It’s heavy and uncomfortable and tastes like cough medicine. A tell-tale buzz settles in his head and his vision crosses uncontrollably. He inclines his chin at Akutagawa. “I’m starting to feel it. We should get started now.”

The pain in his thigh has come to a stagnant throb since he’s been lying on the bed. It’s better than it was before, but that’s not necessarily saying much when before was running on a fresh bullet wound, then further walking on it bandaged and bleeding. They don’t have any painkillers on them unfortunately, and Akutagawa doesn’t want to risk leaving the hotel room long enough to pick up a new bottle from the drugstore.

His only relief is vodka of all drinks. Before, he only had a marginal distaste for it. Now it quickly climbs to his least favorite beverage of all time. He won’t ever be able to look at a bottle again without remembering painful nights that only consisted of him, Akutagawa, vodka, and whatever shelter they managed to find.

Akutagawa washes his hands at the sink before pulling out the only supplies they have for an impromptu surgery: a sewing needle, stitches, scissors, and a fresh roll of gauze. A set of clothes waits at the side of his bed for when all is done and he needs to change out of his blood-stained pants and shirt.

After placing all of their equipment on the right side of the bed, Akutagawa straddles Atsushi’s calves. He hesitates when he reaches for the hastily wound bandage. It’s only because Atsushi’s hand is in the way, and it's trembling. It isn’t a slight shake, either — it's like an earthquake has erupted in his bones.

Atsushi knows that his tremors and rapid heartbeat aren’t from the alcohol alone. He’s terrified. Pain scares him unlike any beast known to man. As an orphan who never knew a kind hand, and as a young adult on the run from a deadly mafia organization, one would think he would’ve learned to get over it. Somehow, he hasn’t, and knowing that he’s about to experience the worst pain in his entire life is leaving him in shambles.

“Do you still want more time to get drunk?” Akutagawa asks. His gray eyes narrow with worry. He doesn’t push for an answer when Atsushi doesn’t answer immediately. Akutagawa knows his problem with pain, just as Atsushi knows Akutagawa’s problem with dogs. They know the seriousness in which to take the matter; it comes with the territory of being as unnaturally close as they are.

A year and a half on the run from Yokohama’s Port Mafia does that to a couple.

Slowly, Atsushi shakes his head. “No. Just get it over with,” he grits out, forcing his hand to grip the comforter instead. He takes another swig of vodka and prays he’ll be in a drunken stupor before it's over. 

Akutagawa doesn’t waste a second longer and begins peeling the bandage off of Atsushi’s thigh. His wound throbs from the release of pressure, though it’s no longer bleeding. It’s a good thing, he supposes, that he didn’t lose any more blood than he did. If they had to go register in a hospital so close to where they attacked, they surely would’ve been cornered and killed. He breathes deeply and tries to reconcile his living status with the pain he faces. It doesn’t work all that well, but the key word is try.

Akutagawa discards the soiled bandage to the small, carpeted space between their beds. Blood will undoubtedly seep into it and be a hassle to get out. Atsushi feels a twinge of guilt for the poor roomkeepers who are going to have to clean the mess that they definitely aren’t going to fix themselves. The most they’ll end up doing is trashing the bad bandages and clothes, but the rest will be left to strangers.

His attention returns to his thigh as he feels cold metal against his skin. His boyfriend cuts away the fabric of his pants with their pair singular pair of scissors. Atsushi takes a deep breath as his skin turns into pop rocks and his mouth runs dry of saliva. The worst part of it all is that he can feel phantom pains, imagined from his restless mind in preparation for what will come next.

He takes one small sip of vodka, the bottle now nearly empty. It’s all he can manage since it threatens to come back up his throat in a violent wave of nausea. He wishes he could take in more. The ratchet taste is becoming neutral and faded on his dulling tongue, and he really wants to not feel the next part.

Akutagawa doesn’t give him any more time to imagine the pain, because as soon as he sets the scissors down, his fingers plunge straight into the entry wound. It’s all Atsushi can do to bite back his scream. They chose a hotel for optimal cleanliness and proper sleep, but they sacrificed privacy. If he lets out a loud noise, people will hear and report the disturbance to the front desk. Worse yet, they could come knocking on the door to investigate the noise themselves.

So he doesn’t scream, but he does curse out the names of all vodka brands. None of his senses have dulled enough to counteract this level of pain. Molten lava covers his entire leg in a thick coat of burning fire. Akutagawa’s untrimmed nails cut through his flesh and veins as he roots for the bullet lodged inside, and it feels like he’s getting slashed with a twelve-inch blade.

It’s always as bad as he fears. Worse, even. He chugs the remaining bit of the vodka, and the bottle trembles in his white-knuckled grip on its neck. Akutagawa’s fingers dig deeper into the wound, and it takes all that he has to not thrash or yell. He settles for heavy gasps and low whines that, if heard, are much easier to explain away. His vision blurs with both tears and the effect of an entire bottle’s worth of alcohol.

It holds sixteen shots of vodka, and it takes approximately eight for him to get drunk. He consumed the whole thing in a little less than an hour.

And yet, he can still feel it as Akutagawa accidentally pushes the bullet deeper into his thigh in his attempt to grab it. Vodka isn’t worth shit, he thinks hazily as his back arches against the heavy weight on his legs and his death grip on the comforter. His head hits the headboard with a heavy thunk. 

He does not scream.

But he does cry.

His tears come down in uncontrollable waves as Akutagawa pulls out the bullet in quite possibly the slowest manner he can muster. Somewhere behind the rapidly growing veil of intoxication, Atsushi recognizes the importance of being meticulous and careful. But it's his thigh that's now actively gushing blood all over his pants and sheets , and Akutagawa takes his precious time examining the bullet. It’s covered in thick crimson liquid and bits of flesh that it couldn’t bear to part with.

Underneath the blood is a gold shell that managed to remain intact despite his persistent movement. He couldn’t stay off of his leg for long until they made it to their getaway car, and even then he still had to make it to the hotel room without making it too obvious that he’d been shot. He guesses he got lucky that the bullet didn’t fracture.

Not that it would make his situation much different. Akutagawa would still have to pilfer through his thigh to dig out the shards to prevent lead poisoning, and Atsushi would just have to take it even though pain is his worst enemy.

Such is life when you steal nine hundred million yen from the Port Mafia and run away with one of their higher-ranking members. Atsushi had it coming.

Akutagawa puts the bullet on the nightstand rather than tossing it on the bloody pile of bandages on the floor. The next step — God, there’s more — is the stitches. Atsushi hates getting stitches. Each puncture in his tender flesh always hurts more than the last, and at this point, his wound has gotten significantly larger than it had been before due to the extraction process so the whole ordeal is going to last even longer than usual.

Great. Just great.

Perhaps the vodka is setting in after all.

His boyfriend ties one end of the suture around the bent needle, and he pinches Atsushi’s wound so tight it forces an unsolicited sob from the back of his throat. For the first time since the operation started, Akutagawa spares one glance up at Atsushi’s face. He has a hand over his mouth, biting into it to both redirect his focus on the pain and muffle his cries.

Their gazes meet, and Akutagawa mumbles something Atsushi can’t quite catch over the sound of his own whines. His expression is drawn into remorse, though, so it isn’t hard for his muddled brain to accurately guess what he said.

The feel of sutures going through his pulsing flesh and sensitive skin is unlike anything else, therefor hard to forget and easy to recognize. It’s exactly how one would imagine a snake crawling inside their intestines, or an ant traversing their veins. When the suture is tightened to pull the skin together, it feels then like the animal has clamped their sharp little teeth over wherever they are in the body.

Atsushi loses count of the number of times his skin pulls quickly. He blames it in part on his inebriation and another on not being able to see the stitches themselves all that quickly from his position. Akutagawa’s hair covers most of Atsushi’s line of sight.

The scissors snip off the end of the suture line, leaving the only part left to change out of his pants, clean off the blood and gore on his leg as best as they can, and bind the wound back with gauze. When Akutagawa looks at him, Atsushi can already tell what the question at his lips will be.

“I can’t stand. In too much pain and definitely too drunk,” he says, and it allows an exorbitant amount of salty tears into his mouth. Akutagawa gives him a once-over with a kind of scrutinizing look, but he moves on without complaint.

Getting his pants off is an unnecessarily difficult process that includes a lot more pain than Atsushi would have wanted. Akutagawa wets a handcloth with hot water and scrubs off the gore on his thigh in and around the wound. It’s not bleeding anymore, and of course that’s when Atsushi finally loses feeling in all his limbs and muscles. After the gauze has already been wrapped around his leg — after everything is over.

Akutagawa sits beside Atsushi, stoking his fingers gently through white hair. He detangles the knots he comes across with ease. They’ve done this a hundred times before, where one is more tired or injured from the day's events and the other holds him until he’s able to rest. It’s familiar; warming and sickening at the same time. It means they have each other, but it also means their nightmare isn’t over.

It’ll be over in six months, he reminds himself. Six months until their side of the agreement with ex-Port Mafia executive and successful defector, Dazai Osamu, is completed.

If you can survive two years on the run from the Port Mafia unaided, my friends and I will lend you our protection.

Those were the only conditions. Akutagawa and Atsushi’s contact has been limited to only text messages by Dazai at every important interval. The first text had been when they survived for one month. The next for six, the one after for a year.

Just yesterday, their eighteen-month celebratory text came in. It’s their only lifeline, their only reason to continue this uphill fight against a violent organization that is very good at doing one thing: silencing defectors.

If Dazai could make it as one man, they could certainly make it as two.

Atsushi’s thoughts slow and Akutagawa’s gentle petting becomes a distant memory. His last thoughts are spent wondering if his boyfriend used to do this with his sister and if they comforted each other after dangerous missions that left them tattered and beaten. He wonders which part of him is motivated by escaping the same fate as his dead sister and what is motivated by exacting revenge on those who have hurt his loved ones.

He’ll have to ask later when he isn’t drunk off his mind on decidedly the worst type of liquor in existence.

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd fanfic #bsd atsushi #bsd akutagawa #atsushi nakajima #nakajima atsushi #akutagawa ryuunosuke #ryuunosuke akutagawa #sskk #shin soukoku #bsd sskk #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #ai less whumptober #whumptober fic #whumptober #whumptober2023

[trisockatops]

Being “Older” But a “Younger” Aro

This is my submission for December’s Carnival of Aros, “Getting Older” hosted by roboticanary! As an aside, the Carnival of Aros doesn’t get many submitters or hosters and could use more love, so if you’re aro, please think about joining in!

.

[Edit after I’ve finished: this is a very stream of consciousness piece, so I hope it makes enough sense!]

Though I feel old and weighed down by the world, I’m not really that old. But in the queer community, especially newer communities like the aro or nonbinary community, we tend to label people as “elders” really young. It helps that these communities are seemingly more online than off, where a lot of teenagers and young adults are. And when you discovered such an identity as a teenager and got to grow up with and watch the community evolve for a decade or so, you can easily feel like some sort of elder in the community.

With the aro community, I’m kinda of feeling the opposite. Though I’m 31 and have been involved in the ace community since I was a teenager (back when the aro community was still pretty firmly a subset of the ace community and hadn’t really managed to establish its own, separate community spaces yet - though there was a firm line that aromanticism was a different identity than asexuality), I wasn’t always aro.

I am caedromantic. I used to identify as pan/biromantic until trauma (abuse) ended up cutting my romantic attraction away.

Though even this happened pretty young (began exploring calling myself caedromantic around 21/22), my journey into the aromantic community as an aro rather than an ally was pretty slow. Though aspecs have always been welcoming, there is stigma against being aspec due to outside factors like trauma, and for a long time, this caused me to feel more like an invader than a member of the aromantic community.

For a long time, I felt oddly split down the middle. I preferred to simplify and ID as most others to aromantic rather than specifically caedromantic for ease and privacy. But a part of me couldn’t help feel like I was co-opting the aromantic identity. There are, after all, a lot of common aromantic experiences that I can’t really relate to.

Being asexual certainly meant I never related to my allo peers growing up. And I was both asexual and what one might think of as a “late bloomer” - at least compared to my peers. I knew around 10/11 that I was different from my peers when they started calling celebrities (and sometimes classmates) “hot”, the word dripping with a feeling I couldn’t name or understand but knew was something I could not relate to. For a long time, I thought of myself as having a “nothingness” because I was lacking something everyone around me seemed to have. But I didn’t have to come head to head with being asexual until I was around 16 or so and actually started having romantic crushes (of which, I couldn’t understand wtf I was feeling because I still knew it wasn’t the same as what my peers all felt, until I found AVEN and the word for people like me).

Still, though. Even being on the outskirts of my allo peers, that was an asexual experience. Not an aromantic one. I still eventually developed crushes. I know what romantic attraction feels like. The world of romance, though I’ve never been a strongly romantic person in personality, is not a stranger to me. I know what it’s like, so that sense of confusion and otherness that other aros grew up with isn’t something I can relate to. I always feel like I don’t belong when these conversations come up, even though it’s now been a decade or so since I experienced any romantic attraction, feelings, or inclinations.

Thus I rather waded into the aromantic community as compared to boldly diving into it, as I had with the asexual community.

But, the more time passes, the more my aromanticism settles on me, and the more I want to be a part of the community and show my pride. So, over time, I’ve gotten more involved. I ran (maybe will pick up again?) an aro/ace ask blog. I started following aro bloggers and creators. I spent time on Arocalypse. I volunteer for both AUREA and the Carnival of Aros now.

Which is how I’ve ended up being an “older” aro but a community “young’un”.

I started writing this post with my relationship to the aro community in mind, but now that I’m wrapping this up, I realize it’s also about my aro identity as a whole, and how I’ve accepted it more and more as I age. It’s easier to be a part of community when you can accept that you have a place there, and that claiming space, you are adding to the community - not detracting or stealing from it.

Thank you to all the aros who helped me along this journey, even just by staunchly being yourselves (or struggling to be yourself but being honest and vulnerable about it and showing me that I’m not alone). I hope that as I continue to age and grow, I can provide this sort of example and support to aros of any age coming to realize they are aro and/or trying to come to terms with being aro.

#aromantic #aromanticism #aro #carnival of aros #personal #writing #fine to reblog

[awesomehymieschniklefritzme]

THE FIRST DATE

We stop off first at Jack In The Box, for some tacos before the movie. It makes me feel proud to pay for it. I ask her about the pictures on the wall. She tells me the guy in the Navy uniform was her father, he left them when she was like four or five years old, and she doesn’t remember much about him. She had another sister, an older one, who died of bronchitis when she was nine years old, that her mother worked two jobs, cleaning toilets by day, and offices at night. Her great grandmother was 102 years old, and had outlived two husbands. And she was thirteen when she was, Miss Teen Puerto Rico, in San Juan, but nothing ever happened with it after that.  

I ask her why she doesn’t enter beauty pageants anymore, that she could definitely be Miss America. She smirks and says she doesn’t have time for that anymore, she’s got to make that money. And besides, only White girls ever get to be Miss America. By the time we finish eating, I feel more comfortable with her than I ever have before. I still don’t know what movie we’re going to see, though.

We get to the Liberty Theater, and there’s a double feature playing - Death Wish and Lipstick. Esperanza says she’s really looking forward to seeing Death Wish, and everybody’s been talking about it. Besides, she says she thinks Charles Bronson is so sexy. I go to get the tickets, while Esperanza stands off a little to the side.

“Can I see your ID?” asks the skeletal old black lady, at the ticket booth.

“Whadaya mean - ID?  Why do I need -”

“These movies are rated R, you got to be at least seventeen to get in here, unless you’re accompanied by a guardian.”

“Accompanied by a guardian?!  This is ridiculous. (I lower my voice) Of course I’m seventeen, I’m a senior at Roselle High.”

Well, I still got to see some ID.”

Panic starts to set in. I pull myself closer to her face, and lower my voice to a whisper.

“Please lady, gimme a break here; I’m on my first date with this girl - I -”

“I’m sorry, but it’s my job.”

“What’s the problem, honey?” Esperanza interrupts.

I - I forgot my ID,” I cut in, before the lady has a chance to say anything.

A slight scowl crosses Esperanza’s face. I immediately feel my johnson retract deep inside my tighty-whiteys.

We do get in, and I get the popcorn, trying to revive some vestige of my compromised manhood. But the embarrassment I just suffered there, feels like a mortal wound. As we sit at our seats during the coming attractions, I can’t even make myself look at her. She peeks at me with a sympathetic smile.  

“Don’t worry about it, papi.”

My johnson expands just a little bit, a tiny portion of relief spreading over me. About five or ten minutes into the movie, there’s this pretty brutal scene where these junkies break into Bronson’s NYC apartment, rape his daughter, and kill his wife. I look at Esperanza, who’s motionless - and emotionless - then mumbles something in Spanish under her breath.

Suddenly, a wave of intense fear, then nausea, breaks over me. Scenes of the rape I witnessed last year, of Butch Finnegan in the high school bathroom, race vengefully and unexpectedly through my psyche. Fuck! I can’t believe this! I’ve buried those thoughts way out of my consciousness for the past year, and now, suddenly, I’m replaying them?! Or rather, they’re being replayed for me. Against my will, with all the same stomach-numbing feelings and reactions accompanying them. I’m silently battling with myself to remain conscious; holding down what I’m sure is going to be a torrent of vomit.

I just want to reach out and put my arm around Esperanza, I want – need - somebody to hold me, but I can’t do it. Every time I just about build up the courage, the inclination to make the move, Bronson shoots another thug! Esperanza would be lurching forward, nearly spilling the popcorn to the floor, shouting:

“Yeah, get him! Get that motherfucker, papi!”

The second movie, Lipstick, is starring this supermodel, Margaux Hemingway, in her first featured role as - what else? A model that gets raped by her little sister’s music teacher. And then as the movie ends, she winds up blowing away the guy’s guts all over the parking lot with a shotgun! Just as he now attempts to rape the little sister.  The lights go up and everybody in the theater cheers victoriously. After four hours of rape and revenge, though, I feel drained and emotionally spent.  Usually, violence doesn’t really affect me…why am I reacting this way?  What am I - a punk? A pussy?  A twinge of shame shadows over me as we walk silently to her car, and now driving quietly too. With only occasional peeks at each other, and quick (nervous on my part) smiles to break the spell. The gnawing sense that I have failed her in some way hounds me still, making me doubt that there has ever really been any chemistry at all. We cross over into Roselle, down First Avenue, heading to my house. Damn! I didn’t even get to kiss her tonight…and now I’m never going to see her again.

#the edge of whiteness

[mbbsblogsblog]

Why Students Should Pursue MBBS in Nepal

There are various justifications for why you ought to concentrate on MBBS in Nepal. The nation is home to 20 clinical schools that offer quality clinical training while likewise accentuating useful information. MBBS in Nepal is like the one in India, so acing the test or graduating turns out to be a lot simpler.

Nepal is turning out to be in excess of a holiday spot. Today Nepal has various MCI supported establishments that make it simple for Indian students to legitimately rehearse medication. Hence assuming that you're hoping to seek after MBBS in Nepal, this article covers all the fundamental data you really want to begin.

Why Study MBBS In Nepal?

Before you can head towards finding out about MBBS affirmation in Nepal, here are the top motivations behind why you ought to consider Nepal for this field explicitly:

•           MCI Supported Clinical Universities

Nepal is home to different MCI endorsed universities, like Kathmandu Clinical School. Moving on from MCI supported universities permits Indian students to rehearse medication in the country without problems.

•           No-Visa Strategy

One more motivation to concentrate on MBBS in Nepal is that Indian students require no visa to enter the country. Students concentrating on here require a substantial ID whenever enquired; if not, you can travel anyplace in Nepal without a visa.

•           Legitimate Degree

The physician certification procured from the top MBBS colleges in Nepal is legitimate and generally perceived. Indian students hoping to concentrate on in the top clinical establishments however with a restricted spending plan, Nepal keeps on being the favored decision.

•           English Language of Guidance

Indian students can concentrate on MBBS in Nepal in English language. Most MBBS courses in Nepal offer two sorts of language of guidance, English and Nepali.

Nepal is home to various top MBBS colleges. These colleges are well known and have been a high inclination among numerous students. To assist you with picking the best, we have recorded the main 5 MBBS colleges in Nepal:

•           Lumbini Clinical School

•           Nobel Clinical School

•           Nepalgunj Clinical School

•           Manipal School of Clinical Sciences, Nepal

•           Kathmandu College, School of Clinical Sciences

Qualification Standards for MBBS In Nepal

There is a rundown of qualification for MBBS in Nepal. These qualification criterias vary in light of one college to another. In any case, a standard cycle is trailed by all:

•           A Four year college education

Students who have gained a Four year college education in Science with a base score of half in Physical science, Science and Science are qualified to seek after MBBS in Nepal.

•           Requirements Course

Aside from the abovementioned, students who have finished essential tasks in the fundamental subjects like Science, Physical science, Science, and English with the base scores are qualified to seek after MBBS in Nepal.

•           Secondary School

Aside from the two recorded above, students who have passed 10+ 2 and scored at least half in Physical science, Science and Science are qualified to concentrate on MBBS in Nepal.

•           Entrance Test

Students should qualify in the entry test recorded, like MET (Medical Entry Test) or get half percentile on NEET scores. For Other Information visit https://www.riaoverseas.com/mbbs-in-nepal/

#Mbbs in nepal #mbbs abroad #mbbs nepal

[skyeisproductive]

I own the Silmarillion and much to my *deep* shame have never actually cracked it open, but you're really making me want to pull it down off the shelf and have a look. It's terrible. My TBR stack is so big already.

Oh no I'm sorry! Admittedly, I haven't finished it.. I have every intention to! I have a problem with sitting down to read books, it's hard. I can spend the whole day reading fanfiction no problem, but a book? No.

But I love what the silm fandom creates! That's kinda the main reason I was interested in it. I got into a Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit kick early last year and found out about the other books that Tolkien wrote. Then, like any other thing I'm interested in, I looked into it on tumblr and fell in love with the fanart!

Maybe we can start a silm reading club, read it together?

#at least id be more inclined to finish it #silmarillion #tolkien

[mossy-rainfrog]

[Image ID: A digital drawing of Martin and Jon in season 1 of the Magnus Archives. Martin is seen out in the archives hallway, through the doorway to Jon’s office. Martin a fat Black man with short coily hair, round glasses, and snake bite lip piercings. He wears a blue sweater over a white collared shirt, and carries a brown satchel with him. Martin is looking over his shoulder with interest as he walks into work, and in a smaller panel to the side, we see Jon watching him with wide eyes. Jon is a thin Persian person with long greying hair tied back in a low bun, and rectangular glasses. He wears a red button down underneath a brown jacket, and is seated at the desk in his office. He stares out at Martin, looking flustered. There are small lines by Martin’s mouth indicating the piercings, and there are exclamation marks by Jon’s head indicating his reaction. End ID.]

I found an old fic in my notes about Martin dressing alt/punk outside of work and accidentally leaving on a small indicator of his usual fashion when he comes into the archives and I just. had to bring it back. Also, because I am still fond of it, please enjoy the aforementioned fic🥰:

Jon is having a difficult morning, to say the least. He had believed that coming into work an entire hour early would provide him with ample time to get a head start on today’s organizing, but that has decidedly not been case. He’s already had to take the statements of two utterly ridiculous liars who could barely keep the grins off of their faces as they recounted their ludicrous tale, and then listen to Elias subsequently dress down his so-called ‘attitude towards patrons’ for nearly half an hour, and suffice it to say, he would really like to get started on something that is actually worth his time.

