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veilder · 3 years

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"Don't worry, I'll take care of you" - North60

Another prompt fill that I actually managed to get done? What?! Well, you're as surprised as I am. XD Anyway, I have no idea if this is even good or not but I guess I'll post it anyway. This is set vaguely as the third piece in the North60 series I intend to write. (The first part of it is published already but I've been working on the second for a long time and it's still not done. >_<) So if anyone is a bit OOC, just blame it on some intended character growth that's already theoretically happened, lol. So yeah... here's to the very few of you out there who love this ship as much as I do. Enjoy? 😅

butterflies around the flame

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

Sixty pauses, looking over to North as she sidles up beside him on the gangway. She wears her expression of steely determination just as fittingly as her slightly-singed tactical suit and Sixty can’t help the small burst of assurance both sights inspire in him despite his current irascibility. His scanners pick up a myriad of weapons on her person, knives and guns and batons and tasers, and it soothes some basic part of his coding that crows at him to keep her safe. She can look out for herself. Hell, she can look out for him too if the way she's muttered that phrase several times over the course of their friendship is anything to go by. Time and again she's looked out for him, vouching for him to her friends, taking him on as her second-in-command in the security corps, mediating disputes he manages to get himself involved in, etc.

And here and now too, apparently, she's decided to shoulder the responsibility for his actions. Even as he stares, she nods her head down to the burnt edges of his jacket and trousers, waving a lazy hand to the entirety of his ash-encompassed form. "I’m serious, I’ll talk to them. You did what you had to and I'll make sure Markus knows it. Losing one building is better than what would've happened without the distraction."

Sixty frowns, doing his best to nonchalantly lean against the metal railing as he peers down at the gathered deviants below. The deviants he had done his best to save during the pandemonium. The deviants who stood huddled and scared and singed because of his stupid plan. They were lucky... Lucky to make it out. No thanks to him.

"I could've taken the humans down myself," he says eventually, a scowl crawling its way across his face. "Far less collateral damage. Quick and efficient. You know I could've, North." He snaps his gaze back towards her. "This could've killed them." He nods his head towards the crowd below. "I could've killed them. And for what? A crazed mob of humans hellbent on destroying us?"

North shakes her head. "But you didn't kill them. You didn't kill anybody, Sixty. We have you to thank for everyone making it out alive. Even the humans." Her words are soft but her eyes shine brightly, that same righteous anger burning through them as courses through his Thirum lines. She's just as upset about the attack as he is. He knows this. After all, she'd been on guard when it all went down, too. She'd heard his transmissions, understood what he was planning. She'd led the evacuation of New Jericho personally and perfectly in sync with him springing his trap. And now, huddled in an abandoned warehouse near the wreckage of the original Jericho freighter, the harried android population coming full-circle in the worst of ways, they are the only two who can explain the full situation to Markus.

Somehow, just knowing how incandescently angry North is about all of this is enough to stabilize his systems a bit, his dangerously high stress levels sinking back down to a more moderate rate. "Well, can't have His Leaderness getting all up in arms with me for snuffing out a few organics, now can we? Not after last time."

North snorts, the sound inelegant and coarse, and Sixty feels his stress levels sinking even more. But when she looks up at him, she is far from amused, her eyes burning with resolve as a wicked, cruel smile teases the edges of her lips. "Your restraint is admirable, Six. Can't say I wouldn't have taken the shot if I were in your place."

Here in the dim light, her uniform practically fades into the darkness. Her vibrant hair is tied back and hidden, her hands are gloved, her face is cast in shadows. Every part of North is dimmed and defeated, even her muttered words wreathed in fury and despair.

But even with her glaring down at the assembly like an avenging angel, her palpable fury emanating from her like a physical thing, Sixty can't help but scoff. "You wouldn't." He smirks as her eyes snap back to his, the challenge in her gaze masking the vulnerability underneath. "You wouldn't take the shot," he says again. "You wanna know how I know?"

Hesitantly, she nods, enough suspicion in her gaze to make him cackle. (Which he does. Loudly.)

Sixty reaches out and takes her hand, giving her his own crooked, slightly deranged smile in return. "It's because I didn’t. And that’s because of you." He squeezes her hand, the pulse of her Thirium lines under the sensitive sensors of his fingertips as mesmerizing as it is reassuring. "You've always been better than you seem to think you are. You wouldn't take a life if there was another option. That's never been you, even at your lowest." He chuckles softly. "You always protect. Even when you hate someone or something, you always try to find the best option. You 'take care of things'. That's how I came to be here in the first place, isn't it?"

North's grip is firm in his own as he flashes her another grin and Sixty can feel it, the way she retracts her skin even with the barrier of cloth between them. Without thought, without care, he reciprocates, letting his own Thirium coating recede back into the magnetized nodes dotting his chassis. The two of them sink into the interface, the low hum of each other's minds a sweet and soothing backdrop to the chaos all around them. The interface is only surface level, not deep enough to be anything other than an awareness of each other, but it is enough to magnify North's words through his whole self as she speaks: "But I never hated you. Not like them."

Sixty merely laughs. "But you should've."

And there is no contestation. She knows as well as he the sins of his past. But she's never judged him for them, not once. It's perhaps what he loves most about her, her willingness to accept his flaws. Even here and now, with the ashes of their people's dreams upon his body, she never once hesitated to accept him. It's enough to incite a 0.33 second timing fluctuation in the steady beat of his Thirium pump. The error message that accompanies it is a familiar friend in her presence these days.

In the warmth of their interface, Sixty continues on: "But you know as well as I do that you don't need to like someone to do the right thing." He spares a brief moment to think of his hallowed predecessor and the complicated relationship between them.

North nods. "Yeah, I... I know, Six. I know." She glances up at him through her eyelashes. "When the hell did you end up the voice of reason?"

Sixty snorts out a laugh. "I have my moments."

Her smile is genuine this time as she stares up at him. "You sure do."

And though his records will later tell him that this moment lasted less than a second, Sixty swears they stare at each other for an eternity. Time slows as if his preconstruction software has started up, each prolonged moment a gift for his harried system. And when at last they draw apart, breaking the shallow interface at last, they both do so with a smile and severely diminished stress level.

"Alright, I still need to explain things to Markus and Josh and Simon," North reiterates. "I'm sure they're here somewhere."

Sixty nods. "Yeah, they're over in that corner," he says, pointing.

North's scandalized face is enough to have him laughing again. "Sixty! You knew they were here all along?!"

"Of course," he laughs, "I've got the best scanners on the market. They've been here the whole time. They've been delegating or something, I'm not sure."

"Why didn't you say something!"

"Well quite frankly, I needed a moment. And then you needed a moment. And then we were having a moment, so..."

"Ugh, I can't believe you! I need to go. Now."

But before she can walk off, Sixty sidles in front of her. "Whoa whoa whoa, I think you mean we need to go. Right?"

She stares at him, uncomprehending.

"Okay, lemme put it to you this way then," he chuckles. "We will go explain my actions to the Big Boss. Then we can check on the security team and see if they're still doing alright. And then we can go find a quiet spot where we can try and beat the shit out of each other for a bit. Y'know. Let off some steam. Relax." He gives her a wink and revels in how her lips twitch at the sight.

"...You wouldn't insist if you hadn't already made up your mind, huh?" She doesn't even wait for him to confirm it before continuing, "Well, alright. Because that... That sounds good, Six.” North says. And then quieter, as if she was speaking only to herself, she mutters, “What would I ever do without you?"

Her whispered question rings sincere through Sixty's audio processor. He saves the soundbyte for further review and answers, "You'd take care of things. You always do."

And she smiles, so soft and sweet that another Thirium pump error flashes across Sixty's HUD. "Yeah. I always do. But it’d be less fun without you here."

Sixty reaches out a hand again and thrills when she accepts it, the two of them walking together along the gangway down to where the rest of the Jericho leadership are stationed. He chuckles. “I knew you kept me around for something.” This time, it’s him who initiates, opening up another interface for them to connect with. North reciprocates immediately and it makes Sixty proud to feel how much calmer she is now. “But I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. I pity the poor idiot who tries to make me leave now. You’d tear them apart.”

North’s eyes flash, a sinister gleam accompanied by another cruel grin. “I’d 'take care of them'.”

Sixty barks out a hearty laugh, so enamored, so proud. “And I'll take care of you."

She chuckles right back and squeezes his hand, a steady warmth pulsing through their connection. "And maybe I'd even let you." And with eyes facing forward with renewed determination, she pulls him along with her towards their goal. “Now come on, Security Officer. There’s work to be done.”

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

Bonus:

Markus: "So... You're saying that you're the one who blew up New Jericho?" Sixty: "Yep!" 😃 Markus: [turning to North] "And you're saying you... encouraged him to do this?" North: "Sure did!" 😀 Markus: [staring into the camera like it's The Office] "If ever there were a time for someone to invent alcoholic Thirum, it's now." Sixty & North: 😀😀😀

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panharmonium · 3 years

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@captain-jaybird @solo-by-choice - i love you guys XD

So, the fic in question was originally a collection of ten location-based vignettes following the development of Obi-Wan and Padme’s friendship from AotC to RotS. I wrote it seven years ago and only ever showed it to my sister and @dyingsighs, so unless I fall hard back into Star Wars at some point, I probably won’t ever post it in its entirety, because I don’t think I have quite enough energy to do the kind of rewriting it would need in order for me to feel like it meets my current standards. HOWEVER - given your replies, I pulled the only two vignettes from it that I do actually still like, because I know it has been literal years since I made any Star Wars-related work for you, and I feel like this is the least I can do to thank you for your many years of fandom friendship! 😊

@all my old Star Wars peeps: Ancient fic snippets under the cut! Consider this an affectionate “hello there” from me - I hope you guys are all doing well out there! <3

-naboo-

Anakin is insistent.