He dislikes settling down with the more... difficult statements before all of his colleagues arrive, an attempt to keep them from interrupting his recordings to greet him, so once he’s finished his other menial tasks, he finds himself simply sitting and waiting for the ensemble of his assistants to arrive.

Tim and Sasha are the first - entering together as usual after having stopped for coffee on the way in - but Martin is slow to follow, taking nearly another fifteen minutes to arrive. It’s nearly ten past seven at that point, and once Jon hears Martin’s steps coming towards his office, he has half a mind to give the man yet another lecture on punctuality and work ethic. He gets as far enough as bracing his hands on the table to stand up, and then Martin appears in the doorway to his office, and he realizes something strikingly different about his appearance.

That is to say, Jon’s whole world narrows down very suddenly to the little black studs decorating the space underneath his bottom lip.

He’s staring, he knows he is, but Martin is busy looking down the hall for the moment, so Jon doesn’t force himself to tear his eyes away just yet. How long has he had his lip pierced, Jon wonders? Has it been there the whole time he’s known him? Has he only recently gotten it done? How? Why?

It’s hard to imagine Martin - soft, unassuming Martin who is far too large for the amount of space he crams himself into, always slouching, always pulling himself inwards as if he can make himself disappear - dressing in any way other than soft sweaters and slacks, but if Jon’s honest, he’s never actually seen the man outside of work. He has no idea how Martin chooses to dress himself when out from under the Institute’s rigid dress code, and this tiny window he’s been provided with is making him maddeningly curious.

He’s not... he doesn’t have feelings for Martin, aside from a general annoyance, occasionally marked with curiosity. He’s a professional, for God’s sake, not to mention that Martin’s very existence as a given is like a grain of sand in his eye, rubbing and irritating. Now he cuts clean through without even noticing. Jon itches to know more.

“Jon?” Martin’s voice tears him from his thoughts. “Is something wrong?”

Oh, shit. Jon can feel his gaze heat up as if he’s done something horribly wrong - how embarrassing that he can’t even keep a blush off of his face - but he still forces himself to open his mouth and stutter out an excuse. He means to remark on one of Martin’s missing reports, or the fact that he’s coming in nine minutes late, but what ends up leaving his mouth is; “Your lip is pierced.”

Just a sentence, not a question. He thinks he’s positively beet red. Martin freezes, the tips of his ears darkening visibly against his brown skin as his hand shoots to his mouth and his eyes widen.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I must have forgotten to take them out,” the poor man looks like he’s about to panic as he whips his gaze around as if to see if anyone else has noticed. “Don’t tell Elias, please, I’ve seen how he gets after Tim for the dress code, and there is no way, I mean no way—”

“Oh, n-no, it’s- I- it’s fine, really,” Jon raises his hands in defense as Martin rambles, for some reason inclined to reassure the man. “I won’t- I’m not- I’m not going to tell him.”

Martin hesitates, wringing his hands, apologies visible on every pore of his face. “I- Thank you. I’ll- I’ll go take it off. Christ, that’s embarrassing.”

“Only if you want,” Jon shrugs, which is definitely not the correct thing for him to say as a boss, and it definitely comes out a little gentler than he intends it to, and Jon is three seconds from screaming if he can’t figure out how to make himself react normally to this. It’s a non-traditional piercing in an academic institute of research; it’s against the rules, however dated they may be, and further than that, there is no reason for it to completely undo his composure the way that it has. He tries to get a hold of himself. “I-I mean, that’s likely for the best.”

Martin is giving him a funny look - probably a response to seeing the whole spectrum of human emotions flash across Jon’s face in a millisecond - but he still nods and says: “Sorry again. Thank you,” and then disappears down the corridor.

Jon immediately buries his face in his hands and sighs.

What is wrong with him? For God’s sake, he’s just seen Martin with a lip piercing, it’s not like he’s witnessed the man undressed. Besides, he works in an archive where he has to read statements about the intricacies of monsters that rip off people’s skin and suchlike every day, he should know how to keep his composure better than this. He should just move on with his day and focus without a problem, just like he does every morning.

Except, his mind keeps wandering back to it; the way the little studs had followed the shape of his mouth, the way they had quirked up when he flashed one of his nervous smiles, the way Jon is still desperately curious about what brought him to get them done, and also what it might feel like to brush a thumb, or perhaps even his lips over them.

Jon sits up so fast his head actually smacks against an open filing cabinet behind him. His mind is too busy reeling to notice the ache that fills his head, and he stares straight ahead with wide eyes and utterly scorching cheeks. Absolutely not. He absolutely did not just think about kissing Martin Blackwood. that was- that would be...

He blinks hard, clears his throat. It doesn’t matter what that was. He’s decidedly not interested in Martin Blackwood romantically, or in any other capacity given his truly ridiculous academic competence and his obnoxious habit of interrupting seemingly every stable thing Jon has in his life. He crushes the feeling down hard, locks it up in a box, stuffs it down under his lowest two ribs, and resolves himself never to open it again.

He is not going to keep thinking about this all day. He has work to do, and if something as simple as a pair of metal studs can distract him this badly, then he needs to make absolutely certain it doesn’t happen again.

He tells himself he’s not disappointed when he sees Martin without the piercings later that day.

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #tma s1 #tma season one #martin with piercings my beloved #tma fic #tma fan art #mossy art #man i wrote this concept back in december but ohg i'm still so fond of it #alt/punk martin my angel my sweetheart my light and love #if you read this fic MWAH i love you

[qlala]

Is it cheating to submit a fic request for the pride post you just made? I neeeed the whole thing (I'm on my laptop, but insert the big gay eyes emoji)

fjskdgjslg "big gay eyes emoji" you know what? just for you. just for you i have written this. i'll clean it up and upload to ao3 later but for now: have 2.7k of len dragging a sunburnt, tipsy, and glitter-covered barry back to his apartment, and happy pride!

Len wasn’t the type to begrudge anyone a good time, especially when the good time involved loud music, leather harnesses, and throwing water bottles at cops. Central City’s annual pride parade came as close as it got to challenging that attitude; families, fellow queers, and queens descended on the city waving more flags than the United Nations after a hurricane, all decked out in color combinations that Len hadn’t been able to keep straight since the ‘80s. 

The end result was the kind of crowds that could make a grown man feel claustrophobic in the middle of a city block, and that was without the visible haze of alcohol wafting off the whole event. 

But what the parade lacked in personal space, it made up for with one very important commodity: unattended wallets. 

The flock of sunburnt twinks in denim cut-offs made Len’s job almost too easy—a hand on a sweat-slicked lower back, a flash of blue eyes, and most of them wouldn’t have noticed their wallets going missing if Len had dangled their IDs in front of their faces afterwards. (While there were plenty of women dressed in just as little clothing whom Len certainly wouldn’t have minded getting within robbing distance of, he’d found queer women as a group to be less enthusiastic about uninvited touching and more enthusiastic about wallet chains, even when three sheets to the wind off of canned rosé.)   

He’d taught a dozen visiting suburbanites the importance of not keeping valuables in their back pockets by the time he spotted a familiar profile in the crowd. 

His usual red getup wasn’t much more modest than some of the outfits Len had already seen, but even knowing the shape of that body didn’t prepare Len for seeing Barry Allen stripped to the waist, bright-eyed and flushed and shimmering all over with a fine dusting of glitter. Len noted, on auto-pilot, that it didn’t seem like he’d put any of the glitter there himself; he was standing dangerously close to a drag queen throwing handfuls of the stuff on anyone who got within arm’s reach of her. It set the sun refracting off every dip and plane of muscle across Barry’s chest and stomach. Barry’s hair, already wild and dark at the roots with sweat, was full of it.   

Len’s feet were carrying him closer before he gave himself permission to move. Barry managed to drag Len into his orbit at the best of times; visibly tipsy and dripping sweat, Len would’ve had better luck resisting the turning of the earth. 

Up close, Len could take that Barry had lost his shirt somewhat recently; the slight touch of pink spanning his shoulders and chest had nothing on the serious flush across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. He had a spray of new freckles as well. They were barely distinguishable under the haze of glitter stuck to his skin, but Len noticed them at once, the change unmistakable on an otherwise unchanging face (not a scar to be seen, even after three years of running into burning buildings and jumping in front of bullets; Len was equal parts frustrated and relieved).   

It looked like someone had painted a few strokes of color across one of his cheeks at some point, but it was smudged to hell and back. The back of one of Barry’s hands was stained a tell-tale matching purple, and Len could only guess at what it had been at the start of the day. 

He stepped into Barry’s space as easily as he had the rest, taking care to keep Barry between him and the source of the glitter, and hesitated for the briefest moment with his hand above Barry’s spine. He’d never touched Barry like this, skin to skin; the gloves had never come off between them, metaphorically or literally. Kept things neat. 

Nothing about Barry was neat right now. He turned even before Len touched him, and the movement brought Len’s hand into contact with his side instead. It took everything in Len not to pull it back in a flinch, and he met Barry’s curious glance with a tightly-controlled smirk. 

He’d expected Barry to step back, maybe add a bit of blush to those already-pink cheeks. Instead, Barry’s eyes took a belated second to focus, and then he gave Len a face-splitting grin. 

“Snart!” 

That time, Len did have to pull backwards to avoid Barry dragging him in for a hug. To think he’d been concerned about a hand. 

Barry didn’t seem the least bit put out, smiling loose and easy like Len hadn’t iced him to the door of a bank vault the last time they’d seen each other. He hadn’t taken Barry for such a cheerful drunk—he seemed inclined toward melodrama on a good day—but Len would take it over any of the alternatives. 

“Barry. Fancy seeing you here. And so much of you, at that.” He let his gaze slide down his bare chest and stomach, pulse ticking up at the warm brown of his nipples and the sharp vee of his hipbones that invited his gaze further down. 

“You’re overdressed,” Barry disagreed. He wasn’t quite slurring, but there was a careful deliberation in his tone that told Len it was a near thing. He took a step closer and peered at Len, suspicion evident in those pale green eyes.   “And… sober.”

“I’m not here to score. Perks include keeping my shirt on.” 

For the briefest second, Barry looked almost disappointed. But it was gone in a blink, confusion taking over. He glanced down at himself, puzzled. Then his expression cleared, and he looked up with another easy-going smile.  “I got hot.” His gaze dropped again, to Len this time, and he licked his lips. “Aren’t you… you gotta be hot in all that.” 

Len was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and thin jacket, and it hadn’t hit eighty degrees all week. But he wasn’t in the mood to argue with drunk logic. And besides, another scan of the nearby revelers had made something unpleasant begin to scratch insistently at the inside of Len’s chest, and he tapped Barry under the chin with one knuckle to bring his attention back up. 

The contact startled both of them—Len’s control had slipped, something he could not afford to happen around Barry Allen—but Len recovered first. “Where’s the rest of your team of do-gooders?” 

“Lost ‘em.” Judging by the return of Barry’s crooked grin, it was an accomplishment, not a concern. “Cisco said the shot was too strong, but I didn’t wanna go. He’s the d…” He faltered, brows pulling together as he frowned. “S’the designed. Designinated, superhero, anyway. Shh!” 

He shot a pointer finger toward Len in a movement that Len clocked, alarmingly, as intending to be pressed to his lips, as if he were the one who’d been chatting about Vibe’s secret identity. Len had three years of dealing with the Flash to thank for being able to catch Barry’s wrist in time to stop him, and he glared at him for the attempt. 

But Barry only gave him a crinkle-eyed smile and twisted his hand in Len’s grip to clasp his wrist back. “S’so good to see you here. I didn’t think…” 

“Don’t tell me you had me pegged for straight.” 

Barry made a frankly insulting noise halfway between a scoff and a hiccup and tilted Len a condescending look. 

“Speedster, remember?” he asked, far too loudly, even for a crowd currently screaming along to a pop song that’d been bad enough the first time Len’d heard it in 2000. “I see it when you...” He let go of Len’s wrist to make a gesture with two fingers, parting them in a V and sweeping them up and down Len’s body, the muscles in his forearm shifting distractingly under Len’s hand. God, the kid had to be a hundred degrees. “When you check me out. In the suit.” 

Len smirked. “It’s cute you thought I was being subtle.” 

“You’re cute,” Barry muttered, childish and sulky, and Len took it for the compliment it wasn’t. 

“You had a point, Barry.” 

Barry still looked displeased with him, but his brow was furrowed again when he met his gaze. This close, it was impossible to ignore that Barry had an inch or so on him. “About what?” 

“You didn’t think…?” Len prompted him. 

Barry stared at him blankly, and Len rolled his eyes and let go of his wrist. 

“Get out of the sun, Barry,” he said. “Find a park bench. Wait for your little friends to come find you. Shouldn’t be hard—you’re as red as your suit.” 

Barry either ignored his last comment or didn’t hear it. “Iris is here somewhere,” he said, possibly to himself. “She’s…” He twirled his finger absently beside his head. “Curly, today. And… bikini.” 

Len strongly considered abandoning Barry to his sunburn to go find out for himself. But Barry was beginning to sway a bit, and a man closer to Len’s age than Barry’s was giving Barry’s toned back a speculative look from a few feet away, and Len gave in to the unsettled feeling gnawing at his ribcage. He refused to call it worry. It was annoyance—or, at the very least, the feeling was annoying him, which was close enough.   

“As much a sight for sore eyes as that would be,” he said, allowing a magnanimousness he didn’t feel to color his tone, “I doubt Miss West ran away from her group and got heatstroke. Unlike some people” 

Barry didn’t look the least bit chastened, lips curving up mischievously in a way that drew another couple interested looks. Len needed to get them both out of the crowd before he started breaking noses.

“Tell you what. Give Cisco a call, tell him you went home. My bike’s on Kingsbridge, away from the parade route.” 

Barry’s smirk sharpened. “Trying to get me out of here, Snart? I thought you weren’t here to score.” 

Len gave him a flat look, ignoring the decidedly interested way his body was reacting to Barry’s tone. 

“You can barely stand.” 

Barry’s eyes glittered at the challenge, and Len realized his mistake. 

“Barry—” 

He hadn’t even finished biting out the second syllable when the world spun out from under him, the noise and the heat and the press of the crowd swallowed up in a hair-raising charge of yellow lightning. Exactly two and a half seconds passed in a blur of movement, just long enough for Len to realize Barry was supporting the back of his head with one too-warm hand. Then the world came skidding to a stop around them. Barry’s momentum carried them both forward several feet even after their new surroundings materialized, and they very nearly went straight through a window again before Barry seemed to remember how to stop. 

Len considered pushing him out the window anyway for the stunt. True, he’d been itching to get another taste of that feeling, the ozone snap-drag of Barry’s power like a live wire under his hands, but he’d rather have waited until Barry could pass a breathalizer. 

He realized Barry still had an arm around him and shoved him off. It did nothing to dim Barry’s self-satisfied grin, and Len had to look away or risk giving into the interested once-over Barry was skimming over his body again. 

“Pretty sure the point of a designated driver is not doing that.” 

Barry followed him when he took a step back. Len made a calculated decision, decided the risk of touching Barry again was worth it, and pressed his fingers to the middle of Barry’s chest—right where the Flash insignia would be on his suit, his brain offered unhelpfully—and pushed him backwards, hard. 

Barry unbalanced and wheeled back a step. Then the backs of his knees hit the edge of the couch, and he toppled, satisfyingly, back onto the dark leather cushions. 

It was a nice couch. The whole apartment was nice, actually. Len could’ve drawn a perimeter of possible locations based on Barry’s speed and how long it had taken them to reach it if he hadn’t already known the address. 

“Sit,” he said. And then, with a smirk: “Stay.” 

Barry rolled his eyes. “Gonna have to ask nicer than that if you wanna boss me around in bed.”

The way he threw it out there, easy as anything, almost made Len miss a step as he turned away. He wasn’t going to lay a hand on Barry, not when he was drunk on sunlight and skin and whatever concoction Cisco had apparently cooked up for him. But hearing him say it, like they’d already gotten all of the messy parts out of the way—it set off warning bells in Len’s head, flashing past all the possible off-ramps he would’ve taken if Barry had ever tried to have the conversation in a more linear fashion. 

“You’re drunk,” Len said, which was a coward’s answer, and behind him, Barry made a vague noise of agreement. 

“Probably,” he acknowledged. “You could stick around ‘til I’m not.” 

Christ. Len didn’t trust himself to look at Barry again, not when he knew he’d find him sprawled out and shedding glitter all over what had looked like a very expensive couch. “Stay,” he repeated, and went off to find the kitchen. 

By the time he got back with two glasses of water, the problem had solved itself; Barry was out cold on the couch, his painting cheek pressed to the throw pillow he’d curled himself half-around. He was shivering faintly in the air conditioning, all cooled sweat and goosebumps, and Len resigned himself to the now-familiar impulse to help him that stirred in his chest. He put one of the glasses down on the table and, not trusting his hands, knocked his knee into one of Barry’s where it was bent close to the edge of the couch. 

Barry buried his face into the pillow with a noise of displeasure, and Len said his name again. 

“Last warning,” Len said. “Ten seconds, you find out if I put on steel-toed boots today.” 

Barry groaned, and if the sound hadn’t made Len’s pulse skip, the easy shift of muscles in Barry’s arm as he pushed himself up to sitting again would’ve done the trick. 

“Water,” Len said, unnecessarily, as he passed him the glass. 

Barry took it with the tips of his fingers, as if it were something personally offensive to him, and took a single, polite sip before putting it down beside the other with no small amount of distaste. Then he glanced between the glasses, and up at Len, a dirty spark already lighting behind his eyes again. 

“Don’t get your hopes up. They’re both for you.” 

Barry let out a breath with audible annoyance and dropped back against the couch cushions to glare at him. 

Len felt a modicum of sanity return to him. This, at least, was familiar ground: Barry, frustrated, asking for too much, too soon. True, it had always been about the hero business until now, but Len knew a pattern when he saw one. Give Barry an inch, and he always took a mile. 

Len gave Barry one last, appraising look. He looked ridiculous, all self-righteousness and bare skin. There was only one break in the otherwise even coat of glitter, there on Barry’s side: faint, but unmistakable, the outline of Len’s hand on his waist. The feeling in Len’s chest coalesced into something pleased and possessive. He met Barry’s glare with a slow curl of his lips, then gave him an inch.  

“Call me when you’re sober, Barry,” he said, letting his voice slip into the Cold drawl just to watch Barry’s eyes go dark. “And you can show me how well you sit up and beg.” 

He could see the impatience radiating off of Barry’s frame, the effort it was taking him to stay on the couch instead of closing the space between them. 

“Call your friends,” he reminded him. “Enough people got a look at your face today without the CCPD splashing it on every milk carton, too.”

In the elevator, Len reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the thin black wallet he’d liberated from Barry during their sprint across the city. Two and a half seconds: child’s play. A little extra incentive for Barry to track him down in the morning, not that Len thought he needed it. He flipped it open, noted the deer-in-the-headlights picture of Barry on his driver’s license with amusement, and then thumbed open the bill compartment. 

Len smirked. Barry wouldn’t miss a few dollars; he owed him for the dry-cleaning it was gonna take to get the glitter out of his jacket, anyway. 

#coldflash #leonard snart #barry allen #the flash #my fics #is 10 pm on a tuesday peak posting time? no! is it when i finished this? yes! #also this is blatantly nyc pride sorry #write what you know etc

[coruscantguard]

Endless Night, Half a Sliver of Light

Requested by @roborails

Fox and Ahsoka for #98- “You’re actually a big softie, aren’t you?”  

*

The clock on Ahsoka’s bedside table reads 02:09.

Nighttime on the Coruscant Guard’s ship is much quieter than she’s used to it being on the Resolute. It makes sense, since it’s a smaller ship, and there are less people on it, but the quiet still puts her on edge. In her experience, quiet is rarely a good thing

Barriss would disagree with that, but Barriss also reads ancient texts on Force philosophy in her free time, and eats space waffles without cooking them, so Ahsoka is inclined to disregard her opinion here.

The clock on Ahsoka’s bedside table has progressed to read 02:10.

The Guard’s ship is also quieter than the Temple, but in a less tangible way for anyone who is not Force-sensitive. While the Temple tends to be quiet and peaceful, the Force is always very alive in it. There’s a feeling of home that comes with all those strong Force signatures, and it’s an eternal reminder that she’s not alone. That as a Jedi, she’ll never have to truly be alone in the galaxy.

The clock on Ahsoka’s bedside table now reads 02:11.

Her attempts to go to sleep and the ever present quiet aren’t mixing in a way that’s conducive to her getting any shuteye. The briefing ended hours ago.  She’s still awake.

The clock on Ahsoka’s bedside table still reads 02:11.

Ahsoka groans, buries her face into her pillow, and lets out a muffled scream.

The embarrassment from her little social mishap earlier is hitting full force now that the planning is done for the night, and she has nothing to distract herself with. She’s been wallowing in it, she knows that. Her attachment to those feelings is the furthest thing from productive, and she should be releasing it into the Force. There’s nothing she can do to correct the situation until morning comes.

She should release it to the Force. It's helping no one, and making her feel worse. She really should release it to the Force.

She’s not releasing it to the Force.

Master Anakin felt that Senator Amidala needed additional security, kriff’s sake, Ahsoka. Did she seriously say that? Force, it’s like all of Master Obi-Wan’s diplomacy training just flew out the window. And all the basic manners the Temple taught her.

“Ahsoka, you utter di’kut,” she mutters, and rolls over, flopping her legs off her bunk. The room is small enough that her feet can nearly brush the opposite wall, and she uses her toes to inch her torso off the bed until she can. Heck yes.

Not that he thinks you guys can’t handle it, her brain reminds her, efficiently quenching any joy that her victory brought. It’s just, well, Master has this thing about Senator Amidala, because like, they’re really close friends, right? So--

She groans again, and reaches a hand out to grab her pillow so she can smother herself with it. Right now, suffocation sounds like a great way to go.

Knight Skywalker, I regret to inform you that your padawan has joined the Force because she is a karking laserbrain who keeps putting her shoe on the other side of her mouth.

When Ahsoka pulls the pillow off her face, she’s disappointingly still in the land of the living, and the clock on her bedside table now just says 02:13. She manages to resist the urge to chuck the pillow at said clock, instead opting to throw it at the wall in front of her.

The pillow bounces off the control panel, and her door hisses open. The pillow falls to the ground by her feet, and Ahsoka forces herself to close her eyes, take a few seconds to breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Release your anger to the Force, young padawan. Do not use the Force to pick up your pillow and slam it into the clock, young padawan. Vandalism is not the Jedi way.

When she’s sufficiently managed to breathe through most of her anger and annoyance, she opens her eyes again.

Ahsoka calmly looks at her now open door. She looks at the pillow on the ground. She looks back at the door. Then back to the pillow. Then back at the door.

Well. There’s no way she’s going to sleep at this rate. Might as well see if anyone else is up.

She manages to pull herself up from her half on the bed, half off it position without using her hands, lets out a silent cheer in the form of a fist pump, and pops her head out of her room to look around. There’s nothing to the left, but when she swivels her head to the right, she sees some kind of faint yellow light at the end of the hallway, where the officer’s lounge is.

It’s as good of a sign as any, so Ahsoka grabs her lightsaber, clips it to her belt, and leaves her room. As she makes her way down the ship’s hallway, she instinctively reaches out with the Force to get a sense of what she’s walking into.

She senses only one other presence nearby, and one that flows easily with the jigsaw pattern of the world around her. With a bit of concentration, she’s able to catch sight of a flash of gunmetal grey, which makes it easy to figure out who the presence is.

Commander Fox’s Force presence is unassuming, both in it’s color and it’s general feel. Unlike Anakin, who’s Force presence was more akin to a supernova, the Commander of the Coruscant Guard’s presence was steady, unwavering, slightly darker than most non-Force sensitives tended to feel, but not enough to actually be concerning. The only thing that’s even remotely odd is the lack of color around him, but that’s not bad either, just different.

The door slides open automatically as she reaches the end of the hall, and the adjacent lounge. She silently slips inside, and the sound of flimsi rustling greets her.

Fox is sitting at a table near the back of the room, head bowed, presumably reading the pile of flimsiwork in front of him. On one side of the table, his bucket sits beside his elbow, and on the other side, there’s a cup of what at least smells like caf to Ahsoka. She realizes, belatedly, that this is the first time she’s ever seen him without his bucket on.

He looks old. Tired. Like he’s Master Obi-Wan’s age, not Skyguy’s. Not that Master Obi-Wan is old, of course, but… whatever. Moving on.

“Commander Fox,” she greets, and steps further into the room. He looks up from the flimsiwork, but thankfully doesn’t bother saluting.

“Commander Tano,” Fox says, and he slides his bucket closer to him as he stands up. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh, I’m not… looking for anything,” she replies quickly. “I saw the light, and I got curious.”

Fox nods, and another spike of guilt gnaws her. She does her best to ignore it. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” he says, and it’s with a practiced politician’s calm that Ahsoka recognizes from her time around Senators Chuchi and Amidala. “There’s caf by the stove, if you’re in the mood.”

Caf. Kriff yes. Skyguy would never give her caf at 2am.

It takes three tries to find the cabinet that has mugs in it, and she pulls out the biggest one. As she starts to pour the caf into her mug, she looks over at the table. Fox has sat back down, and he looks just as engrossed in the pile of flimsi as he had when she came in.

Ahsoka finishes filling her mug, adjusts the sugar-to-caf ratio so it’s drinkable, and takes a small sip. It’s on the edge of being too hot, but it doesn’t actually burn her mouth, so she deems it satisfactory. She turns back to face Fox, and asks, “What are you working on?”

He doesn’t spare her a glance as he answers, “Reports, mostly. There’s never an end to the flimsiwork when the Senate gets involved.”

“Oh,” she says. Fox picks up a stylus, sets a stack of flimsi to the side, and moves onto another piece of flimsiwork. ...Right. Okay. Time to entertain herself. She can do that.

Her eyes dart around the room. Military sparse, nothing unusual. The lights are only half on, upon closer inspection. There’s nothing particularly remarkable around.

Carefully, she nudges herself up onto her tiptoes, and glances over Fox’s head at the flimsiwork. It’s all just words and numbers, none that catch her attention, and she’s about to look away when Fox moves the next piece of flimsi over. This one is different in that it has a photo on it.

It’s a portrait shot of a man, like what one would find on an ID card. He looks older than her, but not by too much, and vaguely familiar in the way many beings look due to all the different planets she’s visited. There’s something about this one that she knows, though, and she focuses harder on that knowledge, wracks her memory trying to connect the navpoints. Young, clean-cut, memorable but still one in a crowd-- “Is that one of Senator Organa’s aides?”

Fox doesn’t jump at the interruption, or react to her prying, just gives her a cursory glance before turning back to the flimsi. “Yes, Christoforos Massimo, de domo Mac Ghabhann.” Fox replies, and his voice is clipped, but not to the point of being rude. “He was one of Senator Organa’s aides. He’s also the third senatorial aide to die of mycotoxin poisoning in the last year.”

Oh. She looks back at the photo, lets herself feel the dull throb of regret that follows. It’s not-- she didn’t know him, not well enough to know his name, but all life is important, and she did recognize him. That’s something. It’s always something.

Still, he’s with the Force now, so she lets herself feel, but then she makes herself let it go. He’s not gone, not truly. No one ever is.

Ahsoka eventually takes another sip of her caf, and runs Fox’s words through her brain again. Mycotoxin poisoning, mycotoxin poisoning, mycotoxin-- “Wait, isn’t that poison that has cerulean slime mold in it?”

Fox signs something, then nods. The signature is longer than she would’ve expected, but she’s unable to read it, as he swiftly places the flimsi at the bottom of the stack. “The mold’s name is technically kytrogorgia, but, yes.”

“That’s evidence of foul play, right?”

“Not definitively,” he says, and takes a sharp breath in, slowly lets it out. “There can be accidental deaths because of it, but it’s rare to find naturally occurring on Coruscant.”

“Huh.”

Ahsoka goes back to drinking her caf, keeping her face by the mug so the heat of it warms her face. Poisonings. Huh. It makes sense that the Guard would deal with that, she just… never thought of it.

The silence of the ship is… odd. Besides the distinctive hum of hyperspace, and the scratching of Fox’s stylus, it’s quiet, a quiet she hasn’t experienced much since leaving the creche. Fox evidently has no issue with it.

She shouldn't have an issue with it.

“Doesn’t that mold smell like overripe kakadu fruit?” She suddenly asks. “I think Obi-Wan mentioned something about it a few weeks ago.”

“It has a relatively distinctive bitter citrine smell, yes.”  Fox stops writing, and turns to look at her. She takes a sip of caf. “...Is poison a regular topic of discussion for the Jedi?”

Ahsoka pauses, thinking about it. “Not really,” she says. “I mean, we have an elective class on it, but that’s about it. Obi-Wan just likes that kind of stuff, you know, molds and rare species of worms and the like. It drives Skyguy up the wall.”

Fox makes a noncommittal sound, turns back to the flimsi, and starts writing again. “Sounds like one of my brothers.”

Ahsoka snickers. Then, carefully, remembering Barriss’s last comm call, and the look on her face when she mentioned the flesh-eating moths the 41st ran into, she asks, “Is there any chance that brother is Commander Gree of the 41st Elite Corps?”

Fox doesn’t quite smile, but the corners of his lips definitely twitch. “No comment,” he says dryly, confirming her hunch.

“Do you think Massimo was murdered?” Ahsoka asks, and her voice is quieter than she means it to be. Fox frowns, but he doesn’t comment immediately, so she leans in over his shoulder to get a closer look at the report. “This could all just be a coincidence.”

“It could be,” Fox agrees. “But when the Senate’s involved, assuming something is a coincidence usually ends with someone like Aurra Sing showing up, as it’s actually part of some larger conspiracy.” He grimaces. “Still, I don’t like the look of this, so lets hope you’re right.”

It’s not an actual answer to her question, but she doesn’t press, just hums in acknowledgement, and steps away. She moves to the other side of the table, and sets her mug down on it, then walks over to the stacks of chairs against the far wall. It’s easy to pull one off the top, and carry it back to the table, let it thunk down on the durasteel floor. She’s mentally weighing the merits of sitting down against those of raiding the pantry for snacks when a flash of movement catches her eye.

“What was that?” She asks, and moves forward, eyes scanning the officer’s lounge, montrals straining to pick up any noise.

“Hm?”

There’s another burst of movement seconds later, a pitter-patter of paws accompanied by a blur of fur, ears, and a large fluffy tail that quickly disappears under the sofa. She must’ve disturbed it when she moved the chair.

“Is there any chance that there’s a loth cat on this ship?”

Abruptly, Fox’s stylus stops moving. “What?”

Ahsoka cranes her head to the side, trying to catch sight of the blur again. “I think I just saw a loth cat.”

Silence. Then-- “Is it grey?”

She opens her mouth to reply right as the blur comes speeding out from under the couch, and she barely twists out of the way in time as it launches itself at the table. It lands on the table with a thump, and turns to look at her for a second, accessing.

Then it moves over to the flimsiwork, and rubs its head against Fox’s hand and stylus, before flopping down on the flimsi, and starting to purr.

Ahsoka stares at it silently for a minute, then bursts out giggling. “Yeah, it looks to be a grey cat,” she somehow manages to say. “Why do you ask?”

Fox sighs. “Commander Thire apparently has less sense than I thought he did,” he says, and he’s staring at the grey loth cat as well, a look of resigned exasperation etching away at his bland facade of indifference. The cat rubs its head on Fox’s bucket.

Ahsoka snorts, then pauses, frowning. She leans in, and-- “Isn’t this Senator Chuchi’s cat?

She examines the cat further. It blinks it’s yellow eyes at her. “This is definitely Senator Chuchi’s cat.”

Fox sighs again. “Yes,” he replies, his voice long-suffering. “If I’m remembering correctly, her name is Mayday.”

“Mayday?” Ahsoka questions, wrinkling her nose. Weird. “Why would the Senator name her cat after a distress signal?”

“Why indeed,” Fox says, and he looks pained, but nothing in his Force presence backs that up. All she can sense around him is a feeling of vague indifference. It’s mildly disconcerting.

“Why is Senator Chuchi’s cat on one of the Guard’s ships?” She asks, turning her attention back to more important things. The cat- Mayday is now stretching on the table. Ahsoka is pretty sure loth cats aren’t usually supposed to be on tables, but Fox doesn’t seem to care, so, whatever.

“Why indeed,” Fox repeats, and reaches a hand up to massage the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes closed. “Force. If I run into Thire anytime soon, it’s going to end in property damage.”

Right as he’s lowering his hand, the loth cat’s tail flicks up, and hits him straight in the face. Ahsoka clasps her hands over her mouth to muffle her laughter, but she’s not very successful in that endeavor. Fox’s eyes are still shut when he sighs, and it’s a sigh that reinforces the expression of long-suffering pain on his face. Then he reaches one hand up to scratch behind Mayday’s ears.

It takes away from the dramatics of the sigh, but Mayday seems to like it, so Ahsoka lets it slide. The cat’s tail flicks again, and this time it hits the underside of Fox’s neck, drawing her attention to the edge of a scar--

“Sithspit, what the kark happened to your throat?” She blurts out, her jaw dropping. There’s an ugly scar across it, deep and painful looking, like someone tried to literally slit his throat, and very nearly succeeded.

“Well, it’s a funny story,” Fox says, and his voice is as dry as the Geonosis desert. He looks up from Mayday to meet Ahsoka’s eyes. “Someone tried to slit my throat.”

Ahsoka stifles a snort. Oh man, the 501st better work a mission with the Guard soon. Anakin and Fox would get along like a spaceship on fire that ends up exploding. It would be friendship at first dramatic understatement.

Fox gives Mayday a few more pets, then steps backwards, away from the table, and gestures at Ahsoka. It takes her a few seconds to realize what he’s getting at, but when she does, she wastes no time taking the spot he abandoned.

She moves so that she’s a bit farther back than Fox had been-- he obviously had a history with Mayday that she lacked-- and crouches down so that she’s eye level with the cat. Once it meets her eyes, she forces herself to blink as slowly as possible, the closed eyes a silent gesture of trust and vulnerability.

Mayday blinks slowly back at her.

Kriff yes, kriff yes, kriff yes!

She holds out her hand, moving her head slightly to the side to make her gaze less intense, and it takes all her Jedi training not to cheer as Mayday comes to nuzzle her hand. Force, would the Resolute be a safe environment for a loth cat? Surely they could make it safe, right?  A cat would undoubtedly help improve morale. Maybe she could convince Senator Chuchi to let her borrow Mayday when she pitches the idea to Skyguy and Rex, just to help sway their support to her cause.

“The nape of her neck,” Fox says, interrupting her planning. “Or the small dip behind her left ear. Stay away from her tail unless you’d like her to claw your face off, though.”

Nape of neck. She could do that. “Speaking from experience?”

Fox actually huffs a laugh at that. “Let’s just say that Vice Chair Amedda and the concept of respecting personal boundaries get along in the same way that Senator Amidala gets along with Viceroy Gunray.”

Ahsoka stops petting Mayday, and spins around to look him in the eyes. “You’re joking.”

“I have to give kudos to his medical team. Those scratches definitely should’ve scarred.”

“Force, seriously?” He nods, and Ahsoka grins, not even bothering to try and hide her teeth. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t like that guy. That’s hilarious.”

“The Chancellor thought so as well,” Fox says offhandedly, and crosses his arms, leans back against the counter. “I mean, he muffled his laughter quickly, but…”

“Sith hells,” she breathes out. “I think I might want to be on Senate rotation more often, if that’s what goes down there.”

Fox winces, takes a sharp breath in, and shakes his head. “Unfortunately, that sort of incident rarely happens. Usually, it’s just a lot of yelling.” He pauses, looks over her shoulder, and, “I think Mayday may have taken our lack of attention personally.”

Ahsoka spins around, and sure enough, the grey cat is jumping off the table, and heading for the door. “Awwwwwwwwwww, no,” she says, disappointed.

They watch Mayday leave the room in silence. Once the door hisses shut behind her, Ahsoka goes back around the table, and slumps into her chair. Fox pulls out his comm with a sigh, and heads for the caf machine, picking up his mug on the way.

Whoever he calls picks up almost instantaneously.

“Senator Chuchi’s loth cat is on board. We need to keep it from the airlock and the hyperdrive. I’m putting you and Candor on cat-sitting duty.” He says, and starts to pour the caf into his cup. There’s a pause, where he doesn’t say anything, then, “Rocket, that’s an order, not a request. If you have an issue with this beyond the fact that you don’t want to, you can file a complaint, and Internal Affairs will look into it. But I warn you, if you interrupt Swan’s leave with a complaint about how this isn’t what you were made for, he won’t be merciful when he rips you a new one.”

The pause is longer this time. “Yes, well, Lieutenant Swan will learn the concept of mercy around the same time that Tatootine freezes over,” Fox says, and he sets the caf pot back down. “I trust you know where to find any supplies needed?”

This pause is only for a moment, presumably how long it takes the trooper on the other end to say yes, sir! Fox replies with a, “Fox out,” then hangs up the comm, sighs, and takes a long gulp of caf. Ahsoka pauses, briefly considers the possible consequences for her next words, and decides that it’ll be worth it.

“You’re actually a big softie, aren’t you?”  

“What.” Unfortunately, he doesn’t spit out the caf, but he does do a double take. “Yeah, no, I’m sorry, what.”

She does her best to put on an innocent looking expression. “Oh man, you totally are.”

“...Commander Tano, as you chose your next words, I’d advise that you keep in mind the fact that I can put you on cleaning duty if I feel like it.”

“Ugh,” Ahsoka grumbles, dropping the charade. “Wait. No? We’re both Commanders. I could just put you on cleaning duty right back.”

Silence that follows that statement. Fox’s face is unreadable. “Have you read the regs?”

Uh-oh. “Why are you asking?

“Have you?”

Kriff kriff kriff kriff-- “How about… I’d like to invoke the fourth right of sentience?”

“Force, Commander,” Fox’s tone sounds similar to the one Kix uses when he’s exasperated. Ahsoka winces reflectively, because an exasperated Kix is not a fun Kix. “First of all, when you’re invoking a right, don’t make it sound like a question. You’re not asking to invoke your right, you’re not saying that you’d like to invoke it, you are invoking it.”

“Are you seriously--”

“And secondly, just say that you’re invoking your right to remain silent. I applaud you for remembering exactly what right it is, but it’s usually best to be as direct as possible in these matters. First and fourth sound alike enough in Basic that you could run into some real trouble if an officer “mishears” you, and the right to be free from slavery is not helpful when you’ve allegedly committed murder in the first.”

“You don’t need to tell me this, I’m not a youngling.”

“You sure about that?” Ahsoka glares at him, and opens her mouth to retort, but Fox cuts her off again. Kriffing chizk. “Thirdly, yes, I am the highest ranking officer here. Jedi Commanders have authority over everyone up to and including Clone Captains. They’re subordinate to Clone Commanders and Jedi Generals”

“...Right,” she says, “I… totally knew that.”

“Really.”

“Yes!”

There’s no verbal response, but Fox rests his elbow on his bucket, and blinks at her.

“I did!” She protests. The look on his face tells her that he doesn’t buy a second of it.

...Okay, time to move on. “Anyway, the fact that you’re my superior officer doesn’t mean that you aren’t also a big softie.”

His eye roll is unnecessary, and completely overdramatic. “There are a fair amount of people that would disagree with that assessment of Commander Fox’s character.”

Oh thank Force, he’s willing to go along with it.

“Yeah, well, I guess it’s a good thing Commander Tano isn’t asking those people then, huh?” Ahsoka sends back. Then she pauses to take a sip of her caf. “Now, is there a reason Commander Fox hasn’t actually answered Commander Tano’s original question yet?”

A beat of silence.

“Osik, you got me there,” Fox says, and Ahsoka lets out a whoop of celebration at the small victory. “Don’t go spreading it around, I have a reputation to uphold.”

She mimes locking her mouth, and throwing the key out the window. Fox doesn’t look particularly reassured by that, but he doesn’t comment on it either, so, victory.

Wow, if only she’d bothered to shut up earlier, her brain suddenly hisses at her, imagine how great that would’ve been.

Ahsoka takes a long, long drink of her caf, stopping only when she finishes the mup. She stares down at the mug mournfully, willing more caf to suddenly appear.

More caf does not suddenly appear.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s 2am, and that the distraction the caf provided is gone. Maybe it’s the guilt that’s still curling up her throat when she stops to think about it, the regret that’s coating every word she says. Maybe it’s the fact that the kitchen feels warm and comforting, the fact that it reminds her of the Temple and being safe, being able to make mistakes without having people die for them.

Whatever it is, it has her speaking again before she considers what she’s going to say, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she even processes them.

“Master Anakin is out of contact right now,” Ahsoka says quickly, and stares determinedly down at her mug. Oh kriff, kriff, kriff, did she really just-- oh, Force, kriff. Okay. Just… it’s a bacta patch, Ahsoka. It’s best to rip it off as quickly as possible. “He’s on Mygeeto. Since it’s Seppie space, it’s a risk to send any messages. He didn’t send me here. He doesn’t even know there’s a threat on Senator Amidala’s life.”

Silence. She doesn’t dare look up. She knows she’ll lose her nerve if she does.

“The Temple is really empty these days, and the 501st is with Anakin, so it’s really boring as well, cause literally all of my friends are on campaigns right now. And I overheard Master Windu mention something about the Chancellor, and security protocols, to Master Plo when they were in the refractory, and like, the Chancellor is Anakin’s friend, so I kinda just started... listening. I don’t know, I was curious. But they mentioned the threat on Senator Amidala, and Padme’s my friend, right? So I did some snooping, and I realized that there weren’t going to be any Jedi sent, and… it would kill Skyguy if anything happened to her, you know?”

Wow, that came out badly. Way to shift the blame again, Ahsoka. Great job, truly.

Commander Fox probably didn’t know about… them anyway. Kriff. Double kriff.

Excuses, you’re making, her mind whispers at her. Apologize, or don’t. Do, or do not. There is no try.

“It wasn’t Anakin that thought additional security might be needed,” She says, hurried, the words tumbling out of her mouth. “It was me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed that Jedi presence would be needed to keep Senator Amidala safe, and I definitely shouldn’t have just used that assumption to try and justify my actions.”

The next few seconds seem to stretch on forever. The dull void in the Force around Fox feels more oppressive than ever, the absence of anything leaving Ahsoka stranded in the middle of an ocean, with no life raft to cling to, and nothing that gives her even the littlest bit of direction. Commander Fox doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make any sudden movements that her montrels detect, and she finally forces herself to peak up from her mug.

He looks floored. Half stupefied, half incredulous.”I- you- what?”

She opens her mouth to respond, but he raises his hand in the halt symbol, rubs at one of his temples with the other. “Sorry. I’m just- so, you got yourself put on this mission… because you were bored.” He says. She nods. He shakes his head. “Because you were bored, and thought you knew better than the Jedi Council and all of the Generals. Force. That’s… something.”

“Yeah, my justifications definitely made a lot more sense in my head,” Ahsoka admits weakly, forcing herself to loosen her grip on the mug. “I shouldn’t of--”

“It’s… fine, kid. Trust me,” he says, and there’s the edge of something twisting in the Force, some kind of internal conflict she’s catching flashes of. It’s the most activity she’s ever seen with his Force presence. “I hear worse on a daily basis. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Ahsoka frowns. “But that doesn’t make it okay.”

The look he gives her is undecipherable, but she can tell that it’s weighted. Weighted in a way she’ll probably never understand, in a way she doesn’t think she wants to understand.

“No,” Fox finally says. “It doesn’t make it okay.” The words come out hushed, as if it's a forbidden confession, some kind of radical heresy, blasphemous in it’s very nature.

Something loosens in his Force presence with that, an alteration so small that Ahsoka’s surprised that she even notices the change. It looks like a ray of light cutting through the lacuna that surrounds him. It sounds like a breath of fresh air, and it creates a sudden connection, a burst of clarity where there had been none before. It feels like leaving the core worlds, how it seems as if a switch is flipped when one gets far enough from Coruscant, and the Force suddenly becomes so much clearer.

Ahsoka looks down, looks away, pulls her attention away from the metaphysical world of the Force. This isn’t something she’s supposed to see, and given the fact that Fox isn’t Force-sensitive, it’s not like he’s going to raise his own shields and block her off. She busies herself with trying to get any remaining bits of caf out of her mug instead, anchors her mind firmly in the physical world.

Fox doesn’t say anything else for a few long minutes, just stands, staring off into space, that look still on his face. When he speaks again, his voice is back to normal.

“Thank you for your honesty, Commander Tano,” Fox says, ducks his head to stare down at his drink for a few seconds. Ahsoka places her mug back on the table while he ruminates. When he meets her eyes again, the undecipherable look is gone. “And thank you for your apology. It means more than you know.”

Ahsoka nods. She’s not sure if she should say something, or if this is one of the times silence is better. He seems more comfortable in the quiet than she ever will be, so she bites down on her tongue--

“Right,” he says, and abruptly stands up, jarring her from her thoughts. “I’m going to make some more caf. Do you want a refill?”

Kriff yes she wants a refill. “Yes, please.”

#commander fox #ahsoka tano #tcw #the clone wars #my writing #prompts

[andiinaraethtash]

Chapter Twelve is Up!

Here's the link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/35710339/chapters/91788523

And here's the chapter:

We All Want Love (Nobody Wants to Pay the Asking Price)

Notes: You might notice that this has a final chapter count. That's because as of today, Jan. 31st, this book is finished. Book Two will (hopefully) start being posted immediately after this book is all posted, I just need to finish plotting it out. To that end, I need some input from you guys. After the emotional upheaval that was the finales of s1 of Empires, would you like a) a happy ending for everyone, b) a bittersweet but mostly happy with only a few deaths, or c) something just as devastating as the actual ending? I know how I would do each one, but I can't decide which one to do. Normally I go with the happy ending, because sometimes I need the hopefulness that that entails, but this time... this time I'm torn. TW: depictions of injury, blood, etc. Chapter title from Undone by FFH (See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Katherine just wants to sleep. Sleep sounds so divine right not. So does food. So does a bath.