“Come on, Padmé,” he cajoles her. “Just a little walk. I get to be here without breaking any rules for once and you want to just sit inside?” He flings open the embassy’s balcony doors and gestures out over the city. “Look at this day!”

Sunny skies or not, Padmé can’t quite wrench her gaze away from the festival itinerary in her hands. However many times she’s been over it, she can’t help but feel they must have missed some small detail, and in a situation as precarious as this one, the slightest slip could be deadly. “I can’t, Anakin.”

Anakin’s carefree expression starts its rapid but familiar descent into a scowl. “Why not? No one’s going to bust a Senator for showing one of her Jedi guests around. We can just walk the perimeter of the Festival platform – ”

“Anakin – ”

“You can pretend to show me the security arrangements or something – ”

“Anakin! You’re supposed to be here to prevent an assassination attempt on the Chancellor. This isn’t a social call.”

Anakin lets out his breath in a huge gust, waving a hand dismissively. “That? We’ve got that under control, Padmé. Don’t even worry about it.”

“I am worried about it.” Anakin opens his mouth as if to make another placating remark, but Padmé cuts him off. “This is serious. I can’t leave the embassy right now. I’m not going out for a stroll. I’m not doing anything until the Festival is over and done with tonight.” When Anakin’s scowl does not subside, she sighs and makes a passing attempt at smoothing things over. “I’m sorry, but the Festival of Light is enough of a headache without adding assassination threats into the mix. I’m just a little tense right now.”

Anakin comes extraordinarily close to signing his own death warrant by rolling his eyes at her, but he stops just short of an irrevocable mistake. “Yeah, you and everyone else,” he says instead, a very particular brand of irritation edging into his voice. “But whatever. Go ahead and read that thing again. I’ll just come back when everyone’s got their bad feelings under control.” He sweeps out of the room with the type of stormy bluster only he can manage.

Wrestling down a surge of irritation of her own, Padmé tosses the itinerary onto the desk. Anakin, for all his moodiness, is partially right – she has the elegant program memorized back to front, and poring over it further is only going to make her feel worse. And, come to think of it, there are a few other security measures she needs to double check with the rest of the Jedi task force.

Pushing back her chair, she sets off in search of Anakin’s derisively referenced “everyone else.”

Most of the embassy’s guests, including the recently arrived contingent of Jedi knights, appear to have vacated the premises – emulating Anakin’s shining example and enjoying the day, perhaps, or, in the case of the Jedi, probably walking the security perimeter in preparation for tonight’s festivities. After making inquiries, Padme finds a staff member who directs her to the rear of the ornately decorated building, where she discovers Everyone Else in the courtyard, boots and cloak discarded against the wall, dappled sun playing over his inner tunics.

She hesitates on the steps. It’s bad form to interrupt a Jedi in meditation, not that she has much opportunity to commit such faux pas. Anakin rarely meditates, resorting to the ancient art only when he has failed in his attempts to outrace or outright beat his troubled thoughts into submission.

But this doesn’t seem like meditation, exactly, not the kind she recognizes. Obi-Wan is performing what looks like some kind of kata with a ritual slowness, pivoting and stretching with unhurried grace, flowing smoothly out of one stance and into the next, like liquid filling a clear vessel. He holds himself suspended for an interminable count between each position, bare feet rooted on the sun-warmed flagstones, the only thing moving around him dust motes drifting through heavy beams of sunlight.

She doesn’t really mean to stay and watch, but there’s an almost hypnotic quality to the rhythmic motion – exertion of the body, sun and warmth and muscle and bone intertwined with stillness of the mind, an empty calm space, peace in the eye of the storm.

He sinks into a low stance with his back to her, head bowed, upward-facing hands loosely fisted, elbows bent and tucked in at his sides. Then, after a long, still stretch of time, the calm murmur of his voice, rippling with something like amusement. “Good morning.”

She blinks. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“That’s quite all right.” He seems to come back from some far place, and straightens, turning to address her. Holding her gaze for a moment, searchingly, he draws some private conclusion. “You are disturbed.”

She presses her lips together by way of response, grudgingly impressed yet cursing Jedi perception to the lowest pit of Chaos. “It’s not important,” she says. “Just the festival.” She changes the subject. “What’s that you were doing?”

Obi-Wan paces over to the courtyard wall to retrieve his footwear. “One of the alchaka forms,” he says, pulling on the soft nerfhide boots. At her blank look, he adds, “It’s...a type of moving meditation. One of the oldest known to the Order.”

“It looks relaxing,” Padmé says. Would that she could expunge her own anxieties with such artfulness.

He shrugs slightly. “In theory.” He bends down and scoops up his cloak with an easy physicality. “The intended goal is to clear one’s mind. To...release troubled thoughts.”

Something about the crease in his brow seems to belie this statement. Thinking back, she remembers suddenly what Anakin had said earlier, and, surprised, frowns. “Are you worried about the festival tonight? About the assassination attempt?”

He blinks at her for a moment, as if she had only just reminded him about the possible catastrophe. “No. No, I don’t think so. Even if the intelligence we’ve gathered is accurate, I doubt the Separatist forces will be able to achieve much when they must first go through six Jedi. And Naboo’s finest,” he adds, glancing up at the overhead balconies, where far-away security personnel stand sentinel, their uniforms smears of dark red across the golden walls.

“But you are worried about something.”

A beat. Then, “No. Merely practicing good habits.”

She laughs humorlessly and sinks down onto the steps. “Tonight could be a disaster.”

Obi-Wan thinks for a moment before responding. “If so,” he reminds her carefully, “it is one which all your worries will be completely unable to prevent.”

“I know. But when it’s my people concerned...and the Chancellor, obviously...” She ticks things off on her fingers. “Public support for Queen Neeyutnee...the well-being of the Republic...”

“Fate of the galaxy.”

“Little things.”

They exchange almost shy grins, private smiles. Padmé feels one tiny knot of tension uncoil inside her, and she breathes out an exasperated sigh, ineffectually commanding the rest of her anxieties to untangle and be gone. “I need some of that alcha-whatsit business, clearly,” she says ruefully. “I’m a mess.”

Obi-Wan takes a step back and looks her up and down. “I agree,” he says.

Excuse me? Padmé suppresses a surge of indignation.

“You will forgive me for saying so, but a senator is no good to her people preoccupied. She must keep a cool head about her at all times.”

“I beg your pardon –

“Therefore,” Obi-Wan plunges ahead, and Padmé suddenly sees the glint of humor starting in his eyes, “I feel it is my duty in this case to help you attain such calm.”

She narrows her eyes at him in mock severity, but inside, she feels her mood beginning to lighten. “By insulting my competence?”

“By exposing you to some of that alcha-whatsit business,” he says. “If you like.”

Padmé hesitates. This is Jedi business for sure, far outside her arena. But Obi-Wan just smiles reassuringly at her and extends a hand.

“Not to worry, Senator. I have it on good authority that I am a reasonably competent teacher.”

Padmé eyes his hand for another moment, then slaps her own lightly into his open palm. “Very well then,” she says. “I submit myself to your reasonably competent tutelage.”

“Obi-Wan, I don’t think this is for me.”

Padmé looks down at her bare feet, torn between luxuriating in the warmth of the sun-soaked stones and fretting over the ever-widening stance Obi-Wan is asking her to assume.

“Patience.” He sticks his own soft-booted foot against the inside of her ankle and slides one of her feet out to the left.

“Obi-Wan – ”

Still applying a gentle pressure against one foot, he pushes the other further away.

“I don’t know how to do a split, Obi-Wan,” she warns him, tamping down on a little flare of alarm.

“That’s far enough.”

Thank goodness she’d worn a relatively uncomplicated dress today. Senatorial garb was nowhere near so flexible as the Jedi’s simple tunics.

She looks up at Obi-Wan, who, by virtue of her lowered, bent-kneed stance, is now slightly above her. “What now?”

“Now,” he says placidly, sinking into the same low stance beside her, albeit with considerably more familiarity and ease, “you do as I do.”

All right, then. She waits for him to begin, but the only thing he does is close his eyes, and she can’t close hers if she’s going to follow him, so she waits, doing nothing. Her legs begin to protest the prolonged exertion in this unfamiliar position, but the trace of fire starting to bloom in her muscles doesn’t bother her. It’s...ferocious. It burns the way she does inside, sometimes.

Obi-Wan cracks an eye open and looks at her. Padmé doesn’t flinch. “What?” she challenges. “You aren’t doing anything yet.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “I am breathing,” he says.

“So am I.”