Granted, she had to wash her hands thoroughly before she could start tending to either of her patients, but still, she wanted to scrub herself clean from the sticky feeling over sweat and corruption that coated her skin.

It’s early morning—the sun hasn’t begun to rise, though the sky is starting to lighten up in the east—when the lead healer, a willowy woman named Clementine, declares that they’ve done all they can. Katherine wants to protest—all they’ve done is clean the various wounds and wrap them in bandages, they’ve not even used any potions—but Clem looks at her sternly, and she bites her lip.

“We don’t know exactly what happened to him,” the healer explains. “So using any healing potions might incur negative effects.”

That makes sense, but Katherine still doesn’t like it. After all, some of the more grievous wounds probably would heal much more quickly with the help of potions, but who is she to argue with the lead healer?

Just the Guardian of the Overgrown, a voice snarks in the back of her mind, and she gently reprimands it. She may be the ruler of the kingdom most inclined to the healing arts, but she’s no healer herself. At least, not an actually trained one. She can help, but making the kind of decisions that people’s lives depend on? She has not been trained to handle that.

Sighing, she asks, “Is it safe to move him? There’s more space in the castle.”

Clem hesitates, then nods. “As long as you’re more careful than Sovereign Pearl was, it should be fine.”

Katherine nods, then turns to one of her hummingbirds. “Can you go get Scott and Pearl? They should be in their embassies.”

The hummingbird trills and takes off, faster than the eye can follow. Katherine sighs and gestures to two of the junior healers. “Can you get a stretcher?”

They nod and before long, they’re carefully transferring fWhip from the bed he’d been lying on. Katherine follows behind them, trying hard not to look at her friend’s body, not now while he’s at his most hurt.

Honestly, the healers had said, it was a miracle he hadn’t died of shock and pain long before they rescued him. There was evidence he’d been tortured, his fingernails ripped out, his wrists raw and bloody, his knuckles are scarred and split like he’d been fighting back, his shoulders dislocated—it’s likely he’d been hanging from his wrists, Clementine had told her—and he’d been whipped within an inch of his life--seemingly multiple times. His left leg is currently in a splint, as it had been broken in at least three spots.

Other than that, it was superficial cuts and bruises, except for his wings, his beautiful dragon-esque wings.

Those had been completely torn off.

Katherine had taken it upon herself personally to clean the jagged, bloody stumps left behind. She can’t imagine the pain that had caused, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally, too. The idea of being grounded permanently (barring maybe the use of a healing potion, which might possibly give them back) and having even less of a chance to escape had to have taken its toll.

Scott and Pearl join them as they reach the castle, and Pearl immediately puts a hand on Katherine’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Forcing a smile, she nods. “I just need some rest, then I’ll be fine. Honestly, I’m more worried about him,” she gestures toward where the healers have disappeared up the stairs toward the living areas.

Without anyone saying anything, they all start after them, arriving at the guest room the healers are in, and Pearl rushes over to help them move fWhip from the stretcher to the bed, where they set him as gently as possible.

Katherine steps forward, rearranging his limbs, propping his broken leg up on a couple of pillows, and tucking him in with the softest blanket she could find.

Stepping back, she watches as the healers pull a chair over from the fireplace and seem to have a silent debate. She's not sure what about, but Scott apparently knows, because he clears his throat.

“We can watch over him,” he says firmly, and Pearl and Katherine immediately nod. It’s the least they can do, after giving fWhip up for dead all those months ago.

The taller of the two healers nods and gestures toward the chair. “We don’t know when he’ll wake, but one of us will be close by. Just send a bird, and we’ll come as fast as we can.”

Katherine nods, thanks them, then makes for the chair, but Scott stops her. “Katherine, you need to rest. You’ve been up for at least a full day, and you also should probably eat something.”

With a sigh, she acquiesces, turns, and heads back to her own room. It’s hard to argue when that’s all she’s been wanting for the past six hours.

______

Pix and Joey land in the Lost Empire to see it looking vastly different than it had last time Pix had flown overhead. There are still some tentacles, but they’re quickly shriveling up and dying, and the trees are falling apart, and the crystals have all but disappeared.

Joey sadly reaches out and caresses one of the tentacles with a tender hand. “Oh, no…” he whispers, and Pix has to take a deep breath to curb the annoyance that swells inside of him.

“He would have killed you as soon as you outlived your usefulness, Joey, you must know that. He never loved you, no matter how much you loved him.”

Joey sighs and nods, pulling his hand away from the tentacle, which turns to dust where his hand had touched it. Quietly, Pix hopes that the tentacles in Pixandria are doing the same, because they’ve marred the landscape and put fear in the hearts of his people for too long.

With a careful hand, he takes Joey’s arm and leads him into the Fire Temple Joey has been calling home. He nods to the villagers he passes, who stare after them with open disbelief and wariness. They’ve probably noticed the way the corruption is disintegrating, and the fact that Joey’s eyes are once again green, and the fact that Joey is letting Pix, the ruler of an empire that stood staunchly against Xornoth, lead him around.

As soon as they make it inside, Joey slumps onto a nearby bench, pulling Pix down with him. “I just don’t understand… You said Xornoth corrupted me?”

Pix nods, kneeling in front of him. “He did. You don’t remember it, but he forced you to do…” Visions of kidnappings, torture, and killings flit across the back of Pix’s eyelids as he blinks, and he has to struggle to pull his attention back to the here and now. “…terrible things. Things you would never ordinarily do.”

Joey looks at him for a long moment, then asks in a trembling voice, “Like what?”

With a heavy sigh, Pix settles in for a long discussion.

______

It takes her a bit, but eventually Gem does find a translation guide, although the Common Tongue portions are a few centuries—maybe a millennia—out of date. Still, she’s used to reading ‘ye olden tongue’ as Sausage had once dubbed it, so she’s able to power through cataloging and writing down all the titles of the books so she could at least have a place to start.

She’s lucky; there is a grimoire helpfully labeled, “On The Ways of Demons,” (in more archaic spelling, of course; it just gave her a headache to try to write that way) which has chapters on everything from possession to their abilities to even their creation.

She immediately tucks it under her arm, silently promising to return it to its shelf, then keeps looking. A book on magical artifacts is similarly pocketed, as is a scroll on the battles between Aeor and Exor, and Alinar and Conal. Anything else that might help will have to wait for later. Right now she has to do some research.

Notes: Bit of a shorter chapter this time, exploring a couple of POVs I haven't used yet, but I enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you thought and what you think I should do ending-wise!

#empires smp #empiresblr #writing #chapter twelve

[crybabyjam]

ship: todochako 

rating: g

length: 3k

summary: Todoroki picks up hitch-hiker!Uraraka.

c/w parental death (past), joking about murder

deleted from twitter, written for a former friend

---

The sun beats down heavy as Ochako tightens the straps of her backpack. In it was three changes of clothes, some stale bread, her dead phone.

It was only mid-morning but already she was sweating her absolute ass off.

She runs her fingers through her choppy hair, uneven on one edge because she hadn't had a mirror when she'd taken a rusty pair of scissors to them. Now she wishes she'd just shaved it all off, if only to save herself from a sweaty, overheated neck now.

Her parents had loved it when she'd had long hair.

Ochako remembers how her mom would wash the long strands for her every weekend, even when Ochako huffed and puffed and said she could do it herself.

Her mom always took the time to wash it gently, and condition with something sweet smelling— "Because a sweet girl like you deserves sweet hair, too."

And how her dad would braid it every time she visited, even when Ochako would have to undo it the next day. He would take his strong, worker's hands and lift each length of hair carefully so that he didn't tug on her tender scalp.

Now that they were gone, Ochako didn't see the point in keeping her hair long. It just slowed her down. It just made her /sad/.

She sighs, and steps out of the way when a car plows through a puddle right beside her.

Her legs get soaked, but it isn't anything worse than the day prior, when a truck had soaked her from head to toe.

Ochako just sighs and brushes the muddy water droplets from her already dirty legs.

It's a good thing she was out of socks, or else she'd have to start worrying about her shoes molding at this point.

She's just begun kicking her shoe off, to finish the rest of the trek up to the next city barefoot, when a car pulls up to a stop beside her.

"Are you alright?" A low voice asks, to her left. Ochako startles and twists on her heel.

She almost ignores it, because cars like that didn't stop for hitch-hikers like her.

But the car follows her a few more feet as she slows to a stop.

When she looks over her shoulder, confused, the man in the car tilts his head at her and nods.

"Are you alright?" He repeats. "I saw you get wet."

"Ah!" Ochako yells, and then lowers her voice. Geez, where are your manners, Uraraka? "I'm fine! Sorry."

The man blinks, and Ochako belatedly notices that he has the most stunning, grey eyes. Like darkened silver.

"Why should you be sorry?" He asks with a frown.

And then, he shakes his head.

"Do you need a ride? It's dangerous to get in a stranger's car, but you shouldn't walk around barefoot. Glass would hurt." He pauses, and then adds. "Probably less than murder, but I promise not to murder you."

Ochako is speechless.

But not speechless enough not to /laugh/ at the absurdity of the stranger.

She feels it bubble up in her chest like boiling water, and it floats out of her ugly, like when a pot spills the water and burns on the stove burner.

The man just watches, silent, as she wipes tears from her eye and keeps on laughing. He just leans against the steering wheel and waits patiently, face completely deadpan.

He's /serious/, and that just makes it funnier.

She gasps for breath as she leans against his car, one shoe falling to the pavement and skipping beneath the undercarriage, shit.

Ochako's laugh starts up again as she drops to her knees to retrieve it.

When she comes back up, knees blackened by sidewalk dust, and hands darkened by asphalt, the man is smiling. Just barely.

"I guess murder /would/ hurt more than stepping on glass." She agrees. "Depending on the type of murder."

He murmurs the words underneath his breath, eyebrows furrowing.

"You're right," he says, troubled.

She leans into the rolled down window, arms crossing to hide the ripped hem of t-shirt.

"You sure you /promise/ not to murder me? I kind of need my life."

Well. All things considering, it was pretty much all she had left. She couldn't exactly afford the house after her parents died. They hadn't been able to finish the down payments, and none of them (including Ochako) had enough savings to keep her afloat.

So, hitch-hiking. Walking to nowhere and hoping for more.

A few miles in an air-conditioned car was more than what she had, so she'll take it.

The man turns serious, though. The smile wipes off of his face— not replaced with a frown, but replaced with another deadpan look. He nods his head, making eye-contact the entire time, and says,

"I promise not to murder you."

Well.

He promised, at least. Ochako still had a little bit of mace in her pocket, if she needed it.

So she gets in the car.

---

His name is Todoroki Shouto and he has an open duffle bag of yen, two pillows with embroidered pillowcases, a shattered phone, and a half-full photo album in his backseat.

Ochako stares at the photo album instead of the other three things, because she definitely does not want to get murdered, thank you very much.

He was a cute baby. Two-toned hair from birth, and big eyes that only had one expression: wide. Ochako traces her ragged thumb nail across one of the pictures, where he's covered in cake frosting at his second birthday, and accidentally creases the polaroid image.

She hurriedly flips the page.

"Are you hungry?"

"I'm fine," Ochako mumbles, ignoring her tummy which immediately begins to grumble in argument. She flips another page to muffle the noise, and comes across more empty pockets than full ones.

From the way there's the edge of one polaroid still caught in one of the slots, Ochako assumes that they used to be just as full as the rest.

She flips to the back, and a roll of film flops into her lap.

"Do you even still have a camera for this?" Ochako asks, holding the strange, almost novel-looking thing up to the waxing light of the returning sun. Then she brings it back down to the shadows in case that might ruin the film inside, oops.

"At home," Todoroki says, low. Her shoes are in his lap, because he wanted her to have more room to look at the photo album. Ochako had tried to just place them on the floor of the car, but he looked so earnest in his offer that she hadn't been able to say no without feeling bad.

Besides, she had a feeling he was pretty harmless. Weird, but who wasn't?

"Oh, are you moving or something?" Ochako asks, and then immediately grimaces at the invasion of privacy. "I mean… 'cause of the stuff in your backseat."

"Moving…" Todoroki repeats, focusing on the road. They're driving slow enough that almost everyone passes by them, but Ochako got pretty motion-sick so she appreciated it.

Todoroki leans back in his seat, both hands at the very apex of the steering wheel. It's outlined in a leather cover and is so shiny that it almost looks metallic. Expensive as fuck, probably.

Everything about him looked pretty expensive, actually. The car was brand new, from this year. Still had the new smell and everything.

Ochako was actually pretty glad he insisted on the shoe-thing, if only to prevent mud stains.

Although his pants /did/ look pretty designer. Ah, fuck.

"Yes," Todoroki says, after the long moments of silence. "I'm moving."

"Oh! That's… fun. That's fun!" Ochako nods.

Todoroki turns them off of the road, and pulls into a parking spot. Ochako blinks past the raindrops on her side of the window, and squints out at the illuminated signs.

A restaurant. Ah, /fuck/. Ochako pats her shorts for her wallet, as if she could even /pretend/ it had money in it. All it had was her ID (almost expired) and a coupon for leg waxing.

"Do you want to come in with me?" Todoroki asks, turning to her completely. The seatbelt gets caught, and it does that thingy it does where it locks and gets tighter until you take it all the way off. He doesn't seem to mind.

Ochako smiles, though even she can feel how strained it is. "Ah, I'm fine. I should probably go actually, but thank you for the ride. The rain should stop soon, so…"

"Oh."

Todoroki frowns, glancing at the arm rest between them. He's engaged the parking brake even though they aren't on an incline, and Ochako's smile relaxes to something more real.

"It was really nice to meet you," she says. "I'd give you my phone number but I kinda didn't pay the bill." (Since, uh, last year, but he didn't need to know that.)

"It was nice to meet you too," Todoroki says. "I can buy you food."

"Oh," Ochako parrots, dumbly. Her eyes dart to the yen-bag and she hurries to shake her head. "I couldn't—"

"I don't mind. It's my dad's money— and he hates me. And I hate him, so." Todoroki finally takes off his too-tight seatbelt and it rattles noisily as it smacks against the car door.

"I…"

Ochako isn't sure how to approach /that/ particular landmine. Nor is she sure how she's supposed to resist free food. When had she last eaten. Two days ago, or something? She'd kinda been ignoring it, but the walking helped.

Now that she's technically resting, she can feel her tummy about to throw a conniption.

Todoroki blinks his wide eyes at her as he waits, not making a move. His blinks are slow, like a cat, and his eyes flicker back and forth between her own.

She sighs heavily, but a grin is already parting her lips. "You're a strange one, Todoroki."

"Am I?"

"I don't have any money, so you have to pay for all of it," she warns.

"I will."

"And I eat a lot! I haven't eaten in a while."

"Okay."

"And… and I want my shoes back."

Todoroki hands her the shoes. There's mud residue on his pants and the bottom of his shirt.

But he has a small smile on his face as he watches her struggle to put her shoes on in the closed space, so maybe it was alright.

---

Shouto watches as Uraraka stuffs two donut holes in her mouth, licking away the powdered sugar that paints across her lips. It looks like snow when it dusts down to her shorts, and smears chalky residue on her thighs.

He hands her a napkin, and she blushes pretty like a sunset paints ocean water pink when it sets at night.

"Sorry for the mess," she says quietly.

"It's okay. Is it good?"

"It's good!" She wiggles in her seat, and it reminds Shouto of a really happy hamster. "Do you want some?"

She's very beautiful. Her hair is cut in a way he's never really seen before, but it frames her face nicely. He likes it more than his almost-bowl cut. Some of her hair tickles across her shoulder, but she ignores it as she holds a donut hole out to him with a toothpick.

She keeps holding it as he bites down on the warm, cooked dough. He'd never really been fed by someone before. Well, as a baby— sure. But he had a feeling this was different. Was it different?

Shouto chews thoughtfully, and Uraraka smiles at him. She doesn't seem to mind feeding him. She stabs another one with the same toothpick and holds it out for him again, one hand underneath to catch the crumbs.

"Yummy, right? Thanks for buying them! I'll…" She flinches, interrupting herself. Her smile dims a little, like she'd lost power. "I'd offer to pay you back but, uh… ahaha, you know?"

Shouto /doesn't/ know, but he nods anyway. "I can buy you more," he says, soft. "You can take them with you. When you leave."

She uses the toothpick to prod and poke at the remaining few donut holes. They roll in the leftover powdered sugar at the bottom of the box.

"I'll be alright. But thank you." Her eyes get watery at the bottom lashes, and Shouto frowns. "You've been really kind."

When she laughs next, it's thick like she's close to sobbing. Her voice is shaky. Shouto doesn't like it- liked it much better when she was laughing /happily/ instead.

"Thanks for not murdering me," she adds. "This is probably the most fun I've had in a while."

"You can stay. I can drive you anywhere you want."

"Oh!" Uraraka jumps in her seat, as if he'd yelled it. He hadn't really spoken any louder than before, but he clears his throat and speaks even softer anyway.

"We just met, but I can take you anywhere you need to go. And I have enough money for the both of us. I really enjoy your company."

They're pulled off at an empty lot near a supermarket. Somewhere off in the distance is a park. The children there are loud, voices echoing in the evening ambiance.

Uraraka looks out towards the noise, but he can see her swallow heavily.

"That's kind of dangerous, isn't it? We just met."

She says it like how she says other things that are meant to be teasing. He nods anyway.

"It is. You can drive, if that makes you feel better. Or you can sit in the backseat. I would have bought a bigger car if I knew I would meet you today."

She laughs again, starting with a snort and ending with a giggle. It makes his heart beat faster in his chest, and he isn't sure if he's nervous or happy to hear it.

"What if /I'm/ the murderer?" Uraraka stabs one of the donut holes and brings it up to her mouth. She smiles at him when he frowns, and then smiles wider when he shrugs.

"If it happens, it happens."

"/Todoroki/." She slaps her palm against her forehead and sinks down in her seat. "That's the most dangerous mindset I've ever heard."

"I'm sorry?" He glances down at her the further she sinks, but she doesn't seem particularly angry. It looks like she's fighting, but on the inside. "It's not that dangerous."

"It's pretty dangerous."

She brushes her legs clean. Sits up straight and looks out the window again. Her breath fans out across the glass, fogging it.

He rolls the window down for her, and she does that snorting laugh again.

"You're a funny guy, Todoroki."

"Am I?"

"You are." Uraraka shifts in her seat, to pull her legs cross-crossed. There's one donut hole left in the box, and she rolls it around a few more times before she pokes it with that same toothpick and shoves it in her mouth.

As she chews, she glares at him. Almost like she can't see him and needs glasses. He leans in closer so that she can find what she's looking for.

"You're funny in both ways. Weird… but you make me laugh."

She closes up the box, fitting the toothpick between her teeth so that she can absently chew on it.

"So you're… 'moving'," she says, finally. "- and I don't have a home anymore. Where would we even go?"

Shouto glances past the parking lot, at the semi-distant street that is starting to pile with traffic after a brief lull. But his eyes inevitably drag back over to her.

Uraraka stares back, cheeks pink. A small smile grows on her face. She runs her fingernail across the edge of the empty donut box. He'd have to figure out a place to recycle it if he could.

There are so many places they could go. Somewhere warm, towards a beach. Or somewhere quiet, with wide hills and short buildings. To a festival. To a shoe store.

"Everywhere?"

"/Everywhere/?" Uraraka shakes her head, exasperated. "What about when we run out of money?"

Shouto shrugs. Uraraka laughs again. Her hand drifts to the middle console, palm up, and Shouto watches it for a while.

Then she leans over to grab his hand. Her fingers are warm, rough at the tips but soft everywhere else. She would look pretty in nail polish. /Prettier/, rather- if it were possible.

He maybe had a crush on her. Was this what love felt like? Soft hands and warm smiles? He liked it.

"I-"

She interrupts by leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. It's soft, like a feather landing on snow. "Take me everywhere, then. And then I'll give you my answer."

Shouto, dazed, touches his fingers to his cheek. He forgets to stop holding her hand, so hers come along with it. She doesn't seem to mind. "Your answer?"

"On whether or not I'll stay," she says, cheeky. "So you'd better make it a fun ride."

Shouto squeezes his other hand down on the steering wheel, if only to keep his heartbeat in his veins so that the organ doesn't leap out of his chest and act a fool. He accidentally steps on the gas, and the car revs in protest.

Uraraka laughs again. She tightens her hold on his hand and pulls it back down between them. He squeezes it back.

And when they get back on the road again, fifteen minutes later, Uraraka has gone from laughing to singing loud to the radio and dancing in her seat. She's pure joy.

---

It stops raining, and the world feels brighter.

#todocha #todochako #bnha #boku no hero academia #long post #writing tag #fanfic

[anon-e-miss]

Primus Help the Outcasts, 7

It took an orn before SPS came. Prowl felt too weak to even shudder when Punch knocked on the door and explained who had come. He opened the door for them, failing to cooperate stood to cost him as much as compliance could.  They had enjoyed an orn of peace before the agency had come and Prowl supposed that was more than he should have expected. Punch scowled at the backs of the femme, an enforcer, and the mech, the inspector. Prowl felt marginally better for the support, only marginally though. It did not seem to please the inspector or the enforcer but Punch lingered as they made their introductions. A report had been made, etc. Concern for the mechlings, etc. There was nothing to do but let them in. Standing was too tiring, however and once they came inside, Prowl returned the couch. Thanks to Jazz and his procreators, there was fuel in the pantry and the dispenser and the mechlings had berths with rumbled blankets. Prowl was not inclined to harangue them over making the berth.

“Where are the mechlings?” The inspector designated Heavyfoot asked.

“Downstairs,” Prowl replied. “They are playing with our neighbours. The Twins are their friends.”

“I can fetch’m,” Punch offered.

“I do need to see them,” Heavyfoot said.

“Thank you, Punch,” Prowl said. For a few moments, he was alone. The inspector looked around the living room and kitchen. There was nothing to find fault in. Prowl told himself this again and again.

“O’gin?” Bluestreak asked with an anxious whine when he saw the intruders. He rushed to the couch and crawled into Prowl’s lap.

“Everything is fine, Bluestreak,” Prowl lied. “Heavyfoot is here to ensure you are healthy.”

“Whatever,” Smokescreen said and he walked right past the inspector to join his brother and originator on the couch.

The inspection continued along the same vein. Prowl stayed on the couch as the habsuite was documented. He did not know what was going on in Heavyfoot’s helm. There was no fault to be found in the habsuite. They had everything a sparkling or youngling could need and he had Jazz and his procreators to thank for that. Knowing all of this did not ease his anxiety all that much. It seemed to him like Heavyfoot was digging to find something he could find fault in. Smokescreen bristled when the inspector examined the shrine their little family had set up together that first mega-cycle. The enforcer, designated Chromia, watched without speaking. Prowl found this silence suffocating.

“I’ll just need to speak to the mechlings, one at a time,” Heavyfoot said. “Alone.”

“Not a fragging chance,” Smokescreen replied. He tucked himself into Prowl’s side.

“This is important, Smokescreen,” the inspector said.

“I am not going into a room alone with you,” Smokescreen hissed.

“I can sit in as well if that makes you feel safer,” Chromia, the enforcer, finally spoke up. Smokescreen boiled over, EM field exploding in all directions.