“Not yet, you aren’t,” he says, and in the span of a moment, he seems to grow in authority before her. His voice shifts into the calm certainty of a millennia of tradition, the well-worn tracks of an ancient, unbroken line of instruction. “Attend.”

He closes his eyes again, and this time she watches the slow rise and fall of his chest, the slight shift of tunic as his ribs expand. “All meditation begins with the breath. You breathe in life, I breathe in the Force; without either of those things both of us are nothing.”

What a strange thing to say. “I’m not Force-sensitive, Obi-Wan.”

“It does not matter. You are not Force sensitive, but the Force is in you nonetheless. We are all of us full of it. Your people are full of it. Your planet is full of it.” He breathes in, slow, and she attempts to follow him. In. Full. “Your breath must fill more than your lungs. Without breath, the body starves. Without the Force, life starves. Therefore you must let it suffuse you. Breath; the Force. Everywhere. Small, forgotten places. Empty places. You must allow yourself to be full. A gas expands to fill a container – your breath will expand to fill you, if you allow it.”

She does not answer. She is breathing. He falls into silence beside her, joining her rhythm. Inhale, beat, exhale, beat. She does not count the minutes. They slip by into nothing.

“Now,” he says. “With me.”

She trains her eyes on him and follows as he moves, one bright light and its smaller, slighter reflection, moving in a bumpy sort of unison. The fire in her leg muscles climbs higher, but it doesn’t faze her. She breathes it out, from everywhere, the small, forgotten places. She exults in it.

“Balance,” he says, maneuvering her hands to the proper places, the knuckles of one fist pressed flat against a vertical open palm, two hands meeting just in front of her lower abdomen. “Two opposing forces.” He sticks his foot back against the inside of her ankle, and she slides her feet apart without needing to be told, dropping back to the correct position. “Close your eyes. Breathe.”

In. Full. Small, forgotten places.

“Now,” he says, stepping back from her. “You will count.”

“How high?” she asks. Her legs are screaming with a pleasant sort of exhaustion, but she’s wobbly, and this position isn’t easy to maintain.

“One hundred,” he replies. Then – “Three times.”

Her eyes fly open. “Obi-Wan, that’s – ”

His eyes are glowing with suppressed mirth. “Three times, apprentice.”

If she starts laughing, she’s going to fall. “Obi-Wan, three times is too many – ”

“Protest again and it shall be six.”

“You know,” she grunts, wriggling down in an attempt to find a slightly more comfortable position, “I’m beginning to think I’ve done Anakin a disservice.”

He raises an eyebrow archly. “Because...?”

“All this time, he was telling the truth about you.”

Obi-Wan snorts. “Impudence. I’d have been running circuits around the Temple for that kind of insolence.”

“Somehow I doubt that ever stopped you.”

And there’s the smile – trademark Kenobi, dimples and all, subtle and half-hidden behind the close-trimmed beard. “No,” he agrees. “You are quite correct. I became an accomplished marathon runner.” Dropping down to the same low, planted stance she is struggling to maintain, he returns to the matter at hand. “Let us begin.”

“Obi-Wan.”

“Mm.” He has already closed his eyes. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already made it to twenty while she’s still dithering around trying to get her breathing in order.

“This is the silliest thing I’ve ever done with anybody.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but the corners his mouth curl up.

“But,” she says, never one to skimp on gratitude, “I like it.” Her legs are shaking and she can’t count the number of joints she’s heard crack since they started this ridiculous exercise, but the anxious tangle in her chest is now tiny threads blowing in the wind, unwound and strewn about by breath and motion. “And I do feel better about tonight. So thank you.”

“I come to serve, Senator.”

Formal response, for someone who just moments ago had been shoving her into positions more suited to a gymnast than a senator. She smiles to herself in private amusement and closes her eyes. Reminds herself to breathe, full, everywhere.

And begins to count.

-chandrila-

Padmé has to give Obi-Wan credit. By now, she has watched him extricate himself from Senator Se’lab’s clutches three times, and while a moonlit cocktail party in a garden of this size provides the Jedi with plenty of spaces to hide, the shadow cast by a group of hulking Ithorian senators is a more creative choice than she had expected, even from him. Observing him from her position on the other side of the lush garden, she bites her lip in an attempt not to laugh at the deadly seriousness with which Obi-Wan keeps the Ithorian delegation between himself and the beverage table towards which the Bothan senator had stumbled.

She cannot pass up such a rare opportunity to tease him. Excusing herself from her group of colleagues, she sidles across the garden towards him, ensconcing herself in the shadows behind the wide backs of Ithorian senators Stonk and Bendon. “Master Kenobi,” she greets him, smoothly.

Obi-Wan’s cool voice betrays nothing. “Senator.”

Padmé fights to keep a straight face. “I see you’ve made Senator Se’lab’s acquaintance.”

“I have made his acquaintance several times,” Obi-Wan replies. “He had little memory of our first meeting at our second, and no memory of our second at our third. Forgive me, but if I can avoid a fourth such performance, I will. I grow tired of introducing myself.”

Padmé stifles a smile. It isn’t fair, that one so skilled in diplomacy to earn himself a galactic-wide nickname should hate it so much. “And did the Honorable Senator from Bothawui tire of your company?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Then how – ” She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. “You didn’t – ”

Obi-Wan gives her an affronted look. “Senator Amidala, what sort of nefarious rogue do you take me for?” He chances a harried glance past the Ithorians, checking for any signs of his unwanted companion’s return. “Along with the memories of our previous two meetings, the good Senator appeared to have forgotten how exactly it was that he’d been able to achieve such an impressively amnesiac and befuddled state. I merely reminded him about the open bar.”

“Formidably underhanded,” she says, approvingly. “But then, that’s why they call you the Negotiator.”

Obi-Wan makes a face at the nickname. “Yes,” he says. “And if I could only negotiate myself out of this whole affair, I would perhaps believe the title to have been aptly bestowed.”

“Obi-Wan,” she chides him. “The best negotiators know when to call for assistance.”

He raises an eyebrow, just slightly, in what might be a faint feather-brush of amusement, then follows her gaze over his shoulder, to where the clearly intoxicated Bothan senator is making his weaving way through the festive crowd back towards them. Obi-Wan’s eyes widen very slightly, in definite alarm. “Indeed. Very well said. In that case, my lady, consider my distress signal activated.”

She extends an arm to him formally. “Walk with me.”

Thanks to the friendship she and Bail share with Mon Mothma, Padmé knows the Chandrilan Diplomatic Gardens better than most in attendance. She knows Obi-Wan, too, better than most, not because he opens himself to her, exactly, but – well, being in her position, one hears things, and Padmé is well-practiced at extracting trivia and truth from Anakin’s well-worn litany of complaints, worries, and fears.

She guides them serenely down a lesser-used path, the raucous festivities behind them fading into a murmur. “Here,” she points. They turn through a simple, cream-colored arch into a wider space, far-away party sounds now faint, distant enough not to grate on the nerves. All about them, only the cheerful babble of water, tumbling from multiple small falls into a network of mossy pools and rock-bordered streams.

Obi-Wan turns his head from side to side to take in the shimmering falls and eddying pools, chin rising as if in response to some sound only he can hear, features lightening. “We’ve a place very like this, in the Temple,” he says. “The Room of a Thousand Fountains.”

Padmé knows this. Knows too that it is a favorite haunt of his, though she will not tell him so. Better he think her fortuitous choice a welcome coincidence, for she knows what she knows about him from Anakin, and, strictly speaking, should not have access to such confidences.

“I’ve heard of it,” she says instead. “It’s much larger than this, though, I think.” She waves a hand at the small garden.

“Size matters not,” Obi-Wan intones, as though reciting an oft-repeated adage, and extends a hand gracefully under one of the falls’ streams. To Padmé’s surprise, the water curves around his upturned palm, bending as if repelled by an invisible barrier before continuing its swan dive into the clear pool below.

“Just a game,” Obi-Wan says, in answer to her unasked question. “And an exercise in control. One practiced by Temple younglings.”

Not any game Padmé knows. She and her sister – then later, her handmaidens – were more apt to occupy themselves with jumping straight into the water, shrieking with glee, than with avoiding its flow. “What’s the objective?”

“Just this,” he says. “Stay dry.” He curls his fingers up to his palm and then flat again in a gentle wave, the water above his hand twisting in a delighted dance before resuming its tumble around an untouched sleeve. “Even the youngest initiates, when exhibiting proper control, can easily redirect a flow of water around their forms. One stands under the falls, keeping dry, while their agemates or teachers attempt to break their focus.” He quirks a smile, one laced with equal parts memory and mischief. “One gets distracted, one gets wet.”

She smiles at him. “I take it you were good at this game?”

“I was passable,” he says with a diffident shrug. “But I did not win every time. My own clan members’ antics were at times difficult to ignore.”

“And Anakin?” she asks. She can’t help herself.

Obi-Wan pull his arm out from the falls, hand disappearing back into the long sleeve of his robe. “Terrible,” he says bluntly. “Without a doubt the worst in his class.”

Padmé refrains from making an unbecoming snort. So she will have something amusing to hold over Anakin’s head when she returns to Coruscant.

“You mustn’t misunderstand me, of course; Anakin is highly capable and could easily manipulate the water were he left to his own devices, but I’m afraid his mental discipline left much to be desired.” Obi-Wan sighs and shakes his head. “Anakin is so easily distracted – he reserved his limited ability to focus for very singular pursuits.”

“Such as...?”

Obi-Wan looks to be almost on the verge of rolling his eyes, but that would be un-Jedi, and he settles for a narrowing of them and crooking his fingers sardonically into the universal sign for quotes. “‘Fixing stuff,’ I believe he said.”

Padmé can’t help but laugh at that, and Obi-Wan indulges her merriment graciously. Looking re-energized, far more hale and hearty than he had in the reception area proper, he stretches out a hand. Ribbons of water arc away from the falls all around them, streaming through the air and coalescing into a shining globe above his palm, a miniature model of Mon Cala. The sphere’s globular surface ripples and turns slowly, casting small refractions of moonlight over the courtyard. Small-scale beauty, to be sure, but Padmé only has eyes for Obi-Wan’s face, lit with reflected light from below, a study in simple happiness.

A Jedi at play, she realizes. Most people didn’t believe there really was such a thing.

“That’s lovely,” she says, peering into the globe’s transparent yet distorted depths. Something about it...she is suddenly reminded of Anakin, in another time and place, levitating a muja fruit in much the same way, and with the same burst of simple enjoyment. “But I thought frivolous uses of the Force were discouraged.”

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows at her, accepting the friendly challenge. “Frivolous?” He turns his hand so that the palm now faces outward. Rippling with light, the globe coasts several feet away and comes to rest over a pathetically drooping momus bush, its leaves yellowed and cracked, balmgrass spiky and dry around its exposed roots. Obi-Wan twitches his fingers downward, and the globe disintegrates, water sluicing down in a joyful shower onto the parched earth, transforming the yellow dust to a rich, wet brown. He gives her a significant look. “The preservation of life is never frivolous, Senator.”

Her smile climbs its way out of her with ease. Of course. An answer for everything. “I stand corrected.”

In the distance, a chorus of laughter rises above the sound of burbling water, followed by what sounds like someone calling for a toast. Obi-Wan casts a lingering glance at the falls, then back at the arched entrance to the grotto. “We should return,” he says, and if that is reluctance in his voice she will not comment on it.

She nods in agreement. “You’re right. Typho will start to worry.”

Taking her outstretched arm, Obi-Wan frowns. “I am quite certain I gave Captain Typho my word that no harm would come to you whilst I am your escort. He must learn to trust me.”

“He does trust you. But he’s a worry-woolamander. It’s his job.” It was, after all, why she had personally selected him to replace his retired uncle as her new head of security. But, at the same time, she had grown weary of the constant trail of guards orbiting her at all times, rings of human satellites, so many she can hardly blink without catching a glimpse of security burgundy in her peripheral vision. Far preferable to have an escort of one Jedi, especially this Jedi, than that wall of armed guards.

And besides, Obi-Wan had promised. While Captain Typho may not appreciate the import of such a gesture, Padmé does – Obi-Wan Kenobi’s word is worth his weight in solid aurodium bars and more. He has nothing left to prove to anybody, on that count.

At the threshold to the main garden, wide flowering pathways thronging with diplomats and officials and lackeys alike, Obi-Wan takes in a resigned breath. “Once more into the breach,” he proclaims, with tragicomic stoicism.

She cocks her head at him in sympathy. “Straight to the dance floor,” she advises, and they set off, she steering him in the proper direction. “I doubt even a Bothan will try to cut in on a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan snorts under his breath. “Her Highness is grown very devious, in her slippery Senatorial position,” he murmurs.

“And Master Kenobi very witty, in his old age,” she shoots back.

Obi-Wan favors her with a grin, a real grin, full and shining with rarely displayed pleasure. He bows to her, ushering her onto the formal dance floor with a graceful sweep of his hand. “You had better hope your earlier supposition is correct,” he says, eyes glinting with the same clever playfulness she’d seen in him earlier. “The Bothan senators have hooves, you know.”

#pan sharing star wars fic in 2021 - no one could have predicted #anyway as i said these are seven years old #please forgive them #XD #star wars #fic

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i-cant-handle-change · 3 years

Text

I'm eager to talk about my Au’s instead of drawing them again-

’The Wired’ Au

Gotta love twisting reality to make up this Au.

This is a depressing Au ngl, besides all the mind fucks it has within it has a lot of desperation in it.

Izuku is trying to find his mother who has been lost within The Wired and there are people out there to get him.

More preferably The Knights and Nine and his gang. Gotta include Nine in too, loved his character in the movie and if you watched Serial Experiments Lain you might know who he’ll play as.

Oh, and Izuku’s dad wants to vault him

Nothing like good old DFO to add on to the already depressing Au am I right?

I’ll write and draw snippets of the Au soon enough but it’ll come off as strange and convoluted. But thats like the norm in the anime I based it on so once again mind fucks all around.

Bakugo is going to get ✨paranoid✨ in this Au. One moment he sees Izuku as a villain, the other as a cutesy extrovert wearing pastels, and the other as what he was after the fatal ’swan dive’. It's going to mess with him a lot and the fact that Izuku flat out told him he was the cause of all of this isn't helping him at all.

Does Inko ever get found by Izuku in The Wired?

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

This Au is like a pinata, I bash on it and possibilities pour out of it like candy. There are too many and some look the same yet are very different, I don't know, that's the Au in a nutshell.

Also white-haired Izuku. That's it just white-haired Izuku.

’Itch’ Au

Oh yeah, this one is my favorite, and all I can think about-

Izuku has the All for One quirk and he doesn't know that yet the quirk is sentient and slowly starts to take over Izuku’s life.

Some DFO sprinkled in because of angst.

I just love the idea of sentient quirks and by far the AFO quirk just radiates chaotic evil energy and I’m living it. Once it awakens, (it was kept at bay until Izuku finally activated it at the sludge monster incident where All Might and many people saw the event with their own eyes) it’s just dead set on causing so much chaos.

But with how adorable Izuku is the quirk can't just help but groom him into his ideals and make him his new vessel. This is middle school Izuku who just got his quirk and he's still young so the quirk has all the time he needs to shape him how he wants to be.

Izuku is scared, no kidding, he still doesn't understand his quirk very well and why it's sentient in the first place. All he knows is that when it’s near he gets chills down his spine and has the unfortunate hunger of taking more quirks. He's learning to control it though and the more he does the more he spends in this so-called ’landscape’ with his quirk.

It's strange, scary sure, but he feels compelled to know more about this quirk he’s acquired. It claims that it’ll help Izuku when he's at his lowest point and by the looks of it he is at his lowest point. Izuku could deny it but the quirk knows Izuku, it’s been with Izuku for so long that it might as well know more about the teenager than the teenager knows about himself.

It knows about his life. The unfairness and treatment he’s been through for nearly a decade because of his ’quirklessness’. The pain, the bullying, the mistreatment, the scowls, the pity, the unspeakable acts acted onto this child because he did not have a quirk.

”I can help you, little one.”

It said with that trademark toothy smile.

”I can help you make those who have harmed you bow and cower at your very feet!” It exclaimed, raising its arms for effect.

”You have the power to make them quirkless! You have the power to make them weak, pathetic, completely worthless to a society dependent on quirks for survival! You have the power to overcome all those heroes and villains that reign this small world!”

Izuku’s only fourteen, he can't handle all this pressure alone, let alone handle the guilt of taking away quirks from other people. Even if they hurt him in his past he could never forgive himself for committing such an act.

Izuku was too busy thinking to himself that he flinches when he's brought into a suffocating hug, two long arms wrapping around his body like snakes. He acts fast, bringing his now visible arms up to push the quirk away but it was too strong.

Its laughter rang through the landscape.

”You can make anyone follow your orders with the power you hold, little one. You have the power to make them all pay for what they all did to you. Don't you think it’s time that they get a taste of their own medicine?”

’No!’ Izuku wanted to say, still struggling within he tightening hold. ’I don’t want to hurt anyone!’

”But you’ve already had.”

Izuku paused.

”How many quirks have you taken so far because of your hunger? Two? Five? Ten?! All of them taken and it's barely been a few months, little one, and the consequences were just tragic!”

Izuku struggled some more.

’I didn't mean to! I didn't know how to use my quirk properly! I want to give them back but I don't know how to do it right!’

”All those delinquents sent to the hospital, I can't say that isn't normal for children like them but the others... People will start turning heads! They’ll start to look around, rumors will spread, people will talk, they will start to get scared, and soon all those heads will turn towards you...”

’NO!’

”Think about it, everyone will now call you a villain! It doesn't matter what you’ll say they’ll all just point fingers at you and screech out ’VILLAIN’ and run away in fear of your presence! Children will think of you as a monster, children your age will start to avoid you like the plague, parents will take their children and run away from you, heroes will arrest you for illegal quirk usage, and your mother...”

Its grip tightened around Izuku, if Izuku could he would be screaming by now.

”What would your poor dear stressful mother think of you? Oh, she would start to blame herself, she’ll start to think that she gave birth to a demon that only spreads bad luck wherever it goes! All because of your quirk...”

It losses its grip on Izuku who was opening crying by this point, he raises his hands to his face, trying to cover his reddening face.