“You think being stuck with two of you would be better?” Smokescreen asked, full of indignant anger. “There were three of them.”

“Settle down, mechling,” the enforcer said.

“Frag you,” Smokescreen snapped back.

“Language, Smokescreen,” Prowl cautioned. He held Smokescreen and Bluestreak in his arms. “You will not win this particular battle, Heavyfoot. Smokescreen was molested by a trine in Praxus. Bluestreak was forced by others to observe the massacre of our home. They are not comfortable with strangers.”

Heavyfoot was not pleased in the least but faced with two shutdown mechlings, he had no choice but to ask his  questions. Prowl was offended by them but did not so much as vent to signal his displeasure. Thank Primus, Jazz had insisted they write a formal lease. Twelve quartexes had been marked as prepaid. Providing this to Heavyfoot gave Prowl a little comfort. He could prove his creations had housing. He could prove they had fuel. Though he had paid for none of it, Jazz insisted it was all his. Bluestreak refused to give more than one glyph answers. He was a chatty mechling with those he was comfortable with but he was almost mute with strangers. Smokescreen answered but his contempt for the inspector was not remotely hidden. When asked, Prowl provided their school reports. There were no faults to be found in them either, both his creations were doing well in school. Imagining the reports from Iacon might be petitioned for later, Prowl provided them, along with the reports from their school.

“I want them seen by a medic,” Heavyfoot said.

“I will make an appointment,” Prowl replied.

“I need a report from the medic by the end of next orn.”

“Where shall I send it?”

They left. Prowl released a slow vent and gave his creations a long hug. He was not unhappy with the suggestion his creations see a medic. Having regular physicals was not a negative at all. The mechlings did not have a primary physician, but perhaps Jazz could recommend one for them. Smokescreen might be difficult to convince to cooperate but a basic physical did not require too much servos on exam. They would talk about it. Prowl would prepare him for it. Together, they would find away. There was a knock at the door and Smokescreen peeled away from Prowl’s side. Before Prowl could set Bluestreak aside, Smokescreen walked to the door.

“Hey, Smokey, y’all good?” It was Jazz.

“Yeah,” Smokescreen replied. “He snooped everywhere and asked a bunch of stupid questions.

“He is trying to make sure I can look after you,” Prowl said. “I really have not been. Not well.”

“You’ve given us everything, O’gin,” Smokescreen said. “You’d bleed your frame dry to fuel us.”

“He wants them to see a medic,” Prowl explained to Jazz. Smokescreen lovingly brushed his crest against Prowl’s and sat at his side again. “Can you recommend them?”

“Lifeline takes care of the Twins,” Jazz said. “She’s got a good way wit’em. I’ll give ya here ID, ‘n put in a good glyph for yer mechlings.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you two wanna stay up here wit yer ori?” Jazz asked.

“Yeah,” Smokescreen said. “Maybe we can watch a movie?”

“Of course,” Prowl replied.

“If the Twins want to come up, they could watch it with us?” Smokescreen offered. “If they want to leave their game. That’s okay, right O’gin?” “They would be welcome.”

Jazz smiled. Less than a bream later the mechlings returned carrying large bowls of popped gears. Prowl had not spent much time around them. They were energetic mechlings, good friends to his creations. By speaking to their progenitor, they had put all this into motion and Prowl was grateful for their generous sparks. When the popped gears were finished, Sideswipe ran downstairs for more. Dinner would not be so long, but the mechlings had good appetites. His could not get enough. Sideswipe returned with the bowls filled and a message from his grandprocreators. As with every mega-cycle, Prowl and his creations were invited to dinner. Prowl knew it was not a summons, not like his progenitor might have done, but he did not feel comfortable declining. Though he worried they were too generous. Maybe, he did not want to decline either. These mechanisms had saved his family. They were good to his creations. They were a tie to his originator. No, Prowl did not want to decline.

It came as a bit of a surprise when the Twins stayed through three movies. They jostled each other, they snickered, they laughed and they lured Bluestreak off Prowl’s lap with their laughter. Prowl felt much better when Bluestreak laughed. Smokescreen made a mellow dramatic sigh when Sideswipe begged for the last of the popped gears. The youngling handed the bowl over with a grinn. These mechlings brought Smokescreen out of his shell just as well as they did Bluestreak. Jazz knocked when he returned. He always knocked. As there were still a couple of breams left of the movie, he lingered. His presence did not disturb Prowl.

“Wash,” Prowl ordered and the mechlings bolted together for the washracks. Jazz chuckled at their antics.

“Ya a’ight?” Jazz asked. “If ya need references for SPS, ya got ‘em.”

“I think he came expecting an empty fuel dispenser and some rags on the floor for a berth,” Prowl replied. “He was not happy that Smokescreen would not speak without me present. I do not believe he appreciated the implication behind Smokescreen’s discomfort.”

“Mechling’s got a right not to trust,” Jazz said. “Those mechlings got right not to trust.”

“He trusts you,” Prowl said. “He doesn’t flinch around you.”

“I realized somethin’d happened to ‘m,” Jazz replied. “So when we started out wit the cyber-violin, I talked ‘m through how to hold the instrument. He knows I ain’t just gonna touch’m. I ain’t gonna make some excuse to tough ‘m.”

“Thank you, for respecting him.”

“Scrap, he deserves it,” Jazz said. “The Feast starts in two mega-cycles. I hope ya know y’er welcome to join us at our shrine ‘n at the table. I thought ya might wanna start at yer own shrine.”

“Are you sure we would not be intruding?” Prowl asked.

“Ya couldn’t,” Jazz promised. “Ya know the Twins want ya there. My procreators wanna fill chests for yer family.”

“Oh,” Prowl said. His spark quivered. It felt like too much. It was too much but was his pride was not greater than his love for his creations. “I cannot give them anything.”

“Y’ve given ‘m everything,” Jazz replied, gently. “They know it. They see it, Prowl.”

“Thank you,” Prowl said.

The mechlings reappeared and they all descended to the bottom floor for dinner. Sprocket declared he had baked an oil cake for dessert and warned the mechlings to leave room. Fuel was a love language for these mechanisms, both making it and sharing it. Prowl took his seat at the table, with his mechlings at his side. Punch served everyone before he served himself. Rumbler transferred an acicular ball from his plate onto Punch’s. It was such a simple act of love, one Prowl could not have imagined his progenitor demonstrating. Lodestar had not loved Camshaft, of course. If he had felt anything for his sparkmate before his great act of treason, it would have been indifference. Prowl knew the only thing Camshaft had felt for Lodestar had been disdain. He had learned to loath his progenitor. The mega-cycle Lodestar had struck Bluestreak was the last time Prowl had seen or spoken to him. When Praxus had collapsed above their helms, Prowl had been emotionally so far removed from his progenitor that he had not felt his loss. There had been no bound to snap.

“Smokey here said rust sticks were a favourite of yours,” Sprocket said as Jazz cleared table with Smokescreen’s help.

“Yes,” Prowl replied. “Since I was younger than Bluestreak.”

“Perfect,” he declared. “Oil cake is rust flavoured.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Prowl said.

“We figured ya could use a pick me up after that inspector came ‘round,” Punch explained.

“Nosy aft,” Smokescreen grumbled.

“He did his job,” Prowl replied. “I do not enjoy being under his scrutiny but his job is important.”

“Y’re more understandin’ than I am,” Punch declared. “I got more ‘n half a processor to deal that so-called Priest some payback. No reason for SPS to come lookin’ here.”

“It’d be deserved,” Jazz replied. “He put servos on Prowl. Probably on other vulnerable mechanisms. He’s due to get his.”

“How’re we gonna get’m?” Sideswipe asked. Prowl flushed as Bluestreak and Smokescreen looked to the Polihexians, something akin to energon lust in their fields.

“We’ll let the law get’m, Sweetspark,” Rumbler said. “Mech like that care a mighty lot for their reputations.”

“I have no evidence,” Prowl offered.

“Ya got me,” Jazz said. “In my image captures. After we get the story to the press, ‘m bettin’ we’ll get mechanisms comin’ outta from every corner to tell their own stories.”

“They will not care,” Prowl said. Not about him, was left unspoken.

“They will,” Jazz said. “Since I intended to make a Primus damned nuisance o’ myself til they do.”

#maccadams #primus help the outcasts #ficlet #anon-e-miss writes #tf jazz #tf prowl

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Pt.4

Learning to Breathe

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)   x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (past?)    Word count: 2600

Summary: You must get on the road so things finally start moving. One little thing tho - you really need some clothes of your own. ...yay?

Warnings: swearing, amnesia, Dean being Dean being themselves

The briefest guide to SPN characters of Team Free Will (at the end of the post)

Story masterlist

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You grew tired of staring at the screen after a while. There was so much information to look up, but you didn’t even know what you should be looking for. You had to mentally confirm Dean’s earlier words – brains were weird, like really freaking weird. You couldn’t remember your favourite drink or food or the reality of soulmates. On the other hand, you knew how to operate a tablet and what the Internet was. The names Natasha and Ryan popped up in your mind with no obvious reason, Rogers downright striking something in you.  

You wondered if any of those had to do something with your soulmate; your mind always ended up with him (and you were ninety percent sure they were a ‘he’), still fascinating you.

You shut the tablet down and eyed the couch. You knew you weren’t tired enough to fall asleep, your brain was too frantic for that, not to mention you had been sleeping (read dead, apparently), so you had your fill, but you didn’t have too many options. Your feet itched to take a walk, but you resisted – Sam had been right, you couldn’t just walk, less so in the middle of a night. The alarm on a nightstand read 4 a.m. You had no clue when Sam and Dean were usually getting up.

You didn’t know the men and their behaviour was puzzling you. They seemed to have never met you before, yet they were inclined to help you – with no outlook for a reward. God only knew why they were doing what they were and maybe quite literally the God. Castiel claimed to an angel after all. They had spoken of monsters. Who the hell were these guys?

It was hard to doubt their words – with little knowledge and unreliable sources on the internet, there was neither confirming nor denying their words. Then again, seeing Castiel just vanish into a thin air was pretty convincing.

You felt a headache starting to build up and decided to lie down on the couch at least, not even daring to hope for getting a shut-eye.

You were out in no time.

Gentle voice of a man you couldn’t remember guided you into the dreamland while whispering senseless words; there was one though that struck something deep inside you, making you jolt awake with a gasp and a faint pleasant taste on your lips.

“Doll…” the soft sigh followed you to full consciousness, echoing in your ears, tingling your spine.

“Morning, Natasha,” a different male voice greeted you and you yelped, spinning its direction, memories of yesterday events flooding your brain.

The tall long-haired man standing in the bathroom door was Sam and the man sitting on the bed, looking like he just woke up, short hair sticking in every direction and expression utterly confused, was Dean.

“S-sam,” you stuttered, your mind elsewhere.

Doll. Doll.

It definitely sounded like an endearment. A pet-name. The man’s voice was laced with emotions, gentle and warm, powerful and tender. You knew him. You must have known him, his name was on the tip of your tongue, begging to roll off and yet no sound came out when your lips parted. You blinked several times, chasing your dream, unable to add neither a name nor a face to the voice.

Your chest tightened, making it hard for you to breathe in, an inexplicable fear squeezing your lungs, sudden tears gathering in your eyes.

“Natasha?” Sam’s voice sounded from distance, strangely muffled. “Natasha? What’s wrong? Can you hear me?”

Your eyes automatically snapped up when a gentle hand appeared on your shoulder; Sam’s face was blurry, making you blink the salt droplets away.

Then, as if someone snapped their fingers, the suffocating feeling vanished and you welcomed the change with a fierce inhale.

“Natasha?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you panted. “I’m fine. I’m okay. Sorry to scare you first thing in the morning,” you tried to smile at him, probably failing.

He gave your shoulder a hesitant squeeze, his green-brown eyes mirroring concern. He exchanged a glance with Dean, who seemed way more awake than a minute ago.

“You good, kid?” he threw at you, his eyebrows furrowed.

Kid? Fire Princess? Sweetcheeks? What would come next? The ‘doll’ one? You hoped not.

Funnily enough, the addressing brought you back to reality better than anything else, your mind set straight; well, as much as it could be when you still didn’t know your own name.

Dean behaviour towards you was different than Sam’s and you couldn’t tell whether you liked better or not – it was just… different. And it ignited a spark inside you.

“I’m good, dad,” you hummed back, raising one corner of your lips, this time succeeding.

“Looks like she’s alright,” Dean smirked at Sam and the taller man rolled his eyes.

“It was just… a strange dream. It was probably nothing,” you explained, which caused Sam to finally release you. You found yourself missing the soothing weight of his hand and wondered what it said about you.

“Okay. We should get something to eat and get on the road. Dean?”

“Food. Coffee. Then think,” the man explained, making you chuckle. You stomach growled in agreement, blood rushing to your cheeks at that.

“Sounds good.”

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Running the facial recognition brought no results, much to Sam and Dean’s annoyance. It was ‘all quiet at Castiel’s front’, which was a statement you didn’t quite understand, but you assumed the expression was a private joke.

In other words, you had no clue who you were besides your soulmarks, the made-up name and a pleasant male voice following you from your dreams – not that you shared that with either of the brothers.

The name on the other hand….

“Uhm…” you started intelligently, as Dean and Sam were finishing their coffee (and yours, because you found out that coffee was not quite your thing), catching their attention. “I looked up some names common in the US and… uhm, Rogers-“

“Okay. That’s cool. Common enough, not too obvious like Smith. Good choice, Nat.” Dean glanced at you briefly. “You don’t mind being called Nat, right? ‘Cause I will call you that, it’s shorter.”

You blinked, confused. Huh? What did Dean mean? “Good choice…?”

“Well, yeah. We need to make you an ID. We should be heading to the bunker…” Dean mumbled absently, staring into the cup as if he wished there was more of that disgusting liquid.

“ID? Like… a fake one? You can do that?!”

They could make a fake ID? Seriously, who were they? Was Dean and Sam even their real names? You tried not to panic, because they had been nothing but kind to you, seemingly genuine and honest, but… but.

“You need to have one. We could just drop you at a police station and call it a day, but we think it’s better if you stay with us. For that, you need an ID,” Sam hurried to explain and you honestly didn’t know how to react.

You didn’t like the idea of lying about your identity to anyone, then again, you couldn’t remember your actual identity and apparently had been brought back from the death, so you were out of options so to speak.

“Okay,” you sighed, ignoring the unpleasant knot in your stomach. “You talked about… a bunker?”

Which didn’t sound ominous at all. Or creepy. Nope.

What did they do for living again?

“Yeah. It’s our base of operations.”

“For?” you urged Sam, your shoulders tense. Here it came; the fearsome reveal of the truth. Sam sighed and eyed you warily, as if agreeing with your unspoken thoughts.

“This is gonna sound crazy… but the unhuman things we talked about? We hunt them. We are finding strange crimes all over the country and go there to investigate them, finding the ‘cause’, which usually is some kind of a… monster….”

“And you kill the monster,” you finished breathlessly, feeling your heart jump to your throat.

Wow. Wow. You had no idea what to say to that announcement. There was no doubt Sam wasn’t lying. Why would he even make up such thing? They were killing monsters… things that were hurting people. It was unimaginable, incredible and impossible to wrap your head around, but strangely, it kinda…. made sense.

It only meant one thing.

“So… you’re heroes,” you exclaimed breathlessly, astounded.

The brothers stared at you blankly, frozen at your words.

What? What did you say wrong? They couldn’t be offended at that, right?

Dean chuckled and patted your shoulder. “Thanks, kid. I wish more people saw it this way…”

“Oh,” you paused, your mind racing. Right. They were able to make fake IDs. They probably didn’t have the jurisdiction to do what they did. And they were probably impersonating police officers of something like that to ‘investigate’, which meant they were technically outlaws. The revelation should give you creeps… but somehow, it didn’t. Knowing the truth actually calmed your nerves.  It probably had everything to do with the fact that knowing anything at all was better that knowing nothing – which seemed to be the standard for you now. “Right. Your lives must be peachy. Thanks for having me nevertheless.”

Now you most definitely broke them, didn’t you? They looked like you broke them. Dean’s expression was wary as he stared at you blankly and you shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“That’s it?” he asked, his green eyes looking like seeing the bottom of your soul. Ha! Was that a thing? Could he see your soulmate there?

Never mind…

“Uhm… yeah?”

Dean turned to Sam who was watching you with equally weirded out expression on his face and met Dean’s gaze as the shorter brother spoke up again.

“I love her.”

Your eyebrows shot up at that, but you recognized he wasn’t exactly confessing his undying love to you. Yet, you couldn’t deny that both brothers seemed happy about your reaction. It was strange, but all of what they were apparently doing, the way they lived… it didn’t feel that unreal.

For all you didn’t remember about your life and the world in general, you couldn’t help a distant feeling that there was a certain level of insane you should be used to.

Momentarily, you were grateful for that, because otherwise accepting all of this madness might actually cause you to fold like a house of cards. Instead, you just shrugged when Sam looked at you, relieved.

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Breakfast absolutely was the most important meal of the day for Sam and Dean. You spent almost an hour with it, but you couldn’t complain – they fed you, they clothed you (though the way they did was beginning to be a problem, people stared and you didn’t really feel comfortable wearing that), they were patient with you not knowing shit… . You didn’t want to be too much of a burden to them; there wasn’t much you could pay them back with. At least not yet.

You were in the town of Clayton in Ohio. You somehow understood that it was in the United States, you knew there was such thing, but you were glad to have it shown in a map – not that it told you much. The names of towns and cities didn’t remind you of anything. Nothing seemed familiar.

It sucked.

Apparently, the famous bunker Dean had mentioned was in Lebanon, Kansas, which was about a 13-hour drive. You were horrified, but once again kept your mouth shut, knowing very well that you had no right to say a word besides ‘thanks’.

You obediently climbed on a backseat of a fancy black car, not forgetting to compliment it instinctively. Dean flashed you a pleased grin, patting his ‘Baby’ on the roof before taking the wheel.

Funnily enough, he pulled over after what could be five minutes, earning himself your puzzled gaze. Huh? Sam seemed equally confused until he looked outside, nodding and catching your eye in the rear-view mirror.

“So, Natasha… ready to do some shopping?”

You weren’t; apparently, Dean wasn’t either, because he excused himself, taking a beeline with the car to get gas and left you alone with slightly uncomfortable Sam.

“I… I promise that when you manage to… help me get on my feet anyhow, I’ll pay you back,” you said quietly, worrying your teeth over your lower lip.

Sam quickly fixed his expression, his face inviting once more. It made you feel worse. He was suffering just like his finances… wait, how did they get finances? People didn’t pay them for what they were doing, were they?

“Don’t worry about that. I’m just wondering if I’m the right person to help you with shopping.”

You chuckled at that, imagining Sam carrying tens of shopping bags.

“I won’t need much, Sam. In fact, I wouldn’t need anything really-“

“Absolutely not,” he shook his head, his long hair swaying around his head. It was cute. “You need your own clothes. Dean’s too big and… his wardrobe is not exactly for women.”

“Well, I probably should merge with the crowd, right? And you’re the only crowd I know, so…” You looked around the shop, a slow smile spreading on your face when you found what you were looking for. You held up a female plaid shirt, clearly surprising Sam if his confused expression was anything to go by. “What do you think?”

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Shopping wasn’t terrible; you only picked necessities, blushing like a tomato (did you like tomatoes?) when you headed to certain department Sam didn’t dare to follow you to. You didn’t bother with cosmetics – you could use theirs and as far as you were concerned, you didn’t need the particular set of supplies for women just yet.

It took you only half an hour, Dean already waiting in front of the shop in his Chevrolet, lightly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in a catchy tune. He grinned a boyish smile when he saw you, not at all bothered by your presence and continued enjoying the music from the radio. He was downright adorable.

Two men built like rocks who hunted monsters for living and you both found them cute within an hour. They were incredible goofballs. You loved it.

“Look at you, all in plaid and yet looking like a woman,” he hummed and your cheeks coloured in intense red.

“Dean, shut up,” Sam scolded him, eyebrows furrowing as he circled the car and took the shotgun seat.

“What?” Dean complained, turning his palms up. “That was a compliment.”

“It was accepted,” you assured him and smiled at both him and Sam, which caused the driver gesture towards you as if he was saying ‘see?’ to Sam – he only rolled his eyes in response.

“You don’t mind music, do you?”

“Not at all,” you replied to Dean, not even considering a different answer. Even if had been annoyed at it, you sure as hell wouldn’t say.

“I might actually love you, Nat,” Dean threw over his shoulder, staring the engine. “Oh and we’re not heading to the bunker. I found us a case-“

A case? As in… a monster case?!

“We already have a case!”

“It’s witches, Sammy. I couldn’t ignore that.”

You caught Sam’s expression in the rear-view mirror, his nose scrunched in disgust, which spiked your interest despite the worries twisting your gut.

“Oh God, I hate those.”

“As do I, Sammy, as do I,” Dean agreed grimly. “It’s in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Oh and Garth agreed to make Nat an ID and deliver it to Bedford, which is on our way.”

Your lips parted in silent shock. What? That fast? Who was Garth? Also… just how much Dean managed to do while Sam was playing your walking wallet?

“Good. Thanks for taking care of that.”

“Thanks,” you echoed Sam’s words, too taken aback to speak out loud. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Sure thing, Nat. Sure thing. Now let’s get this show on the road.”

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Part 5

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Heya, lovlies!

I’m not posting another chapter for at least a week, because life, but I hope tha wait will be worth it. We’re gonna take a step back and see how Steve has been doing and how spy!Natasha is onto something. Thank you for reading!

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Tags: @cxptain​​​ @smilexcaptainx​​​ , @murdermornings​​​ @irepostthingsiwanttoseelater , @polarcrystall​​​ @eliza5616​​​ @rayofdawnworld @victor-criss-bish​​​ @skychild29​​​  @elysianecho​​​ @simmisblog​​​ @scentedsongrebel​​​ @orions-nebula​​​, @sergeantrosabellaswan​​​ @songofcosplay​​​, @ilovesupersoldiers​​​ @wxstedhexrt​​​ @silver-winter-wolf​​​ @guardian-tn @janieavalos  @vxidnik​​​, @patzammit​​​ , @annathesillyfriend​​​ @maravderofthephoenix​​​

Anyone wants in or out, shoot me a message or an ask :)) It’s (usually) no problem ;)

#marvel #supernatural #fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers soulmate #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers au #dean winchester #sam winchester #dean winchester imagine #sam winchester imagine #captain america #captain america x you #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #marvel x spn #captain america x spn #avengers #team free will #spn fanfic #spn fanfiction #mcu #soulmate au #errare humanum est #anika ann

[gloves94]

Sunburn [Prince Zuko] 36

Warnings: FLUFF AHEAD Rating: PG-13   Pairings: Zuko/OC  

Sunburn Chapter M A S T E R L I S T My fan fiction M A S T E R L I S T

"I still can't believe I didn't come out!" Mecha complained as he leaned on the kitchen's counter sulking, about his missing appearance on The Boy in the Iceberg.

"Maybe you'll get your own spin off!" His sister said optimistically as she poured some orange blossom chamomile tea on a cup for him. It was late and the group had been emotionally drained by the time they returned from the theatre. "I mean your days in the Earth Kingdom were no walk in the park, don't even get me started on your scars." She said mentioning the lightning vines that marked his body.