The quirk before Izuku simply crouched down to the teenager’s height, its smile still hadn't gone away. It raised its broad hands to Izuku’s face, carefully moving his hands away to brush away his tears. It waits a few minutes for Izuku to calm down, its hands on the teenager’s shoulders so that he wouldn't run away. As for Izuku could run away, his feet still hadn't been formed yet and all he could do was either stand up or lay down for anything to happen.

”But you don't have to go through all of that, little one, you’re still too young and your future is still too bright. It only makes sense to tie loose ends that could damage your future so that it won't worry you anymore. For instance, that boy, Naito Susumu, he was the first student that you’ve taken their quirk away, right?”

Izuku nodded his head, the memory still haunts him.

”Well, I can tell he would want it back, for all anyone knows he’s having a fit much like all teenagers do as they grow. Not using their quirk is one of them and he is a delinquent so I can tell that his quirk is what earned him his place to be different from the others. He’ll want it back, of course, but standing around and waiting for something to happen won't do.”

”You have to come up to him yourself, Izuku, leave a note in his desk, make sure he gets it, meet him somewhere private and where you two are the only ones there. Look at him and I mean look at him straight into his eyes into his very soul and make him know that you’re not to be messed with. Because you are not to be messed with, Izuku Midoriya, you are stronger than anyone else in that hopeless school.”

”Make him feel worthless, make him know that you have the power to take and give away quirks with your bare hands. And when he begs, let him beg, let him drop to his very knees, hear his cries and shuttered apologies that are directed to you and only you, Izuku. Make him know you are better than him and after his little session, you make a deal with him, make him know that if you ever need help that he’ll always be there to benefit you in your troubles.”

”Then and only then is where you finally give him his quirk back and I know what you’re thinking ’how could I do such a thing if I don't know how?’ and I’ll tell you how. You have to place your hand, only one, on his forehead like this.”

It placed its large hand onto Izuku’s forehead, from his obscure blurry vision, Izuku could see the hole in the middle of his palm.

”Keep your hand open wide and your fingers separated, make sure you do this right, or else you’ll send him back to the hospital again. You focus, you calm down and look within yourself for his quirk and you’ll know the quirk when you see it, it’s like a shining star in the vast emptiness that is this plane of existence.”

“You breathe slowly and steadily and you grab onto that quirk and give it back to its original owner. You’ll know when the quirk is gone when the light fades and once it fades away you let go of his forehead and step back.”

It let go of Izuku’s forehead, its smile was thin yet thrilled.

”You’ll need to calm yourself down, you’ll feel a part of yourself feel empty, but you need to know how to get used to that feeling. That feeling will eventually fade away and once it does you’ll feel nothing but the satisfaction that someone else is put on your growing pile of supporters.”

”Did you get that?”

’Yes.’

”Good, that's very good, Izuku.”

Something stirred inside of Izuku, the air shifted as he felt a sudden rush of adrenaline course through him. It smiled even wider even when its form started to fade away alongside the landscape it resided in.

”Let us meet again, Izuku Midoriya, I wish you the best of luck.”

It reached out its hand and ruffled Izuku’s unkempt hair but before Izuku could swat his hand away he was already on his bed. Sweating from head to toe the young teenager quickly went off to write down what he could remember in the landscape and from his quirk. He went over the technique, his palms opening and closing for the extra effect he could feel the hunger of his quirk course through his veins.

Izuku had already gotten ready for school faster than he’d done before, he startled his mother by cooking breakfast for himself so that he could get ready faster. He apologized for not cooking for her and hurried to put his shoes on by the doorway and before his mother could ask why he was so giddy he turned and gave a gleaming smile.

”I’m going to make a friend today!”

Izuku left with a skip in his step leaving his still shocked mother beside the doorway.

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zirkkun · 3 years

Note

Yo you have every right to be upset about things! You're still a person with your own feelings and deserve to be treated kindly. No one should come at you for making things you enjoy or for misunderstandings. I hope things get better for you even if I wasn't here for when all the drama happened (or maybe I was and just wasn't aware of it? I tend to avoid drama as much as possible tbh)

I didn't really post about it much. I think I answered about 4 asks about it (three of them in the same post because i was sure it was the same anon due to the similar string of seemingly continued messages) and the rest I just deleted as soon as they came in, but I got... A lot. A lot of mean things said too. Kinda hurts when you wanted to make something because you knew this work was highly criticized and wanted to let people give it a second chance only to be shot down by the people you were hoping to defend lol

In short, and a lot of it I missed because I was blocked by a lot of people so my friend sent me screencaps; someone took I believe only the old ask box post I had for ULR, which at the time was called "Underlust Rewrite," and was disgusted at the fact that everything was revamped and "made for kids" (because it's not 18+ explicit content, but as I've said before, it's just cause I'm too scared to be horny on main, and I've literally made a whole different biological system for ULR so I can write the necessary story ""sex scenes"" without it being human-like sex or otherwise uncomfortable or too explicit for me to draw, but I still consider it a mature story overall), so they blocked me instantly here and on twitter and then made a callout post on twitter itself. People were telling me originally to stop calling the AU Underlust, and I didn't really get it at first, because like, what's the difference between my spinoff and, say, Underlust Gold, Swapfell Indigo, TS!Underswap, you know, names that have add-ons from the original title to differentiate it but still connect it to the source. So that's what I said, as well as if I removed the Underlust name, it would be considered stealing to me, because I'd be disconnecting it from the source. But apparently, instead, what had been the concern was that it was just being called "Underlust" and the "Rewrite" aspect was implying I was replacing the original story, which like, had never been my intention and I've made a bunch of things with both the ULR and UL cast together and love the idea of Lust and Ace meeting up and just being a disaster duo of not working together at all. I just adore Underlust like it's in my pinned FAQ, Lust's been in my banner for months now, and he's practically my staple pfp character on every account but here atm.

It took like 3 days for it to actually click what was going on, because once I finally got the chance to have a conversation with someone where they weren't telling me I was the scum of the Earth -- which, honestly, bless the three people I talked to, they were so sweet (which actually included someone from the Japanese side of the fandom whose art I loved too... yeah it got pretty far. Once I sent them a message though it was cleared up quickly and they did post a clarification post about ULR and me, so that was nice to see.) -- I finally got the chance to realize that this was a misunderstanding from the beginning, from both sides, where people coming at me were saying I was doing all of the stuff above and probably more but those stuck the most, while I was confused as to where this information and accusations were coming from and what they were referring to in the first place. They probably never explained it in the anon asks because, well, they probably assumed I knew what I was doing, but when they came at me about something I didn't do with vague context of something I did do, I was very confused, and got really defensive really quickly, and really honestly snapped pretty hard. After my first initial explanation post and people were still trying to tell me to stop ULR/don't call it Underlust/whatever else there was, I just got tired and told people to block me if they didn't like it. But that didn't really stop anyone and honestly made it worse because that's when I started getting really nasty messages. I like... Specifically remember one where someone called me a lowlife and a thief, and that one stuck the most, but I tended to not read through them before deleting them for my own sanity. I actually did this to one of the people who'd later talked to me calmly about it at first too, because I had just woken up, and really didn't want to read an essay lecture on everything everyone's been telling me at the crack of 7am when I was borderline ready to delete my account and start over lol

Some people I do remember were accusing me of trying to censor nsfw content or erase it as well because ULR isn't 18+, and I'm out here on my horny ass like "wh. What are they talking about, where did you get that idea, have you SEEN my ao3 recommended list," /j but in all seriousness I really didn't understand that accusation at all because I've never been against nsfw content in the slightest and lowkey? This is very dumb -- but like, you know how they say when you get hate mail, you know you've made it? Well, for me, my thought has always been, "When there's 18+ fancontent of my OC's, I'll have finally made it." This is... Not a joke, some of my friends think its very weird LMAO oh well. I've been on the internet for far too long at this point -- like, definitely since I was far too young, probably, and being with a family of the next youngest being 12 years older than me, I really dove into stuff pretty quickly I definitely shouldn't have, but hey that's life -- I'm really unfazed by mostly anything now. Hell, me making ULR was honestly half motivated by me wanting to make others more comfortable with this kind of media, discussing sexuality and otherwise sexual-considered topics, without really being embarrassed or bothered by it. Because, people talk about death and killing and whatever other gorey stuff just fine, but the moment sex comes up, people just gasp in awe, y'know? I kind of grew up that way myself but like... ironically, in being more comfortable with my asexuality, I realized that it's honestly not that big of a deal. Sure, we don't need to hear the details of everything. We don't need to hear the details of a murder either. But I will never understand how murder is always the lowest on the "morally wrong list of things to not to" to so many people and that it's fine to mention, but even consider bringing up anything else and it's like, a sin and you're a bad person. Even racism is like, higher up on there for a lot of people, which it's like... this is an issue that needs to be discussed, or it can never be solved. You can't just kick that away and hope it goes away on its own, that's never how it works.

Ah, well, now I've gone off tangent lol. Sorry to make you read a blob of text lmao but having things in a cohesive format of what I've been thinking does feel a bit better. Thank you for the support regardless, and I do want to keep making what I really enjoy, because frankly, I really want to make things that make people take a step back and think for a moment, y'know? Things that invoke like a realization in yourself about something you didn't even know. That's how fiction's always been for me, so I want to give back by making it that way too. ... maybe my horny content is exempt from this however. That's just. Self indulgence LMAO.

Probably helps that I'm actually talking this all out for once, too, since before any of this I tried to keep as much of the situation contained to myself as possible in hopes I could clean it up before it got too bad. That was, in hindsight, probably a terrible idea lol. But I didn't want to be a source of stress for anyone following me or become the new creator-to-defend that like, 50% of people hate and 50% of people love and that you're either on one side or the other and there's no where in between. (I feel like Arin Hanson comes to mind for me every time I think of someone like this.) I know I can't please everyone and I knew internet hate would come eventually, but like, didn't expect it to be over a name or tag choice. I thought that would be a simple enough DM or clearable thing but apparently not, especially since I saw someone a few weeks ago delete their blog over a similar thing (though, the opposite, in a way: posting nsfw in a sfw tag by mistake). It wasn't in the UT fandom so y'all probably weren't following them (tbf I wasn't either, I just witnessed it happen from start to finish), but it was still disheartening.

Anyway, thank you, and sorry to make ya read all of that (if you actually did vahdbs don't blame you if you don't it's a lot of thought dump lmao)💕💕

#zircon answers #anonymous #all this happened like the DAY i got accepted onto the bhc team to and i was like #alright guys am i being kicked out day one lol #like i was expecting the worst from this whole thing #but im still kind of happy with how i worked it out #i really wish more people were like #willing to talk things out rather than just spit in a general direction and hope youll listen #because like even the people i talked to calmly some of them were pretty rude at first! but!#theyre not bad people #they were just scared for their favorite thing #i cant blame them for that and honestly i do consider the hatred justified under the circumstances that they knew #but they were all really nice after we talked things out #and were like 'i hope your series does well' and that really meant a lot honestly #death mention tw//

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athingthatwantsvirginia · 3 years

Text

All Norman Bates

PART FORTY-TWO OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: mentions of estranged parents, therapy, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 2.8K

Summary: Jess and Ella experience a bump in the road on the way to California.

A/N: Just so everyone is aware, there are only two chapters left after this, including the epilogue :)

Sighing, Jess glanced over at Ella, who sat in the passenger seat with a crinkled brow and the cap of a red pen between her teeth. They were halfway to California, and Jess didn’t think he’d seen her without that same pensive look on her face for the entirety of the trip thus far. But, he couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed at her insistence on working over the spring break. Her cheeks were lively with rosy color, and her eyes looked clearer.

They weren’t all good days. Sometimes, she would come home from work or school and fall asleep on the couch almost immediately, lethargic and unable to articulate any of the thoughts which were jumbled in a confusing, depressed mess within her head. Then, when she awoke, she would often find herself needing to cry. Whether she knew what her feelings were about or not, she would let herself cry, like her new therapist was urging her to. Jess would rub circles on her back and make green tea and listen. And eventually, she would feel better. They were working it out together, just like he promised. Most of the time, there was a gnawing guilt sitting in her stomach. He shouldn’t have to take care of her, she would think. She was holding him back. She was weighing him down. Each time she brought it up though, he would patiently remind her of how much she had helped him, how this thing of theirs was a two-way street, and that he didn’t mind.

She would smile, in spite of herself. Slowly, it was getting easier, and she was regaining her passion for things. She was drawing again, even painting, finally making use of the easel Jess had gotten her for Christmas. Jess often made jokes about how big of a role their therapists played in their lives, but they only made Ella laugh, instead of making her angry. It was true, but she was becoming less ashamed of it by the day. It would probably always feel a bit like her and Jess against the world, but their world could be bigger. Help didn’t need to be an evil. She didn’t need to make survival her ultimate goal. Instead, she was working on happiness. And, of course, the antidepressants were playing a part no one could understate.

“You’re gonna make yourself carsick,” Jess warned begrudgingly, turning down the Killers song which played on the radio.

Ella rolled her eyes but didn’t look up from the essay. “You’re the one who gets carsick, Jess. I’ll be fine.”

Again, he gave a slight sigh. Sometimes, the silence could get to even him. When she was working, it was like she was on a different planet. “Whatever, Daria. Just call me the invisible man.”

“You are so clingy,” she teased off-handedly, chuckling.

He scoffed, though a blush rose hotly up his neck and to the tips of his ears. “Am not.”

“Sure, tough guy,” she quipped, then finally looked up from the midterm papers she was grading.

The current one was a pretty decent account of how Van Gogh made the most of his madness through his art. She was pretty engrossed in it, and it was almost free of her annotations. Her harsh grading style had become almost notorious with the T.A. circle at the University. But, sometimes, people really did turn in perfect work. Besides, she knew it was better to bite the bullet and give the advice. It was what the students were there for, after all. And subtlety had never been her strong suit.

For what it was worth, she was working on the drive in an attempt to have less to do once they actually reached California. The plans were to spend the week on the beach, reading and drawing, and popping into Jess’s father’s house every now and again. The visit was partially for vacation, partially an obligatory gesture. Jess hadn’t visited in so long, the guilt was starting to get to him. His father was a douchebag, but he had still welcomed Jess into his home when he didn’t have to. The gesture certainly counted for something.

Watching the darkness of the road ahead, Jess tried to keep his anxiety at bay. He had to remind himself that Ella was with him, they were older, and even more stable than they had been the last time they visited. He didn’t need to feel nervous about the trip, but the memories of his lonely months in Venice were itching at the back of his mind. Sometimes, he would give in and scratch, even if it only made things worse. He bit at his bottom lip, eyes occasionally wandering to the sky. There were stars, lots out in the heartland of America with no light pollution. And there were hardly any other cars, as the night went from evening to late. There were no concrete plans about where to stay the night, just the next decent motel they happened upon. Each time Ella suggested stopping, Jess insisted he was fine to keep driving. He wanted to get as much done as he could manage. Truthfully, he was not looking forward to the silence of the nighttime, when Ella went to sleep and he had to be alone with thoughts of his father turning over and over in his head.

“Do you hear that?” she asked after a moment, brows furrowing. With her attention away from her work, she had begun to pick up on a faint clicking sound.

“Hear what?” Jess said, broken from his anxious reverie.

“Listen,” she said, then gave a hesitant pause. Then added: “It’s getting louder.”

Jess did as she told him, turning the quiet music on the radio all the way down. Sure enough, beneath the rushing of the tires and the occasional screech they had come to tune out after years of riding in the death trap, there was a clicking. And it was getting louder, faster and faster. Then, Jess began to feel a drag in his speed and a resistance in his brakes.

. . .

Too tired even to work, Ella laid with her hands behind her head and stared up at the ceiling. They were somewhere in Kansas, with shitty cell reception and even shittier motels. No auto repair shop would be open until the morning, the man with the tow truck had said, but he suspected it was the engine, based on the sound they had described to him. Luckily, the man had been kind enough to drive them to the nearest 24-hour lodging. The Ambassador would sit solitary in the tow yard until the morning, when they came to bring it to whatever repair shop had the lowest prices. In all honesty, Ella was just glad they hadn’t been forced to spend the night on the side of the highway. It had taken them almost a half an hour before finally getting Ella’s cell in the right position to handle a call to information, to get the name of a towing company. The whole ordeal had been nerve-wracking, but she was feeling marginally better behind the safety of their closed motel room door. At the front desk there sat a disinterested woman with thick glasses which magnified her light eyes and a magazine open on the desk in front of her. She had told them a lost key was a $50 fee before sending them on their way with little more than a glance.

It wasn’t a shock. Jess’s car had been living on borrowed time for quite a while, anyway. Rusty and creaky and dying. Ella almost felt vindicated. Finally, her predictions had come true. She had expressed doubt when Jess had said he would be the one driving, to give her time to work and relax. He’d been encouraging her to relax more often recently, and she appreciated it. But riding passenger in the Ambassador was anything but relaxing. Ella still couldn’t believe how flabbergasted Jess had looked when he had to pull over on the side of the road, unable to drive safely with the way the gas pedal wasn’t cooperating. Ella felt a bit of foolish nostalgia at the thought of the vehicle. Another site of their youth bites the dust.

“I don’t know,” Jess sighed into his phone, running a hand down his tired face.

He’d been talking to Sasha for the last twenty minutes. It was past ten, but not the middle of the night. Jimmy, however, wasn’t available to talk apparently. Sasha had been suggesting alternative plans for them to get to California, though both Jess and Ella knew there was no way they were getting down there anytime soon if the car was as broken as they suspected. Even if it wasn’t completely dead (which it was), they’d have to wait for parts to come in. Who knew how long that would take for such an old make and model.

Eventually, Jess pushed Sasha off the phone with some muttered excuses and forced goodbyes. His head was swimming with fatigue, and he didn’t think he could deal with another second of his stepmother. Not considering how chatty and cheery she was. Putting his cell phone on the rickety nightstand next to him, he flopped down onto his back. The comforter had a faded floral pattern, but was surprisingly soft. He blew out a long breath and shut his eyes for a moment.

“So she took it well?” Ella asked flatly. She had heard Sasha’s good-natured badgering as she lay silently next to Jess.

“Oh yeah,” Jess replied. “Very understanding.”