"You think Mai will think they are cool?"  He said looking down at his scarred arm with a dumb grin on his face. "I'm sure she'll lovethem." His sister rolled her eyes and took a sip from her own tea.

Attending to see The Boy in the Iceberghad been a terrible idea and had brought everybody's spirits down. Presently Mecha was trying to make his sister feel better by sharing a midnight cup of tea with her. It seemed like the rest of the gang was asleep. When suddenly the two heard the beach house's front doors open and close. They listened to the approaching footsteps and their mysterious guest entered the small kitchen.

He looked slightly out of breath and not like he had just been sleeping in the least.

"Zuko?" Her brother asked raising an eyebrow. "Where were you?" Tsai asked knowingly, observing he had obviously gone on a little night field trip by himself.

Their eyes met and he inhaled a deep breath.

xxx

Somewhere on the island playwright Pu On Tim author of The Boy in the Iceberg arrived home that evening and to his horror found that everything he loved and owned had either been shredded to bits and pieces or scorched into ashes by fire. He shrieked in fright as he dropped to his knees all of his works, his livelihood, his plays! All destroyed!

xxx

"Nowhere," he answered mysteriously. A blatant lie at that.

"Did you guys hear something?" Mecha asked looking over his shoulder. He could've sworn he heard a distant scream echoing somewhere in Ember Island.

"Right.…"She said narrowing her eyes in suspicion yet deciding to drop the topic. "Do you want some tea?" She asked awkwardly. "Sure," he said softly before walking around the kitchen island counter and taking a seat on the stool next to her. It didn't take a genius to sense the tension that still lingered around the two of them.

"Phew, will you look at the time." Her brother whistled out taking his cup of tea with him as he walked out of the kitchen. “You know what they say early to bed early to rise." He said awkwardly. "Got to go…." He said slowly sliding out of the kitchen area. Of course, not before flashing Zuko a deathly glare which only he caught.

She poured some tea in another cup and he thanked her for it taking a small sip.

There was a heavy silence between them.

"The play.…The actors. Geez, they were terrible. I've seen better shows at the colonial festival. Can't believe they would do that to Love Amongst the Dragons." She broke the silence.

"Yeah," He let out a humorous huff.

Both took an awkward sip of their teas glancing away from each other.

"We should watch it one day. Love Amongst the Dragons?" He suggested quietly. "I'd like that!" she said genuinely at the idea of them going back and seeing an actually decent production in a theater. "When did you have in mind? Before or after your dad makes roast kabobs out of us?" She finished in a pessimistic tone lowering her teacup.

"Let's be real you'd be fine." He smirked a little. If anybody could survive a fire blast from anyone id would be her.

She shook her head and couldn't help but smile a little. He gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze and let his hand rest there for a moment. It was nice. This was nice. Having him in her life again like this. Especially now that he was so grown. It was almost as if he was a completely different person than when they had first met…

"It's because of the comet right?" She looked at him oddly snapping out of her train of thought. "The reason why you haven't been sleeping well."

She let out a draining exhale and pressed her forehead against the counter holding the top of her head. He looked around agonizingly. Zuko wasn't good at comforting people. What was he supposed to do? His eyes scanned the room looking for an answer.

'What would Uncle do?'He thought to himself in a brief moment of panic.

"Here," he poured more tea into her cup. "Drink this," he said putting the warm cup in her hand. She rolled her head to the side and looked at him with a weak smile.

"I just have this awful gut-wrenching feeling about that day." She closed her eyes for a moment and once again saw the red skies, the ash raining as destruction and fire consumed the world. "And nobody seems to be taking it seriously. Aang doesn't seem to care, and it's-it's just so stressful." She poured out to him. In a venting fashion.

She shrugged her shoulders a little in an attempt to emotionally compose herself and sit up straight taking a small sip of her tea. As she attempted to push all fear to the back of her head. "You're not wrong to worry." He said comfortingly. She turned at him and felt a flood of emotions pour out. How had he managed to become this person? How had he managed to make her fall so deeply and unmistakably in love with him? She couldn't help but think about the first time they met. Never in a million years would she have imagined that she would feel this way about the irritable prince. She leaned forward craving for more of his comfort. More of him and hugged him tightly. She buried her face on his shoulder. He hugged her back.

"I love-" She was surprised when she was interrupted by a loud, brash shush.

Pulling away from the hug she looked at him confused. "Don't. Don't say it." He said to her in all seriousness both of his hands on her shoulders. She looked at him perplexed.

"You're acting as if we're going to die." He said to her, his brows knotting in concern.

"What if we are. What if we do die?"

He shook his head lightly and closed his eyes not wanting to think about such an abhorrent outcome. No. That would not happen. Hewould notlet it happen. "We won’t." He insisted his grip tightened on her shoulders fingers sinking into her skin.

"But what if we do?" She insisted. A cocktail of strong emotions reflected on her eyes. An exasperated expression on her face.

His molten golden eyes met her light brown ones and they starred intensely at each other. Almost like a show down. Both waiting for the other to make the next move. Who would shoot first?

He saw her open her mouth slightly and clamped a hand over it before she could speak. She let out a muffled sound and looked at him fiercely. "Don't. Say. It. Tsai." He growled out every word separately his face inching dangerously close to hers.

Her eyes narrowed intensely. The slightest of sly smiles playing on his lips. She was determined to say it. She had spent so much time plotting and worrying over how she would confess her feelings for him just for him to have this type of ridiculous reaction? It wasn't fair.

She reached for his hand and removed it from her mouth roughly. She caught the other halfway as he reached for her. She barely managed to get a word out before he silenced her. Roughly smashing his lips against hers. She couldn't help but laugh a little. The impulse so strong it knocked her off her seat. The stool noisily clattering to the floor.

They both fell to the kitchen floor ungracefully.

“Are you okay?” He asked gruffly landing on top of her. He still held both of her hands in his and held them against the floor next to both sides of her head.

She ignored the slight ache from the impact against the floor.

“Zuko I lo-“She was determined. Again, he interrupted her. He kissed her again to silence her and she sighed content relaxing into his warm touch. She wanted to touch him, to hold him, to run her hands through this hair. Maybe pull at it a little…

He pulled away and looked at her with such an emotion that she suddenly felt vulnerable under his golden gaze.  She could feel his thumb stroking the side of her hand gently. She didn’t know someone could ever look at another person with such burning intensity.

“I know.” He admitted his voice gentle, tone soft almost like a whisper. “Tsai. I know.” He repeated. “Don’t say it." He asked her. "Sometimes you don’t have to say anything.”

He removed himself off her and she sat up slightly leaning towards him. She smiled at him sweetly and inclining forward touching his face with her free hand gently.

“You’re right.” She agreed. “Sometimes you just have to feel it.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his face again.

He stood up sluggishly, hoisting her up both still in each other’s arms bringing her to her feet as well.

“It’s late, let’s go to bed.” He mumbled against her arm.

“I won’t be able to.” She said letting go of him and turning away. She already knew that her insomnia will get the best of her. “Come on.” He said with a small love-struck grin as he placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her to her room.

Xxxx

"More ferocious!" Zuko barked, crossing his arms and frowning sternly as he scrutinized over the Avatar’s firebending forms.

Aang furrowed his brow in concentration as he swung his arms, bending arcs of fire from his hands medium flames spitting out. Zuko narrowed his eyes as Aang walked past him, shooting short bursts of fires from his fists.

"Imagine striking through your opponent's heart!"

Aang firebended a large blast in front of him then whirled around to face his firebending teacher, he threw his arms out in frustration. "Ugh! I'm trying. I'm trying!"

"Now let me hear you roar like a tiger-dillo!" Zuko ordered ignoring his student’s complains.

Aang growled and spun away from his teacher, stretching his arms out to the side and throwing his head back as he roared softly, weak streams of fire coming out of his palms and mouth.

"That was pathetic!” His teacher pressed angrily. “I said roar!" He ordered himself roaring as he barked out the command.

You’d think that after last night the prince would be in a better mood. However, it was of imperial importance for Aang to fully master fire bending. Hell, the fate of the world depended on it and there really was no time to waste. Sozin’s comet would be here in three days’ time.

Aang narrowed his eyes in concentration, a determined look on his face as he spun back around, flung his arms out to the side. He tossed his head back, letting out a tiger-dillo worthy ferocious roar out. Fire spewed from his palms and mouth in a violent outburst of flames.

Momo screeched and scurried towards Zuko, hiding behind his legs and lowering his ears in fear.

Zuko crossed his arms and smirked slightly, nodding in approval at his student.

"Who wants a nice, cool glass of watermelon juice?" Katara called out as she finished filling two hollowed out watermelons, holding them up with a sweet smile. It was a particularly hot day making the beads of juice dripping down the curve of the watermelons impossible to resists.

"Ooh, ooh!" Aang turned around with an excited look on his face. His mouth watering at the thought of the refreshing beverage.  "Me, me, me!"

"Hey!" Zuko barked in annoyance, grabbing the back of Aang's sash when he tried to run towards the melon drink. "Your lesson is not over yet!" He held Aang up in a halt.  The younger boy struggled to break free, scowling as he snapped, "Get back here."

"What's the big deal? It's just a short break." Suki shrugged.

“Yeah, and it’s super-hot.” Mecha added before taking a sip from his own watermelon.

"Fine." Zuko scowled. He released Aang and crossed his arms as the young boy dashed up the stairs the fastest that anybody had ever seen him move. He took the watermelon Katara held out to him and drank it greedily enjoying every sip of the refreshing beverage.

"If you want to lounge around like a bunch of snail-sloths all day, then go ahead!" Zuko said barked angrily addressing the group before shaking his head and walking past them and back inside the beach house.

"Maybe Zuko's right." Sokka commented mindlessly. "Sitting around the house has made us pretty lazy. But I know just the thing to do." He set his watermelon aside and stood up slowly before impulsively removing his clothes revealing a pair of shorts underneath. Woah Sokka was ready to go!

"Beach party!"

Xxx

Tsai sat in the kitchen alone enjoying two slices of toast with peanut butter and fire banana slices.

“Good morning,” she said with a sweet smile when Zuko walked into the kitchen.

For what seemed like the first time in forever she actually slept more than seven hours. Even woke up late which was a refreshing change compared to all of the disturbing sleepless nights she had endured.

“I can’t believe he’s not taking this seriously!” The other stepped into the kitchen frustrated and took a seat across from her. “Uh? Bad morning?” She questioned raising an eyebrow.

“It’s Aang.” He sighed sounding frustrated. “You’re right. Everybody is laying around like snail-sloths while the Fire Lord is planning a massive invasion in three days.”

Zuko looked at her oddly when he heard her coughing beating her chest hard as her food went down her windpipe. “What?” She choked in surprise; her eyes wide ‘THREE DAYS?’. He looked at her oddly. “I thought you knew?”

Just like that she lost her appetite. The stress once again knotting in her back.

“The day before the eclipse. Do you remember the meeting I had with my father?”

She nodded slowly following as she did memory of the day before the Black Sun.

“Sozin’s Comet will endow firebenders with the strength and power of a thousand suns. Nobody will stand a chance. My great-grandfather used the comet to wipe out the Air Nomads now my father wants to use it to wipe out the Earth Kingdom. Permanently.”

“What?” seemed to be the only word she could manage to say. Her palms growing sweaty as her mind was once again clouded with that vision of raining ash and a burning sky… It made sense now.

“And you didn’t say anything?!” She said her tone louder than she intended.

“I wanted to speak out against his horrifying plan,” he said quietly bowing his head with shame. “But I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t. You know that my whole life I struggled to gain my father’s love and acceptance, and once I had it. I realized I lost myself getting there. I had forgotten who I was.”

She looked at him with an outraged expression.

“Where’s Aang?” She said rising to her feet.

“I overheard Sokka saying they were going to the beach.”

“… bunch of lazy snail-sloths…” She grumbled under her breath and he saw her reach for the kitchen knife she had used to prepare her breakfast and rush out of the beach house.

Aang wasn’t taking this seriously enough. All he was thinking about was ways to woo Katara and beach parties when the world was about to end in just a couple of days.

“Tsai!” He called after her. “What are you doing?” He asked when he caught up to her. Her strides long and determined as she crossed the center courtyard. “I’m going to teach Aang a lesson.” She said darkly.

She continued in her strides but came to a brief halt. She brushed her hair out of her forehead and let out a sharp breath.

“Doesn’t it make you just want to- “She made a frustrated sound and opened and closed her hands in an aggressive comical gesture “Doesn’t it just makes your blood boil?Aang doesn’t stand a chance fighting the Father Lord!”

“Maybe not, but you do.”

“Me?!” She stepped back. Defeating the Fire Lord was nother destiny. It was Aang’s. Hewas the Avatar. It was hisduty to bring peace and balance to the unstable world that they lived in. Her destiny - She was the Spirit of the Sun and just another girl from the Fire Nation colonies – but her destiny… That was a whole other matter that she still hadn’t pieced together. “Why do you look so shocked? You did break his nose.”

“It was a lucky shot!” She protested. “Besides yeah maybe I can walk through fire but one shock,” she extended out her hand pretending to blast a bolt of lightning at him. “And I’m toast!”

She dropped her arms to the side and shook her head. “If the best I can do is make Aang take things a little more seriously then so be it.”

She pouted a little arm crossed over her chest, butter knife still at hand. “Want to help?”

Xxx

They looked at them sunbathing, surfing, building sandcastles and shapes in the sand. Her type A personality felt triggered by the slacking off. “I’ll take the high-ground.”

Sokka, Aang and Toph were currently looking standing around a massive monster sand blob it seemed like they were laughing at it or at Sokka. Not like it mattered. Aang was about to eat a mouthful of sand.

They watched him like predators. He was scratching his head in confusion pointing at the sand blob saying something.

“Aah!” He yelped shielding himself when a hot burst of fire destroyed the sand sculpture making a sandstorm rain. He turned gawking and saw Zuko leap of the edge of a cliff mercilessly blasting fire in his direction.

The young Avatar shouted in surprise barely managing to dodge the flames as he ran away from the raging prince leaping over an identical sand replica of Ba Sing Se. Zuko landed and continued chasing Aang.

“What are you doing?!” Aang cried out fearfully as he hid behind a sand replica of Appa.

"Teaching you a lesson!" Zuko barked and he swung his fist, sending a stream of fire at the sand sculpture completely destroying it.

Aang looked up and saw the girl with auburn red hair standing on the ledge from where Zuko had leapt down from. She had her arms over her head and appeared to be stretching lightly from side to side.

“Tsai!” Aang yelled for help. “Zuko’s gone mad!”

He jumped away from the beach and up in a rock continuing higher and higher until he stood before the girl.

“Tsai!” He said reaching for her and hid behind her as if she could shield him from the Fire Prince’s wrath. “Zuko’s gone crazy!” He said fearfully. It was then that a glimmer caught his eye. He looked down and saw the knife on her hand. “He’s not the only one.” He saw the smallest of smirks curl on her lip.

She slashed quickly turning around and Aang ducked just in time his eyes wide in surprise. He ran back towards the house as fast as he could both Fire Nationer’s rapidly trailing behind him.

Aang looked over his shoulder heaving as he ran as fast as he could. There was no time to stop and ask questions as panic surged through him. Both of them looked angry as Zuko blasted at his heels. Aang jumped on a rock and then to a palm tree clinging dearly to it. Zuko ran up the rock and flipped jumping off it hitting the ground with a roll and setting the palm on fire. Aang clung to his life as he looked down and saw the girl violently shaking the palm. Aang dove off the palm tree and landed on the roof of the beach house. Without wasting another second Zuko scaled to the roof using the side of the beach house with acrobatic proficiency hot on Aang’s tail.

She looked at the hard task and the corner of her eye twitched slightly. No way in hell she was going up there like that. ‘Yeah… I’m using the stairs.’Huffing she turned and sprinted inside of the house.

Meanwhile on the roof-

"Get a grip before I blast you off this roof!" Aang snapped angrily standing his ground defensively.

"Go ahead and do it!" Zuko snarled in response before thrusting his fist forward, bending a large jet of flames before leaping and kicking another blast at Aang, who twisted away and slid down the sloped crimson roof.

Aang slipped down and went inside a window to a storage room. He panted softly catching his breath as he hid behind a wood dresser. It was then that the roof collapsed as a blast of fire and Zuko fell through landing amongst the broken wood, debris and ceiling titles. He took a guarded stance as he eyed the room carefully seeking for any sign of the Avatar.

Aang stood up slowly and with a quick whirl kicked the wooden dresser towards Zuko sprinting out of the room. Zuko’s fists broke through the dressed destroying it in one firey motion and continued in his pursuit.

Aang ran to the end of the hallway but stopped when a flash of red turned around the corner stopping him in his tracks. He looked in between the two Fire Nationers. He was trapped. Behind him Zuko bend massive arcs of fire creating an infernal tunnel of flames that engulfed the hallway and would soon reach Aang.

He looked forward Tsai coming at him with a knife, his eyes wide with horror as he looked over his shoulder and saw the surging flames. They engulfed him on all sides. Leaping he twisted midair and bending air he extinguished the fire beneath him safely landing.

Aang bared his teeth looking between the two Fire Nationers.

“Enough!” He roared angrily as he created a wind tunnel which smothered all the flames in the room. Zuko yelled in surprise as he was blasted down the corridor and out in a powerful gust of air that shot him through the walls and out crashing against a tree landing on the ground with a painful thud.

Tsai managed to duck just in time stabbing the knife on the wooden floor managing to cling to the ground as the violent air whooshed past her. Aang was distracted looking at the gaping hole in the wall that he didn’t see her attack coming.

“Gotcha!” She pounced on him wrapping an arm around his neck roughly holding the butter knife to his face. He looked at her with a slight scowl his eyes a blend of irritation and confusion.

“What is wrong with the two of you?!” Aang said removing her arm from his body angrily. She shrugged a little and instead placed it on his shoulder as they walked towards the end of the hallway. She combed down her messy hair with her other hand. “We wanted to teach you a lesson,” she said sternly. “You shouldn’t be slacking off.”

They reached the balcony and looked down at Zuko who had landed on a bush and was rubbing the back of his head. She waved at him with a sheepish smile on her face.

‘Of course, she’d caught him.’

"What's wrong with you two?!" Katara yelled as she came around the house, the rest of the group tailing before her as they all stopped before the prince and looked up at the balcony. “You could’ve hurt Aang!”

Aang and Tsai leapt down the balcony one of them landing more gracefully than the other.

“Wrong with us?” Zuko shouted back throwing his hands to the side. “What’s wrong with you?! How can you sit around having beach parties when Sozin’s Comet is three days away!”

They all starred at him blankly.

“Wait- you guys don’t know?” Tsai stepped forward stepping next to Zuko. Everybody was looking at them as if they were lunatics.

“So the comet’s coming. Big deal.” Mecha shrugged crossing his arms over his chest.

"Why are you all looking at us like if we’ve gone crazy?"

"Uh..." Aang sighed and rubbed the back of his head as he stepped forward, "About Sozin's Comet...I was actually gonna wait to fight the Fire Lord until afterit came."

"After?" Tsai stepped forward looking at him in shock. That terrifying vision still replaying continuously in the back of her mind. This explained why Aang had been slacking off so much. What did he think he could just waltz into the Mainland whenever he wanted knock on the Fire Dad’s door and take him down?

"I'm not ready." Aang explained, he glanced at the ground with an insecure look on his face... "I need more time to master firebending."

"And frankly, your earthbending could still use some work too." Toph added with a small shrug and she crossed her arms.

Aang winced and looked away mournfully.

"So... You all knew that Aang was going to wait?" Zuko asked slowly as looked at the others in disbelief.

“How come I didn’t know?” Tsai held the back of her neck. “We discussed it before the eclipse.” Her brother answered with a casual shrug. ‘Even he knew?!’

"Honestly Zuko, if Aang tries to fight the Fire Lord right now, he's gonna lose." Sokka commented then looked over at Aang apologetically, "No offense."

Katara stepped forward before Aang could answer, "The whole point of fighting the Fire Lord before the Comet was to stop the Fire Nation from winning the War." She shrugged and looked at the others before her gaze settled on the scarred prince, "But they pretty much won the War when they took Ba Sing Se. Things can't get any worse."

Oh, how wrong they were.

"You're wrong." Zuko replied flatly. He closed his eyes and turned away from them. "It's about to get worse than you can even imagine."

He proceeded to explain everything he had said to Tsai earlier that they before they decided to teach Aang a lesson.

"I can't believe this." Katara collapsed. Knees growing weak at the horrible realization.

"I always knew that the Fire Lord was a bad guy," Sokka muttered as he wrapped his arm around Suki's bringing her close in a comforting gesture. "But his plan is just pure evil."

Suki shook her head sadly.

“Why do you all think I have been acting like a nut about mine and Aang’s trainings?” Tsai sighed crossing her arms over her chest. “I…” She hesitated in whether she should share the following information with the rest of the group. “The dragons showed me a vision when we were in the Sun Warrior Island. It’s about the day of Sozin’s comet. I saw so much destruction, fire, raining ash- I get this sickening feeling every time I even think about it.” It was almost apocalyptic.

“What am I gonna do?" Aang grabbed his head in distress.

Zuko stood up walking over to Aang. "I know you're scared. And I know you're not ready to save the world." He stopped in front of him. "But if you don't defeat the Fire Lord before the comet comes, there won't be a world to save anymore."

"Why didn't you tell me about your dad's crazy plan sooner?" Aang screeched. “And why didn’t you tell me about your vision?” He demanded.

Aang began pacing nervously both of his hands clenching as knots of stress began to form on his back.

"I didn't think I had to. I assumed that you were still going to fight him before the comet." Zuko replied defensively and he put a hand on his chest and flung the other out to the side. "How were we supposed to know you were going to wait?” The girl called out to him.

"This is bad." Aang muttered as he rubbed his temples as stress and despair began to cloud his consciousness. Aang was there, but not really there. He shook his head and groaned. "This is really, really bad." He collapsed to his knees.

"Aang," Katara said as approached him. "You don't need to do this alone,” You don’t need to this alone.

"Yeah," Toph chipped in with a cocky smirk, walking up to stand next to Katara while the rest of the crew followed behind. "If we all fight the Fire Lord together, we got a shot at taking him down."

“And don’t forget you’ve got something the Fire Lord doesn’t have!” Tsai said animatedly her characteristic optimism coming through.

“What? Something worth fighting for?” Zuko scoffed humorously from behind. His father didn’t need a good reason to destroy an entire civilization. “No,” she shot him a quick glance. “Us!” She said confidently with a cheesy grin.

"Alright! Team Avatar is back!" Sokka cheered pumping a fist up in the air. He pointed at Aang “Air!” then at his sister “Water!” He said confidently. “Earth!” He said turning to Toph. “Fire!” He motioned to Zuko and Mecha.

“Fan, spirit and sword!” He shouted triumphantly. Sokka said picking up a leaf that resembled a blade and handing Suki one that looked like a fan.

“Spirit?Really? I don’t get a prop?” Tsai eyed Sokka with the edge of her lips twitching into a grimace.