Ella snorted a laugh and sat up again, looking down at him. She raked her fingers through his hair affectionately. He sighed again, eyes still closed. Biting at the inside of her cheek, Ella fought back a small smirk at the sight of him in the low glow of the singular bedside lamp. The night certainly hadn’t gone according to plan, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel too upset about not making it to California. She still wasn’t the biggest fan of Jimmy or the Pacific Ocean. She kept stroking his hair, eyeing his long lashes and exhausted pallor. She could tell how sleepy he was, even if he wouldn’t exactly admit the effects of driving so long.

She looked around the small room, big enough only for a queen bed, a small TV, some nightstands, and a bathroom off to the side. The rosebud wallpaper was yellowed with age and there were a few precarious stains on the beige carpet. But the air had a homey smell of dust and she decided it wasn’t the worst place they could have ended up. Fortunately, they didn’t need to find dinner, having already grabbed some takeout about an hour before the end of the Ambassador’s long, strange life.

“At least we won’t have to reconnect with that weird guy who works on the boardwalk,” Ella said, breaking the comfortable silence.

“The guy who sells the hemp hats?” Jess asked, then cracked his eyes open again. “You think he still works there?”

“I bet he’ll still be standing out there long after you and I are dead,” Ella replied.

Jess laughed. “You’re probably right.”

“Maybe I should grade more,” she said distractedly, speaking mostly to herself as her idle hands made uneasiness creep up in her stomach.

Rolling his eyes, Jess grabbed her gently around the waist and pulled her down onto the bed, guiding her head to his chest. “This is an addiction, Stevens. I’m cutting you off.”

“Yeah, well, the first step to healing is acceptance,” she quipped, placing a kiss on his t-shirt and settling in against him. For once, she decided to oblige him and sleep instead of stay up into the early hours of the morning with her red pen. Her therapist had also suggested doing work in moderation.

Jess chuckled breathily. “It’s true.” Then, after a moment: “I think I’m honestly more upset about the car than not getting to go visit daddy dearest.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured.”

“Oh, am I that transparent?” he deadpanned.

“Like a glass house, Mariano,” she teased. “I guess it is the end of an era.”

He nodded. “Yeah. No more weird cigarette burns on the ceiling.”

She laughed. One of the only nights in high school she had ever gotten stoned, Jess had picked her up from her house by surprise, throwing pebbles at her window. He found her eyes red-rimmed and glassy, her cheeks flushed, and her mind spacey. All she’d wanted to do was drive around and smoke cigarettes and listen to Joy Division. At the time, she hadn’t told him about the blowout fight with her father and Fiona. Not until the next morning over breakfast in the diner. When she’d accidentally burned the ceiling of the car with her cigarette, leaving a dark circle, she’d started tearing up. In response, Jess lit a cigarette of his own and pressed it to the ceiling without hesitation, unphased.

Smiling at the memory, she threw an arm over his waist. “And no more barrette stuck in the window crank that won’t come out no matter how fucking hard I try.”

Jess snorted a laugh. After the Arctic Monkeys concert they’d attended the previous summer, they’d had sex in the backseat. One of her barrettes had somehow ended up eternally wedged in the window crank. The next day, she’d taken a pair of pliers to it fruitlessly. Jess had teased her, the woman who prided herself on being able to fix anything, mercilessly, ever since.

“And about a million other ‘no mores.’ Who knows what’ll happen in our next car,” he said.

“Only time will tell,” she muttered through a yawn. “I love you, James Dean.”

“Love you back,” he replied.

A gentle click sounded in the cozy quiet as Jess shut off the lamp. Getting comfortable again, he ran a hand up and down over her back and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. Then, he bit at his bottom lip, and his mind flashed to the small red box in this duffel. With the thin gold ring, a tiny amethyst in the middle. He’d bought it months ago, on a random trip to some antique shop with Chris, and he had a few ideas in mind. He hadn’t nailed down a real proposal plan yet, but took it with to California just in case. It had been wishful thinking, of course, since California was neither of their favorite places. And they weren’t going to make it there anyway. Still, it was there. It was happening. He just didn’t know when. It made his insides feel fluttery and excited and almost sick with nerves. But, for now, he decided getting the fuck out of Kansas would be the first step.

Dozing, Ella let her mind wander again to their teenage years. She felt her heart ache with sentimentality, and then brushed it off. Not because she wanted to ignore the feeling, but because all of a sudden she didn’t feel it. She didn’t need to miss Jess when he was right next to her. She didn’t need to worry about the past. Let yourself have a middle. Lorelai’s words reappeared in her mind, soft and comforting.

“Jess?” she asked, voice beginning to grow rough with sleep.

“Hmmm?” he hummed, and she felt the word vibrating in her ear against his chest.

“Do you think that lady at the front desk is gonna go all Normal Bates on us?” she asked.

He sighed, but then it turned into a laugh. “No, Daria, I don’t think so.”

“I bet that’s what Jant Leigh thought too,” she replied, all too serious.

Jess kept his smirk. “Just call me Marion Crane, then.”

She giggled, then was quiet for another moment. Jess slipped his hand beneath her t-shirt and began rubbing small circles on her skin. Usually, she fell asleep within a couple minutes of laying down. Apparently, something was eating at her.

“I think I’m gonna take that job at the University for next year,” she spoke again suddenly.

“Really?” he asked, smirk turning to a small, genuine smile.

“Yeah,” she said, almost shyly. “I’ll have time for actually making some damn art, but I’ll still have a steady income, good benefits...ugh do I sound like a middle-aged tragedy?”

“No,” he said, reassurance in his tone. “I think it’s gonna be great, Eleanor. Seriously.”

“I just...I think I’ll be happy doing it.”

“I do too,” he said, kissing her hair once more. “Congratulations, Stevens.”

“Thanks,” she said with a nervous chuckle, blushing a bit. “And I’ll have that whole sexy professor thing going for me, which is a plus.”

#jess mariano #gilmore girls #gilmore girls jess #gilmore girls au #gilmore girls oc #gilmore girls fanfiction #fanfiction #jess mariano fanfiction #jess mariano oc fanfiction #jess x oc

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lemongogo · 4 years

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hey im the anon abt gyutaro/ume and i dont remember what happens to demons after they die ?? did i miss smth ? regardless i wanna ask what do you think their fate should be ? cause on one hand i think they're just victims of a cruel world who took the first way out they could find but on the other hand it doesnt rlly justify all the slaughter, and i also think abt the demon slayers who also suffered horrible fates and used it to fuel their determination to save other people from that pain

hi !! i don’t think kny ever explicitly mentions what happens to demons after they die (as in we never have concrete evidence of where they go or how their lives after are spent), but i think the general consensus is that the demons go to hell.

in some cases, the family can decide to go with them (ex: rui and i think akaza? if i remember correctly?) but their fate is pretty much sealed from that point forward i believe.

heres a pic of gyuutarou and ume, actually, in chapter 97 !!

but yeah !! thats something i think about a lot tbh. as you mentioned, many of the demons we’ve seen have either been groomed into demonhood (rui, ume, susamaru, etc.) or had their pain and suffering exploited (akaza, gyuutarou) for the sake of advancing other demons’ plans (muzan, douma, etc). so i agree ! a lot of these characters are unfortunate victims in themselves and its impossible to view their stories without incorporating the struggles they’ve had to face as both humans AND demons. especially considering that lots of these individuals experience muzan’s abuse regardless of their status relative to him (such as with the upper and lower moons). i think this is best explained through akaza’s relationship with muzan,

(ch. 67)

(ch.156)

and further explored though tanjiro’s observation of rui’s death. he notes that being a demon, for most, is an existence punctuated by extreme grief and despair, and that’s equally supported, i think, by the humanization of these demons following death. that their original conscious is restored (albeit with knowledge of everything they’ve done) and are oftentimes plagued by the guilt of what’s happened.