Sokka’s leaf sword wilted with his determined expression. Aang turned to look at his friends with a rare serious expression on his face. "Fighting the Fire Lord won't be easy, it's gonna be the hardest thing we've ever done together." He smiled at them, "But I wouldn't want to do it any other way." He said with a small smile.

The group all cheered and came together in a group hug. The Fire Nationers standing idly a couple of feet away from the group glancing awkwardly.

Katara glanced over at them and smiled, "Get over here guys. Being part of the group also means being part of group hugs!"

The Fire Nationers smiled at each other slightly before welcoming in the group hug. Even Appa joined in!

“So, how are we going to do this?” Sokka clapped his hands after the jovial embrace.

“You have to catch him by surprise!” Tsai explained raising her hand. They all chuckled lightly. “What?” She said confused. “I hit him once.” She admitted.

“You what?”Her brother asked with his eyes wide. Everybody’s faces seemed to reflect his surprise. “He tried to set me on fire. I had to do something. So, I used my head.”

“I see,” Sokka scratched his chin. “You stood by the fire waiting for him to lower his guard and then attacked with an elaborate strategy.”

“No,” She deadpanned. “I usedmy head. I headbutted into him.” She rubbed the top of her head remembering the slight pain.

“She’s being modest. She broke his nose.” Zuko said with what sounded like pride in his voice before dropping an arm around her shoulders.

Everybody gawked at the two Fire Nationers beyond confused. It was awkward enough that he seemed proud that she landed a strike on his evil father’s face. Talk about weird dynamics.

“Is this how you two flirt?” Her brother asked just as confused pointing a finger between the two of them.

“I’m just glad you two finally made up.” Sokka let out an exhale. “Now we can double date!” Suki said with an eager smile.

However, this was not the time for that…

“There is one technique you need to know before facing my father...” Zuko stated. Moments later he was teaching Aang how to redirect lightning. Something Tsai’s scarred brother also sat in for. Maybe an individual can survive getting hit by lightning once? But twice?

Xxx

Later that day after a long day of strenuous training the group sat for dinner in the center courtyard. They all sat together mindlessly chattering while eating with scattered conversation. Aang sat a distance away not very hungry poking at his food with his back to his friends.

“I have a surprise for everyone!” Katara rushed in from the corridor holding a rolled-up scroll in her hands. She grinned eagerly as she stood before the group.

"I knew it!" Toph exclaimed as she stopped eating her rice, "You did have a secret thing with Haru!"

Everybody turned to give Toph an odd look.

"Uh...no..." Katara said, giving Toph an equally strange look before waving the scroll she had. "I was looking for cooking pots in the attic, and I found this!" She unraveled the scroll, revealing a painting of a happy baby with a small ponytail playing in the beach’s sand. "Look at baby Zuko! Isn't he cute?" Katara cooed gushing.

Everyone but Zuko laughed at portrait. Tsai stood up taking the scroll from Katara to get a better look at it. Suki leaned over her shoulder also looking at the portrait with a smile. “Awe!” Suki coed.

“You are so cute!” Tsai said touching Zuko’s arm. However, his arms remained crossed as he appeared to be deep in thought a stoic expression on his face despite the compliment.

"Oh lighten up, we’re just teasing." Katara said to him.

Zuko opened his eyes and gave her an irritated look, "That's not me. It's my father."

Everybody fell silent.  Suki cringed and Tsai grimaced as she rolled the scroll up giving Zuko a nervously apologetic look.

"But he looks so sweet and innocent." Suki murmured as she gestured towards the scroll and turned her attention to Zuko.

"Yeah, well that sweet little kid grew up to be a monster." Zuko scoffed and put his own dish down losing his appetite. He rested his arm on his bent knee, "And the worst father in the history of fathers."

Tsai placed a hand on his knees giving him a sad look.

"But he's still a human being." Aang interrupted turning to face the group from the distance. Everybody turned to look in his direction. “You’re going to defend him?” Zuko asked sharply.

Aang abandoned his plate and approached his friends. "I agree with you, Zuko. Fire Lord Ozai is a horrible person and the world will probably be better off without him. But there has to be another way."

"Like what?" Zuko scoffed.

"I don't know." Aang replied with a shrug. His expression brightened and he raised his hands up as if he was holding a bowl. "Maybe we can make some big pots of glue and then I can use gluebending to stick his arms and legs together so he can't bend anymore."

"Yeah." Zuko replied with sarcastic cheer, "Then you can show him all his baby pictures, and all those happy memories will make him good again."

Suki and Sokka sniggered behind Zuko.

"Do you really think that would work?" Aang oblivious to Zuko’s sarcasm asked his voice filled with hope.

"No!"

Aang hung his head and sighed hopelessly. “What if I do it?” Everybody turned back to look at the scarred young man from the colonies in surprise. Tsai couldn’t help but facepalm sometimes she really wanted to hit her brother. “Are you nuts? You’re notthe Avatar. That’s hisdestiny not yoursMecha.”

“I wouldn’t mind- really.” He added darkly.

His sister was about to protest and call him out on his plan for vengeance when Aang interrupted. “Enough lives have been lost. It shouldn’t be this way.”

“But Aang ending this life will save thousands-maybe millions of other lives.” The girl from the colonies tried to reason with him. “How can you measure the worth of one life with all the other ones that could be spared?”

"This goes against everything the monks taught me. I can't just go around wiping out people I don't like." Aang paced nervously in front of the group, his shadow following after him illuminated by the small oil lamp above the courtyard.

"Sure, you can. You’re the Avatar." Sokka stated matter-of-factly dismissing all of Aang’s concerns. “If it's in the name of keeping balance, I'm sure pretty sure the universe will forgive you." He added casually.

"This isn't a joke, Sokka!" Aang snapped in uncharacteristic anger as he whirled around to glare at him. "None of you don't understand the position that I'm in!"

"Aang, we do understand." Katara began in a compassionate attempt to soothe the boy, "It's just-"

"Just what, Katara?!" Aang demanded rudely. "What?!" He roared raising his voice.

"Then when you figure out a way for me to beat the Fire Lord without taking away his life, I’d love to hear it!” Aang threw his hands up in the air in frustration as the stress of the approaching date of Sozin’s Comet consumed him before angrily stomping away.

"Don't walk away from this, Aang!" Katara chased after him with a strained tone. When a hand’s grip held her back. She turned and saw Zuko standing behind her.

"Let him go." He advised and he let his hand fall from her shoulder, "He needs time to sort it out by himself."

Tsai looked in concern at Aang’s retreating figure from the distance. Her own stress building up tensing her body knotting her back as thoughts of an infernal sky and raining ash clouded her consciousness….

Xxx

Aang sat on the third floor’s western balcony meditating on his choice. Before him he had placed four lit candles, some water, citrus fruits and nuts as an offering to the spirits to guide and bring wisdom to him.

He sat on a meditating pose the only sound he could hear were the tugging and pulling waves of the ocean. Momo quietly sleeping next to him.

When a voice pulled him from his meditation.

“Hey, I love mandarins.”

Aang snapped his eyes open and glared. “Don’t touch those Tsai! It’s an offering for the spirits.” He said irritated. The girl was already peeling the skin of her midnight snack.

“Well, lucky you, I am a spirit and I accept your offering.” She smiled at him softly before walking and leaning on the balcony’s railing. He noticed she was wearing a simple loose-fitting sleeping shirt and the pair of maroon brown shorts she usually wore underneath her everyday Fire Nation robes.

“If you’ve come to persuade me to take the Fire Lord’s life, save your breath. I’m not changing my mind.” He said seriously with a light scowl on his features. She popped a mandarin slice in her mouth and let out a weak laugh. “I know that. That’s not why I’m here.”

He looked at her oddly. A feeble smile on her features. “I think there’s another way… I’ll help you Aang.” She looked at him gently.

He looked at her confused. “How?” He asked with a deflating hopeless breath his shoulders dropping at his sides. “Dunno,” she said with a light shrug. She looked away avoiding his probing gaze. Aang had a feeling she knew more than what she was letting on. “I can walk through fire. That’s got to count for something.”

xxx

Tsai walked back to the guest room she was sharing with Suki, Katara and Toph. She was about to enter the room but stopped in the hallway. A dim light coming from underneath another one of the bedroom door’s in the hallway caught her attention. It was Zuko’s bedroom.

Zuko heard a light knock on his door. His eyes looked up from the parchment on which he was writing on it and saw the door slide open.

He turned and saw Tsai standing underneath the door frame. There was a rare gloom clouding her expression.

“Can… Can I stay with you tonight?” She asked bashfully almost meekly.

“S-Sure.” He stammered pushing away the parchment and brush away from him. He hated himself for stammering and turned away hoping she wouldn’t notice his flustered expression.

He had never slept alonein the same room with a girl that wasn’t his sister. Maybe they had shared many nights together, but his Uncle Iroh or someone, anybody else was always there in between them as a buffer. For some reason it seemed like such a vulnerable act to him. Truly surrounding your consciousness to lay alongside another person. It was scary…

“Okay” She chirped with a small smiled and walked towards the large bed slipping underneath the covers turning on her side. “Goodnight.”

For some….

Feeling frustrated Zuko fought the urge to slam his head against the desk he was currently using. His adolescent concerns overshadowing his juvenile thoughts and emotions. ‘What would Uncle do? What would he say?’ He thought to himself and then grimaced when he actually gave that statement some thought. Never mind that he said shaking his head thinking of the lost advice he once whispered to him in Ba Sing Se.

He turned off the candle that lit the room and carefully slid into the bed next to her. Careful not to make too much noise or move too much. He lay stiffly with his arms at his sides and turned to look at the back of her red head in the darkness. Turning on his side he mindlessly reached for a strand of it toying with the wavy lock between his fingers.

He called her name softly.

“Hm?” She mumbled sleepily.

He was quiet. She could feel him still twirling a strand of hair in his hand. She rolled over slowly and looked at him. Both now face to face. The sounds of waves echoing in the distance.

“Tsai… I…” He was at loss of words. When she raised a hand to his lips gently silencing him. “Don’t say it.” She hushed heavy-eyed with a slight smile on her face. He didn’t even realize he was smiling back. He felt strange, soft inside, warm. It was a novel feeling he welcomed. His hand reached for her fingers.

She threw an arm around him holding him close, nuzzling against his shoulder an arm wrapping around her bringing her in close. “Come here my little fire ferret.” She said in a teasing tone.

“Ugh. Please do notcall me that…” He grumbled in protest. She couldn’t help but laugh a little at his response. “My… tiger monkey?” She said playfully. “If I’m a tiger monkey then you’re a koala sheep.”

“A koala sheep?” She asked almost incredulously raising an eyebrow at him. “What? They’re cute and cuddly,” he shrugged.

“You think I’m cute and cuddly?” She continued the painful tease slowly inching closer to his face. He turned away slightly embarrassed. “Let’s just be us.” She said placing one last kiss on his face.

He agreed.

“Goodnight.”

Xxx

Later in the undisturbed night…

The deep-toned hypnotic chanting of voices of men seemed to resound from the ocean nearby. The chanting was low almost like a hum. It rumbled.

Aang awoke from his sleep and sat up in the balcony where he had unintentionally fallen asleep. A cloud of slumber lingered over his tired features. Slowly, almost as if in a trance. He rose to his feet and walked towards the balcony rail and down to the beach without looking back.

Downstairs a sleeping spirit was also disturbed…

xxx

Sunburn Chapter

M A S T E R L I S T

NEXT https://gloves94.tumblr.com/post/623235644322447360/sunburn-prince-zuko-37 PREV https://gloves94.tumblr.com/post/622676261578342400/sunburn-prince-zuko-35

xxx

AN: Realistically speaking only 2 more chapters to go... 👀👀👀

#prince zuko #zukoxreader #Zuko x oc #Zuko x you #zuko #avatar #avatar the last airbender #avatar fanfic #avatar x oc #avatar fanfiction #atla #atla fanfic #atla zuko #aang #sokka #katara #wattpad #ao3

[sageblogsthings]

[image description: a map, brownish-yellow with age, fills the background. the text over the image reads “Dust, Drams, & Dragonsblades” in white all-caps font. /end id]

Dorian walked through the lower town, passing shop after shop as they closed for the night, until he finally came upon an old, seemingly abandoned shack. A rusty sign dangled by a single chain above the door, the slightest breath of wind threatening to knock it loose. Squinting, Dorian could just make out the lettering on the sign: The Culterus’ Cup. With a smile, he leaned on the door, not so much pushing it open as pushing it aside, its hinges broken long ago. Warm light from the street-lamps outside filtered through the doorway, but was immediately swallowed up by the murky interior. The smell of dust, drams, and desperation seeped through the doorway and settled around Dorian’s boots.

Ah, the smell of alcoholics in the evening, he sighed. Seem’s like nothing’s changed.

He walked into the impossibly dark building, eyes squinting through the dust and cobwebs in search of a familiar face.

“Well my eyes must be failing me in my old age, or my mind is starting to go,” the voice brought an immediate grin to Dorian’s face. He wandered vaguely towards its source, dodging tables and uprooted floorboards by memory alone.

“Matthias,” he grinned. “It’s really me, somehow I’ve managed to not get myself killed.” He finally reached the source of the voice: a stout, rounded man with crinkled grey hair and eyes. His head barely cleared the bar behind which he stood, but he emanated such an aura of authority and confidence that you barely noticed.

“Hmm, small wonder that is,” Matthias grunted. “And not bound to stay that way for long from what I hear,” he peered at Dorian over golden spectacles in a way that was part concern and part disdain.

“Ah, so you heard about that?”

“I think half the town has heard about it at this point, my boy.” Dorian winced slightly.

“I really tried to stop them from making a mess of Tov’s place, damned mercenaries.”

“Is she okay?” the man feigned disinterest, but Dorian could see his brow crease ever-so-slightly in concern.

“Yeah, she’s fine. Apparently she knew the leader from before so he left her alone, he was really just after me anyways.”

“Wait, Tov knew him? That big brute everyone is scared of now?”

“Yeah, he got a room there a few nights back. She said he seemed like he was hiding something, but also that he seemed kind, just quiet, so she didn’t push it.”

“That sounds like Tov alright,” Matthias huffed. “Always seeing the best in people even when they’re hulking mercs.”

Dorian chuckled, “I wouldn’t have it any other way. But I also don’t want her getting in trouble because of me.”

“Ah, there it is,” Matthias grinned as he polished a glass.

“There what is?” Dorian asked, confused.

“The part where you ask me for something.”

Dorian blinked. “No getting past you is there? I thought you said that your eyes and mind were going.”

“Ha!” A deep laugh shook the bar-top. “You wish, Vispillo.”

“Wow, and just when I thought we were on a first-name basis!” Dorian pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “But yes, I do need your help. Mr. Galba,” he breathed out the last part in a conspiratorial whisper.

Matthias craned his head upwards, piercing Dorian with those inscrutable grey eyes. He stayed like that for several moments, and Dorian was beginning to lose hope. Maybe I should just turn tail and leave before I embarrass myself more.

“Of course I’ll help you, foolish boy. With the tab you still owe here, there’s no way I’m letting a bounty hunter get ahold of you.”

Dorian laughed, swooping an arm over the bar to give Matthias a half-hug. “Thank you!” He beamed. “And I will pay that tab, I promise.”

“Mhm, I’ll believe it when the coin is on this bar-top. Now, what do you need?”

“I’m looking for a man.”

“Ha! Nothing’s changed with you, has it Dorian?”

Dorian groaned. “The man who attacked me, Matthias.”

“Yes, yes I know. I’m just messing with you kid. Though from what I hear the man who’s after you isn’t exactly hard to look at.” Dorian shrugged, not denying it but refusing to say more on the matter.

“Apparently I have something that he believes belongs to him, or whoever employed him I guess, and he means to take it from me by force.”

“Okay, so it seems like a pretty easy solution, yeah? Give him back what you stole.”

“See, there’s the problem. I don’t know what I stole.” Matthias blinked over his glasses, once. Twice. He exhaled slowly, his brow creasing slightly as he did so.

“How—,” he paused, rubbing his forehead. “How do you not know what you stole? Were you that drunk when you stole it?”

“No!” Dorian paused in thought. “I mean, I was likely drunk but I still remember everything I’ve stolen lately. I keep a log and everything!”

“So just show this man the log and ask what’s his, right?”

“Assuming they don’t shoot first and ask questions later that could work. But finding the object isn’t what I need help with.”

“Astralis help me,” Matthias muttered into a calloused hand. “Would you just spit it out boy?”

“I’m trying! Okay, look, the problem is this: I have no idea who this mercenary band works for, where they’re from, who their devilishly handsome leader is, or where I can find them.”

“I knew you thought he was a looker,” Matthias grinned with  a wink. “But you realize none of that was a question, right? What do you want me to do?”

“Don’t be humble, Matthias. You know that most people come here for the tracking services, not the drink, right?”

Matthias stepped back from the bar at the affront to his drinks. Glancing around the bar, he saw dilapidated tables strung with cobwebs, small candles nearly burnt out, and scattered patrons meeting in corners in hushed whispers. A figure in a cloak stood near a wooden board with papers plastered across its surface. The top of the board read “Bounties & Warrants.” He turned back to Dorian to find the tiefling smirking at him.

“See? Nothing against your mead, it’s fantastic, but this is the place where criminals and lowlifes come to find out if they’re wanted yet.”

With a deep grumble, Matthias propped his arms on the bar-top. “Fine, you red demon, you’ve made your point,” the slightest glimmer in his eye told Dorian the insult was purely in jest. “So you want me to help you find this brute, then?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Fine. But only because the sooner we get them off your tail the sooner you can pay me all that gold you owe.”

“Oh come now, Matthias, you’re fond of me, just admit it.”

“You wish, devil.”

Dorian chuckled. “Here, this is all the gold I have right now. I’ll give you the rest later, I promise.” Matthias eyed the gold suspiciously, then turned his gaze upwards to the tiefling.

“Keep your gold for now. I don’t want you getting into even more trouble because you’re broke. You can pay me after we find him.”

“Aww, you big softie,” Dorian crooned, giving the top of Matthias’ head a light noogie, which earned him a deeply unsettling glare from the older man.

“Get off of me you damned tiefling. C’mon, we have work to do,” and with a huff he shuffled through a doorway behind the bar. Dorian stooped to clear it, and found himself in what seemed to be Matthias’ office. Despite how many years they had known each other, Dorian had never stepped behind the bar. He wasn’t really sure what he was expecting Matthias’ private quarters to look like, but somehow this fit. Papers scattered across every inch of the room, many of them looking important, candles burnt down to the last bit of wax decorating every available surface, maps and diagrams hanging and overlapping on even the tiniest fragments of wall space. It was chaotic, but somehow also cozy. Like Matthias, Dorian thought. Not that he would ever tell him that, at least not as long as he wanted to live.

Matthias perched behind his desk, eyes scanning back and forth across map so aged Dorian was surprised he could read it at all. Dorian perched on his tiptoes behind him, scanning the map over his shoulder.

“Could you stop that?” Matthias shot a half-hearted glare over his shoulder.

“Ah, sorry. I just — do you need help with anything?”

“No, just let me — wait,” the older man paused, scratching the salt and pepper (though mostly salt) scruff on the side of his head. “The mercenary leader, did he have any kind of crest or uniform or anything?”

Dorian inclined his head, nail pressing lightly into his temple as he tried to recall the encounter.

“No, I don’t think so. He was just wearing normal mercenary clothes I guess? He had a pretty heavy coat on though so I couldn’t see most of what was he was wearing.”

“His weapon didn’t have any embossings of a guild crest?”

“I mean I wasn’t exactly admiring the craftsmanship when he had it pressed to my jugular,” Dorian half-joked, earning a glower from Matthias. “But no—,” he coughed, “I don’t think so. Seemed like a pretty ordinary cutlass to me. And come to think of it, each of the mercs were wearing something different. Seemed like a bit of rag-tag group, didn’t think they were mercs at first honestly.”

“Hmm . . .,” Matthias trailed off in thought, glasses slipping down his nose. “That is odd. Most mercenary bands have to be approved by the Culterus’ Council. If this was just a randomly put together group, I don’t think there would be a way to track who hired them.”

“Well that’s fantastic,” Dorian huffed. “How are we—”

“I wasn’t finished yet,” Matthias waggled a finger to shush him. “If someone hired this mercenary band outside of the Culterus’ Council, they're either operating outside of the law or above it.”

“What are you suggesting, Matthias?”

“Well if they were operating outside the law they would probably be some kind of high-level criminal, a nihilimancer at worst. That seems unlikely though because hiring a mercenary band would just draw more attention to them when they could have attacked you directly.”

“So you think it’s someone operating above the law, then?”

“Likely, yes. A government official of some sort.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed heavily at this. A government official? What could he have done to piss them off?

As if reading his mind, Matthias stared up at Dorian over his glasses, grey eyes boring into golden ones. “Dorian, what the hell did you get yourself into?”

Dorian hunched over the desk, rubbing his face with both hands. “I—,” his voice cracked slightly, as though the full weight of the situation was bearing down on his throat. “I don’t know, Matthias.”

“C’mere, kid,” Matthias waved Dorian over to him and scooped an arm around his shoulder. “Listen, we’ll figure it out okay? And when we do we’re going to give those bastards what’s coming to them.” His voice was stern and gravely, but the twinkle of his eyes belied the slightest hint of compassion.

Dorian smiled lightly. “Thank you, Matthias, but —,” he paused, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “Me. Not we. I need your help finding them but I can’t ask you to come with me.”

The older man grumbled, “Dorian, if you think that you’re going alone to face an entire band of mercenaries—,” he was interrupted by Dorian vigorously shaking his head.

“I’ve handled worse. Besides, someone has to stay here and look after everything. Who’s going to help all the lowlifes and criminals find other lowlifes and criminals if you’re not here?” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Don’t you have any Thieves Guild buddies you could ask?”

“I got kicked out of the Guild, remember? Besides, I don’t want anyone helping me with this. These mercs aren’t likely to forget a face and I’m not putting a target on anyone else’s back.” Dorian’s breath caught and he cast his eyes toward the floor. “I already hate that they know what Tov looks like.”

Matthias folded his arms over his chest. Dorian seemed determined to face this alone, but that didn’t mean he needed to face it entirely without help. “Fine. For the record though, I don’t like this at all.” Dorian seemed ready to cut him off again, but Matthias continued, “If you’re going alone, at least let me give you something that might make things a bit easier. Saved my skin a few times anyways.”

“I’ve already got a hip flask,” Dorian waved a crimson hand dismissively, but the smallest tug at the edge of his lips and the twinkle in his eye did not go unnoticed.

“Ha ha, ever the jokester. No you idiotic devil, it’s something that’s actually helpful.”

“Idiotic devil?” Dorian blinked in surprise, a grin spreading across his features. “I think that’s a new one, congratulations.”

Matthias huffed in response and crossed the room to rummage around one of the bookcases. After moving several papers, candles, and unsettlingly unidentifiable objects out of the way, he pulled a heavy leather chest from the shelf, heaving it onto the desk with a groan. Dorian peered over his shoulder as Matthias opened the chest, startled backwards a few steps when amber light poured out of the box and flooded the room around them.

“What the hell is in there?”

“You’ll see,” Matthias chuckled. He threw the lid back, completely bathing the room in the brilliant light. After muttering a soft incantation, the words of which Dorian couldn’t quite decipher, the glow died down and for the first time Dorian could see the contents of the chest. A dagger.

“That’s it? You’re giving me a tiny dagger when I have two perfectly good rapiers right here, a couple of daggers, and a handful of throwing knives already.” Matthias looked a bit unnerved at how many weapons Dorian could fit in clothing with no discernible pockets.

“Yes, it’s a dagger, but do you really think this is just a normal dagger? It’s enchanted.”

“Okay, and all of my weapons are poisoned. What’s your point?”

Matthias sighed, something he seemed to do a lot more of when Dorian was around. “You really have no knowledge of magical enchantments do you?”

“Nah, poison seems to do the job just fine so far.”

“Exactly. So far.” Matthias paused, hoping Dorian would understand the gravitas of his words. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with now, what you could be walking into. You need a weapon that will give you an edge in every situation.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll use your fancy dagger.” Dorian reached out  towards the chest, then paused, curling his fingers into his palm. “Uh, what does it do exactly?”

“It is a Dragonsbane blade. They can only be forged in the dying flame of a High Dragon. The gilding is made from the precious metals found in its heart, set into the hilt by a boiling tear shed in the dragon’s final moments.”

“Ha—,” Dorian crossed his arms over his chest and threw his head back, eyebrows arching up doubtfully. “I call bullshit. You really believe all those dramatic tales, Matthias? I had you pegged for more of a skeptic than that.”

“It’s not a dramatic tale, Dorian.”

“And how, exactly, would you know that?”

“I was the one who forged it.”

“Haha very funny, of course you were,” Dorian cackled, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. When he looked back at Matthias, he saw the older man was staring straight at him, unblinking. “Wait. You’re not joking?”

“Nope. Why would I? I’ve got enough wild tales from running a bar, no point in making more of ‘em up.”

“But why —,” Dorian paused, rubbing his increasingly furrowed brow. “How — ?”

“I have a life outside of this bar, you know,” Matthias paused, then added “well, I used to anyways. But that doesn’t matter right now.”

“You can’t just drop something like that and then not tell me!” Dorian squawked. “Oh, yeah, I used to be a famous adventurer with a fancy dagger,” Dorian continued in a deep, rumbling voice, a rather terrible impersonation of Matthias. “Forged from the last breath and final fart of a dragon, but you don’t get to hear about that now, Dorian,” he scrunched his nose and pushed up an invisible pair of glasses as he finished his speech, giving Matthias the same deflated, exasperated look he often gave Dorian.

“Was that supposed to be me?”

“Who else would it be?”

“Well I don’t know but that was downright terrible. Good thing you don’t make a living doing street performances, you’d be poorer than you are now.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dorian huffed. “Look, whatever, you can tell me about your grand adventure stories later I suppose. Now, would you please just explain why I need this dagger?”

Matthias huffed again, giving Dorian that look. Dorian had done a pretty good job of impersonating it if he did say so himself. “This dagger is incredibly powerful, I figured that much would be obvious. If —,” he paused “if this dagger tastes your attacker’s blood, its power grows stronger.”

“Okay, but what is its power? Does it suck the souls of men or something like that?”

“Now who’s the one believing dramatic tales?” Matthias smirked. “No, nothing like that. Because the blade was forged with the aid of a dragon, its power is tied to that of the dragons. In a moment of dire need, the spirit of the High Dragon from which this blade was borne will come to your aid. The more battle this dagger has seen, the more powerful of an ally you will have should you need it.”

“So you’re saying I should stab as many mercs as possible that way if I die I’ll at least have a dragon on my side?”

Matthias hung his head, rubbing his temples furiously. “Honestly, Dorian, just take one magic class. Just one.”

“Well, am I wrong?”

“Ye—,” he cut himself off. “I mean, no, not technically. The more blood the dagger collects the stronger the dragon will be. But I’m not saying that you should just stab people indiscriminately. That dagger has seen a fair amount of blood already, so if you do need the dragon to come to your aid, and I pray that it is an if, you do not need to worry about the strength it already possesses. I wouldn’t give it to you if all it would do is summon a weak dragonling spirit.”

“Wait, you’re giving this to me?”

“Lending!” Matthias spluttered, correcting himself. “Definitely lending. Please take care of it.”

“I’m messing with you, old man. But of course I’ll take care of it, thank you Matthias. I know I give you a hard time but I really do appreciate it.” A somber grin plastered itself across Dorian’s face as he spoke. “I hope that I won’t need to use this, but I do feel a bit safer knowing that I have the option.”

“Good, that’s all I wanted,” his eyes crinkled at the corners, imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him well. “One more thing. I have some health poultices and some poisons, likely stronger than the stuff you’ve got anyways.” Before Dorian could protest, Matthias was shoving bottles, vials, and poultices of every color and size into his hands.

“Umm, Matthias?”

“Umm, Dorian?”

“Forgive me if the drink has gone to my head and I forgot this part of the conversation, but how exactly am I supposed to find this mercenary band? You’ve just given me a whole armful of supplies and nothing to find them with.”

“Oh, well I thought that part was obvioeus.”

“Obvious?” Dorian tried to gesture with his hands despite the delicate arrangement balanced on them. “Well enlighten me then, please.”

“You’re just going to wait for them to attack you again.” Matthias chuckled deeply as Dorian’s eyebrows shot towards his hairline.

“You—?” the words wouldn’t come. “You? Gave me a dagger? To defend myself with, but you want me to be a sitting duck for an entire band of mercenaries? How does that make any sense?”

“Dorian, they’re going to find you one way or another, that’s sort of their job isn’t it? If you go looking for them, you’re likely going to find them on a terrain they’re familiar with. If they come looking for you, there’s the slightest chance you’ll have the upper hand. The slightest chance that you’ll win this idiotic battle you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Oh,” Dorian breathed. “That — that actually makes sense.”

“I know. You really ought to stop underestimating me, boy.”

“Maybe after you tell me some of your tall tales I’ll take you a bit more seriously,” Dorian said with a wink.

The smallest smile pulled at Matthias’ lips. “When you bring that dagger back to me, how ‘bout that? We’ll have a pint to celebrate you not losing your life, and to commiserate you losing all your gold once you pay me back.”

“Sounds fair enough,” Dorian chuckled. “Thank you, Matthias, I really appreciate it. If I find out who hired them I’ll let you know.” Dorian began to walk out of Matthias’ office, but was stopped by a gravelly voice.

“Wait —,” Matthias fidgeted with a golden ring on his thumb. “Dorian. Please be careful.”

“Starting to sound like Tov, aren’t you?” When Matthias didn’t smile, he added, “I will. I promise.” He turned on his heel before he could change his mind, and strode towards the main entrance of the tavern, stuffing the various potions and poultices into the multitude of pockets hidden in his clothes. When he reached the door, he traced his chipped nails along its surface, hoping this wouldn’t be the last time he saw it. With a final huff, he stepped onto the lamplit street. Time to go get murdered, he thought with a forced smile, and set off across the cobblestones.

Arnora taglist:

@radiomacbeth | @aetherwrites | @ezrathings | @avi-burton-writing | @svpphicwrites | @spillme | @isherwoodj | @melpomeny​ | @alicewestwater​ | @ladywithalamp​ | @shadescrawls​ | @guulabjamuns​ | @alexsidereus​ | @chloeswords​ | @discreet-writer​ | @sunwornpages​ | @donghyeuck​ | 

#arnora #dorian #dust drams & dragonsblades #kit writes #the chapters in part 2 will probably all be a bit longer than those in part 1! #this is also up on my wattpad (kitwritesthings) if u prefer to read there! #i had so much fun writing this tho Dorian and Matthias' relationship is so wholesome

[alienog]

Discord SS Gift!

So I’ve taken part in a secret santa event on Discord and heres the gift for my recipient! I’ve never written a self insert/in second person before so this was also a challenging and exciting exercise! 

Doppio/Diavolo/Reader, Hanahaki..AU I suppose.

It’s a hard thing to remember now, what his face looked like. How his eyes shine or even how his voice sounds, bent over you as you struggle to breathe. The way you cling to life makes his expression fall from that of a deeply sickening smile to a slow disappointed boredom. You’re taking too long, and he makes sure you know it with a soft click of his tongue counting down the seconds. He’s not the same Doppio you remember, sweet as lemon pie and to your knowledge up until now, wouldn't hurt a fly. His brother however, he was the one you had been wary about. Your wrongness sat like rancid betrayal in the pit of your stomach. 

At first you didn't believe it when you started coughing up flower petals. The idea of such a thing was ludicrous and only something you'd ever heard of in passing online. It wasn't real and so you didn't pay any mind to its concept beyond your macabre imagination. 

There were Tulips that summer. Much to your delight, the garden park had cultivated yet another section in their greenhouse as they seemed to do every year and you were excited to be able to sit amongst the young flowers and sketch out a budding idea. It struck you as a little off the way that they suddenly grew new flowers seemingly overnight, but the wary unease of uncertainty was overshadowed by the whelm of joy that followed at having an excuse to go back there.

You were excited because the owner of the garden, the groundskeeper, the cultivator, was a very fine looking man who looked a lot younger than he actually was. When you first lay eyes on him, with his pink hair tied back in an intricate braid, a mass of bangs pushed to the side of his face, and an apron tied tightly around his waist, you allowed a passive thought on his looks but nothing more. 

Not until you started to frequent the place to take in each new flower that started to appear. He approached you first, his smile warm and inviting. He asked, with his hands wringing a rag between them, what you were working on. 

“Just an idea I saw online,” You answered politely, though you preferred to be alone and you tried to make that clear by saying nothing else. 

“Could I see it?” 

Despite your inclination to decline, you instead smiled and nodded. It’s only the nice thing to do, being in his space anyways. So you let the sketchbook in your hands lower enough so he can see what's been etched into your mind and scratched to the page with careful practice. The picture itself is a simple bust surrounded by elegant flowers, all of which inspired from the garden, their stems hooked through one another and bloomed into petals flushed a deep red. 

He seemed to take well to it with a hint of a smile curving the edges of his mouth. 

“It's beautiful,” He says, “In a dark kind of way.”

You offer a slight smile in return and he can feel the shift in mood. He gets shy just then and awkwardly nods again.

“Sorry..I didn't mean to disturb you.” 

You reassured him, falsely, that it's no trouble because in truth his slight interruption wasn't that big of a grievance. He was polite enough to back off when you didn't seem interested in being disturbed. Maybe some other time when you’re not engulfed in your work, but for now he left you be and kept his distance in the days to come. 

The second time he approaches you was on the first day you no longer have your sketchbook. Having finished with the piece you were working on you decided it would be nice to just enjoy the flowers instead of having your nose to the grindstone. He greeted you politely upon your arrival and when he noticed you were wandering by yourself that's when he struck up a conversation. Light, nothing that said you had to stay committed to it if you desired to leave or even be by yourself and you're thankful for that but you don't mind this time. In fact, he seemed quite nice. 

He introduced himself as Doppio and you gave him your name in return. He smiled, wide this time, enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes and told you that name wasn’t what he expected, which caused an eyebrow of yours to raise. 

“Yea?” You say.

“Oh, I just..well..” 

Then the smile fell, and he got a bit nervous again, his hands wringing a towel in a faint attempt at “cleaning” them of imaginary dirt. 

“I promise I’m not trying to be creepy, you just come in here a lot and I just wondered what your name was because I didn't know what to call you so..I just started making some up.”

You laughed at that, just enough to make a sound, and his whole demeanor visibly relaxed. He went on to explain that it was just passive curiosity. Tending to flowers all day every day got a little monotonous sometimes and he didn't have much to think about on the average day. Your silent company had kept his spirits up the past couple of weeks. 

This first encounter, you don't talk about much. He’s very clearly nervous about something and on one hand you hope he doesn't see you as too intimidating but on the other you can already sense the feeling he’s exuding and you’re ready to just tell him you're not interested, simply because he looks rather young for you. 

When you find out he’s actually thirty three you have a hard time processing that. Of course, you didn't think he’s lying. It was an oddly specific age for him to just be making it up, and what would he stand to gain by lying? Your affections you suppose. It’s no secret to you he’s trying to get closer to you. He’s not exactly subtle in his body language and you’ve done this song and dance long enough to tell when a guy is trying maybe a bit too hard. Before, you brushed it off to a young boy's crush, but now that you know how old he really is, you don't mind so much. You even allow yourself to be flattered and maybe entertain a passing interest.

In the weeks following you go to the garden just as much as you would if you had a project you were working on. Only now it was just to see the plants and as time passes you admitted you do like seeing the gardener around more often than not. 

The first time you actually instigated the conversation he looked taken by surprise, his light freckled face lit up with a familiar smile and you fall into conversation more like old friends than awkward acquaintances. It’s not until later he admitted he was waiting for you to reciprocate. He doesn't say it, but you knew he couldn't quite loosen up without knowing for certain he wasn't bothering you.

You’re the one to ask for a first “date”. It was more just going out to drinks to talk more, but no matter what way you phrased it in your head it sounded like you were asking him on a date, and in the back of your mind you knew you didn't actually mind if he thinks of it like that. To see his eyes light up just from you asking is enough to make you smile. 

The night went by quicker than you expected, better too. You talked for hours and you found he’s actually quite fascinated with horror movies and he complimented you on your art. At least, what you’ve shown him of it which up until now has been three things. Still, he says he loves the darker tones and the themes you explore. He knew his stuff much to your surprise. 

After that night you had two more like it, though in varying locations. A walk by the pier and a night at an actual restaurant which ended with him walking you home because you may have ordered one too many drinks. You weren't paying attention, just having a good time with him and he left you at your door with a peck on the cheek, but you knew you wanted more than that. If he was ready, you were and in your more inebriated state you lean in for a quick kiss. You don't linger too much, don't make it strange, and he accepts it as pink dusts his cheeks. You thought things were going well.

He said a goodbye to you before heading off and you felt a flutter in your chest. With a warmth in your cheeks you unlocked the door and head inside for the night. It's not until later, when you’ve almost settled in that you don't remember taking your keys out of the door. You huffed at yourself and got up. Sure enough there they are dangling from the doorknob and out of the corner of your eye you noticed there was something on the ground by your door. A square of thick tanned brown leather. A wallet. You bent down to pick it up and flipped it open to confirm your suspicions. With slight apprehension of trying to find Doppio so late you reassured yourself that it's better you give it back than wait and not have enough time tomorrow. He was probably worried sick wondering where he must have left it. 

The lights, installed amongst the flowers, were on inside the greenhouse when you made it to Doppio's doorstep. You were about to knock on the door when you noticed everything was off except for one glaring porch light under which you stand. For a moment you stood there, stuck between wondering whether he was asleep or out in the garden even this late at night. The lights were probably on at all times right? That made the most sense. He must have been sleeping. 

But, even when you turned your back on the house and started to head down the steps you think how it wouldn't hurt just to check. You’d rather not force him to have to go through a whole day without his ids and credit cards. 

The overgrown grass bent beneath your feet as you moved towards the greenhouse. You were wary about making too much noise despite the fact you had barely anything on you besides the clothes on your back, which made barely any noise at all. You can't help this creeping sensation that you weren't  supposed to be there. It’ll just be a peek inside, just in case, you told yourself. 

Through the glass, smudged from use, you didn't immediately see anything, just the flowers, their heads bowed towards the paths that ran through the building. With a sigh, you released the tension you held in your back and realized you had nothing to be worried about. There was nothing but the expected plants. 

You were about to go again, you even turned away to walk back to the street, when you suddenly heard a crash, much like pottery shattering, and a string of heavy deep curses. It didn't sound like Doppio at all. Not that he wouldn't swear, you’re sure he probably did, like most people, even if you couldn't imagine it. Now you’re on alert. Was there someone trying to break into the greenhouse? You crouched down out of instinct and crept back to the glass. There was nothing going through your head that was rational. You know there's really nothing you can do on your own. You should really just call the police, but you didn't want to cause a scene. What if it’s not what you think?

You weren't really in the right mind to be making these kinds of decisions, but that didn't stop you from going up to the door of the greenhouse and testing to see if it's locked and you were somewhat surprised when it is. The door, as it’s pulled, squeaked from the rust setting into the hinges. You hear someone shuffle and freeze in place. You had no idea what you were doing but you were determined nonetheless and even though it's your fear that grounded you you’d like to think you would stand your ground no matter what. 

“Hello?” The voice, definitely not Doppios, it’s much too deep, sounded  unconcerned by your presence. For a moment you were unsure whether to answer or to back away and pretend you’re not there at all but before you can make a decision you’re already speaking. 

“Hello?” You said back, “Hi, can I help you?” 

You asked as if you own this place, but you’re running under the assumption this person is not meant to be here. From around the corner stepped, backwards, a man with long pink hair draped over his shoulders and piercing green eyes. In his hands he held a few pieces of the broken pot. 

“Shouldn't I be asking you that?’

“I don't know, should you?”

It sounded like he laughed when he exhaled through his nose and he smiled, though the way he does has you unnerved. 

“Okay, let's start over then. My name is Diavolo, I tend the grounds here, you?’ 

You hesitate but do give him your name in the end. Having said he tends the grounds, and you having no evidence to disbelieve him, you feel an embarrassed warmth spread across your cheeks. You swallow that feeling though and focus on why you really came here. 

“You know Doppio then?”

“Very well.” He says.

"You live with him?"

"You could say that." 

“Then can you give this to him?” 

You pulled the wallet out of your pocket and took a step closer, letting the door close behind you with its shrill squeals but you didn't get any closer. You don't know what it is but you couldn't help but feel scrutinized under this man's gaze. He was looking at you with a familiarity, as though you should know who he is, but you know for a fact you’ve never met him before in your life. His grin made you unsure about getting any closer, though whether that's because of the vibes he's giving off or because you were both alone out in a garden this late at night, and so you held out the wallet to at least keep him at arm's length. 

“I’ll make sure he gets it, don't worry.” He said and you knew, in the back of your mind, that he must have meant it sincerely, but you couldn't help but feel put off by his dangerously low tone. 

It’s later, when you asked Doppio about it, you learn that they’re brothers, but you rarely, if ever to your knowledge, saw them together. 

Three full weeks after the run-in with Diavolo you started to get more serious about how you feel for Doppio. He was sweet and he respected your boundaries when you set them. Nothing was official at the moment, but you wondered if maybe it could be? It was no more than a passing thought one morning while you’re out walking and the next day you start to feel under the weather. You had a slight shortness of breath and there was an ache in your chest, dull enough to continue life as normal but always just on the back of your mind. At first, you thought it was just congestion. Perhaps you had a cold coming on soon. If that was the case then you hoped it hurried itself up and got itself over with sooner rather than later. To your displeasure, it didn't. In fact, the ache worsened along with the shortness of breath to the point you really started to wonder what's going on. You tried to google it, to no avail.

On the day you thought to go to the doctor to get looked at, you woke up with a much duller pain, but it was still just as hard to breathe. You moved into your bathroom, the tile cold against your bare feet, and looked in the mirror. Nothing seemed outwardly wrong with you, but that doesn't mean anything. 

You opened the cupboard to take the tiny plastic cup off the Nyquil and got some water from the sink. Anything to help ease the sudden swell in your throat. You downed that little cup and though it wasn't not easy, you swallow. The effect wasn't instant, but you were surprised when the swelling eased up. Now it was no more than a tickle in the back of your throat and you coughed to try and see if you could dislodge the rest of this bizarre blockage. Through bouts of coughing, hacking, you felt something shift in the back of your throat and you spat into the sink. It felt odd to say the least. Almost solid as it came out of your mouth and you looked down into the sink. 

Drops of blood caught your attention first, then as you looked closer you noticed these small purple petals, crumpled up and scattered in the sink. You picked one up between your thumb and forefinger. It’s supple texture is slicked with blood but it is undeniably a flower petal. 

Your heart was in your throat suddenly. You werent sure what to make of this. The hanahaki disease, that's what it was called right? That was supposed to be fake. Just an interesting idea to think about. Not something real? The petals in the sink beg to differ. You’re frozen, one hand still clenched on the side of the sink, screaming internally to do something about this. But what? What do you do to treat a fictional ailment? Who do you call? When you looked online again, in a little less of a frantic panic, you come up with nothing. All accounts of the disease had been disproven and the general speculation is that it was entirely the figment of one's imagination. 

Well, if it is, you begged your imagination to stop, because it was making it hard to breathe and you were worried what might happen if it’s allowed to continue. If it was affecting your real life it had to be real. The only “cure” they say is for the person you were pining after to love you back and you internally scoffed at that. That didn't apply here. There wasn't anyone you’re pining after, no. So you’ve been on a few dates with Doppio, and you liked him a lot, but it's not unrequited love..is it? 

Your heart sunk from your throat all the way to your stomach and your eyes narrowed. You were unsure now. Was he just lying all this time? Or is it something else? You couldn't even believe you’re entertaining the idea that this could be real. 

The first thing you thought to do is call Doppio. Come clean. Maybe you guys could talk about this and it would all just blow over like a bad dream. You sure hoped so but you don't hold out too much. He was not picking up and you felt the tickle in the back of your throat again of the encroaching illness. 

Everything's hazy but you remember the panic starts to set in backed by a rational anger and frustration at your current predicament. You remember getting into your car after one too many missed calls and just driving over there. You know where he is of course. You’re not sure he ever leaves the garden unless he’s with you. 

You remember your harsh and hurried footsteps up to the door to the greenhouse. The place wasn't open yet, it was far too early, but you know that the door isn’t locked. There's nothing to steal. With a harsher force than necessary you fling open the doors, your panic well contained on your face. You don't let anything show. Only your more labored breathing gives away the facade. 

“Doppio?” You call out over the sound of the sprinklers, but there's no answer and you scour the place to no avail. Your only other option is his house. 

All it takes is one knock for him to answer, his smile still bright as though he knows nothing and for a moment you want to believe it. You want to buy into his sweetness again. But the nagging growth in your throat serves as a constant reminder why you’re here. 

“Can I come in?” You ask, though your voice is chewed up and raspy. You’re clearly struggling and his face falters while he steps aside. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, “Do you need water?” 

You start to say yes but you cough and have to spit another petal onto the floor. Doppio, who almost turned towards the kitchen, looks at you.

“Oh.” He simply states, “Faster than I expected. A bit easier too... It’s rare, very rare, unless you know what you're doing. Did you know that each person has their own type of flower?” 

As he’s speaking you feel something in your chest tighten and it grips your throat. You feel the need to cough the blockage away again, but no matter how much you try nothing changes. Leaning against the wall with one arm you’re gasping and Doppio raises your chin for you to look into his eyes. He’s certainly not the Doppio you remember. His eyes have changed color, they hold much more malice than they ever did or you ever imagined they could. They remind you of his brother. 

“I wonder what's yours." He says and bends down to pick up the petals you've coughed onto the floor. He holds them up as if inspecting them in the light. "

You'll make a wonderful addition. We haven't had irises yet.” He says with a glance back to you. 

It's then your worst fear becomes realized and everything runs through your head at once. Fear, regret, anger, so much anger at letting yourself get into this mess as your body fails itself. You’re going to suffocate, there's no doubt in your mind. You fall to your knees, practically retching up petals. At the same time you appear among the list of the missing, a beautiful new section of irises has opened up in the garden much to another person's delight. 

#jojos bizarre adventure #Jojo Part 5 #doppio x reader #diavolo #fanfic