(ch.43)

what he says here is probably what sums it up for me. that while it’s important to condemn these demons and hold them accountable for the truly awful things they’ve done, it’s also important to consider the suffering they've experienced through existence alone. its so !! complex !! and thats what i love about kny. i love how .. you have some demons who are entirely despicable and bask in the carnage they create, but you also have some for whom demonhood was simply what appeared to be the only answer towards living a healthier life or righting the wrongs that’ve been done to them (usually with false promises and manipulation unbeknownst to them). and .. its so hard to figure out where to.. draw that line. or view these characters at least. because you sympathize with their pain, but you also realize that their actions have caused endless pain for many hundreds of people. tanjiro losing his entire family, giyuu losing his. shinobu watching her sister die before her very eyes, and kanao the same. the ubuyashiki family’s curse or the slaughter of himejima’s children. you look at characters like sanemi, shinobu, or giyuu and understand that you cannot invalidate their view of demons either. while kanae and tanjiro may find hope and humanity in demons, they exist as monsters who feast on pain to everyone else. its important not to discredit their perspective when making a personal choice to observe the demons’ hardships yknow. shinobu’s anger is just as warranted as tanjiro’s optimism and that neither are wrong for how they personally feel demons should be handled after death.

im like. AAAAAAAA theres so much to it , its really hard for me to condense into a few sentences AHAHA im so sry for making u read this if u still are. but . i guess i’m not too sure. i think maybe, had i experienced the same pain as those above, it would be easy for me to say the demons deserve to go to the worst hell imaginable regardless of what they’ve gone through because that history isn’t accessible to everyone like it has been the audience (or that they’ve seemingly made the conscious decision to cause harm w/o understanding the ways in which demonhood obscures their original conscious/morality). but at the same time, you have those like tanjiro whose world view is shaped by positive encounters with demons like nezuko, tamayo, yushirou, etc. where it seems very evident that . theres more to it than what meets the eye.

one of my friends ive talked to about this had a rly good perspective on it thats kinda stuck with me since !! she said she likes to view their conclusion as some . separation of identity?? if that makes sense?? that the demon side of them goes to hell while their human form goes to heaven (or division into whichever afterlife). and !! i think thats a really neat interpretation because there’s obvious descrepancy between demon personas and human personas. that the demon personas are like. exaggerations of their flaws, almost (akaza becoming hellbent on battle spirits and physical victories when hajuki’s fury & determination was fueled by love in a sense) while their human personas are the truest sense of self. and depending on which influence there is (muzan vs the appearance of loved ones), their identity changes accordingly. so ! idk ! thats one nice way of looking at it. holding their demon personas accountable while also recognizing that many of these characters deserve some form of healing after many hundreds of years of abuse. its hard because ofc i don’t want to negate the harms they’ve caused but its also? not cut and dry given the environment they were placed in and the fact that muzan’s blood essentially removes their humanity against their will you know. so in this way at least you have both forms of self receiving the proper conclusion.

whwhwhw so im. !!!!!!!!!!!! ah !! i can’t say i have a definite answer but i think the one above is smth thats comforting to me. i think the story settles with sending them to hell once they’ve regained their past self but also .. “softens” it by providing them company by their loved ones who are willing to go w them?? so thats rly cool to look at too. because it holds them accountable for all that’s happened but also.. recognizes that they’re not wholly responsible for it either and that .. even in hell they’re able to keep their connections and human emotions/experiences . its tragic yet oddly. fitting, i think, of the kny narrative. while i like the aforementioned interpretation, i also really.. appreciate the way its set up in canon too. like yeah i want the best for them but also. it fits in with the tragic nature of demonhood and what it meant for them all. oddly enough.

u make a good point too !! about demon slayers experiencing the same hardships but using their pain to help others. i think a lot of it is plainly chalked up to luck in terms of.. what they were exposed to following tragedy. how shinobu and kanae were saved by himejima, tanjiro saved by giyuu, kanao picked up by shinobu and kanae, sanemi given the guidance of kagaya while akaza was killed by muzan during his lowest moment, ume and gyuutarou were cornered by douma, rui misled by muzan, etc. i think circumstance is definitely a large factor in determining the paths that were taken. such as sanemi’s anger being validated and heard by ubuyashiki vs, say, akaza’s same anger being intentionally exploited for muzan’s gain.

aaa anyways. theres a lot 2 be said about this. like. SO much on my mind and obviously the extent of muzan’s abuse goes far deeper than what’s briefly mentioned here but. i love talking about the complexities of kny . and how i view the demons vs the corps and how each of them have grown into their respective stories . AA but ill end it here THNK U >> also so sry for making u read thru all of this i get so excited i could talk abt kny all day long if i had the chance AAA

#Anonymous #asktag #tldr: UH im a sympathetic bitch who wishes for some form of recovery for Some demons while also #finding it necessary to hold them accountable.#and easy way to do that is to split identities between human and demon persona but thats mighty convenient for such #a large issue so . the current narrative is probably the one i still oddly like #just bc the little peace they get before descent into hell is. really big #and their support by loved ones following them thru is also. really big #anyways. ya viri i thot of what u said bc its so good #its been a while so idk if its the exact version of how u view it but thts how it stuck w me JSBFSKBFSBJF #naywaysb I LOVE KNY AAAAAAAAAAAAA screams #kny #kny spoilers #kny manga #save for later

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true-intha-blu · 5 years

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I propose this simple Question

First: why I ask this. Since the infancy of the KH fandom all the way back from KH1, I noticed this simple trend one that picked up tremulously after kh2. No this has nothing to do with shipping. Also to note; I have genuine curiosity if anyone else notices this and this is from my perspective and experience with dealing with the Kingdom hearts fandom. Others may have very different accounts but others (that I have asked) have indeed noticed this as well in my own view. I am not aiming to stir up hate or discourse. I aim for peaceful fandoms. However, this subject is something I see no one ever addresses and well... maybe breaking a status quo or ‘unspoken rule’. I hope this can be a reasonable discussion where I can learn another perspective or some people may notice it and just go... “Oh yeah. That is a thing.” To which the question at hand. “Why does R*ku always have to be cool?”

(Disclaimer I do not hate this character. This question is not hateful. It is not anti or whatever. I mean exactly what I say. I will not be tagging this in the R*ku tab to prevent any misunderstandings. I ask others do the same. Anyone who reblogs this with hate is in no way associated with me.)

I will state the positive traits about R*ku. He has had the greatest character arc out of all the Kingdom Hearts Characters. A great redemption arc from his lowest to blooming into practically a whole new person in his own struggle against his KH1 self. He’s loyal to his friends. Smart. Gets along with Mickey and Yen Sid. Mellow. Saved Kairi and Sora. Knows what he has done. He’s honest and shares his concerns with others. Since KH2 he has always been trying to help Sora in the best of his ability. In acknowledgment of his misdeeds in CoM and Days is very good and we see a character who has genuinely f’d-up and his trying his best to move past that by helping his friends despite the limited resources offered to him. ^These are very good traits for a character to have. Any character. Besides his one time self in KH1, what else is there to him? What can be addressed as a flaw or criticism of him? (I approach characters as even though a character goes through a development arc, does not mean they are void of flaws. No one works like that. Not characters or actual people.) I say this. I love Sora and Vanitas in the Kingdom Hearts fandom. However, I am not afraid to draw them doing stupid or silly things and point out they have various of unfavorable flaws. Sora is utterly dense and I hate the fact how he was portrayed in DDD but I accept it and I will drag him along pointing out that fact. It is part of his character. He’s a dork (and not always in a good way). He impulsive and is kinda a mess of a human being. He's stubborn in the worse ways and volatile. Vanitas appears to be on the surface a straight up evil villain. As far as the games go, he is just utterly vile in his contempt for the characters and his actions have brought suffering and misery to various of characters. (though there may be other traits that could set for his own arc) (I still love them both) But note how none of these flaws listed above are ‘endearing’ or even remotely positive. They are problems, that hinder the characters and those around them. These are persistent traits even though both Sora and Vanitas have mellowed. Sora far more than Vanitas. I just do not see this done with R*ku. I rarely (they do exist but in comparison to the likes of Sora, Org XIII, even foretellers, or Roxas [who could be compared to be as “badass” as R*ku], its rarely ever there) I don’t see anyone talking about Riku doing dumb stuff. Being silly or being the butt of a joke or just not, not being good. Example of the latter: When there was talk about Sora cooking in KH3, rarely did I see that, ‘oh, Sora learns how to cook and becomes very good at it’ and most I see ‘R*ku is already a fabulous cook’.... what about Kairi? What about even Lea? Aqua? There is no mention of these other characters being good at cooking. R*ku is usually A.) always the cooler looking one, or must be made to look cooler and B.) always be the better or best at something. I know that is kinda the thing in KH, that R*ku is talented and gifted as a person. As for the coolness factor, Nomura does this as well. Sora gets a keyblade, R*ku gets an edgier cooler keyblade with more details. Riku gets the powers of both light and darkness. R*ku gets the Keyblade Master title. R*ku gets actual growth in his body. He gets the more competent companion (Mickey). I am not saying these things are detractions or upsetting, they are just there and be defacto, cooler than other characters. He becoming edgier and emo was a good play on Normura because back in early 2005′s people thought that was cool and hot. Silver hair is automatically an attractive trait and western audiences love a person with a muscled body like R*ku’s. I don’t blame fans for being appealed to his character. But I suppose I am getting off-topic. Why do fans keep feeling compelled to make R*ku perfect? When people make fanart of him like say a monster form or pirate outfit, they always make it more detailed, edgier or just cooler than anyone else who would be drawn that way. He always looks more impressive than an original canonical design when other characters are drawn or written in ways that are not as impressive or equally the same to a canonical design/form/power. Has the cool wolf animal companion or the cooler weapon, the more detailed designs etc etc Even Axel who is a badass assassin can be silly or dumb-looking. Heck, they even did that in games. They made Axel failed and acknowledge it. I see Aqua who is awesome in design and badass moments, be criticized for her flaws that persist and others who wish to see her have more moments of weakness even with what we have seen in 0.2 Xion who has had a great arc in Days (Character arcs don’t always have to be a positive development) doesn’t get the coolness factor. Roxas who is probably the second most popular character still is known as a goofy boy who thought he could fight heartless off with a stick. That’s hilarious. The most notable thing about R*ku recently that wasn’t cool or badass or edgy was his infamous “WHAT?” response to Mickey in Kh3. And that was one thing. Only really that. But how Mickey worded it, anyone would have done the same. And I noticed that people use what Mickey said “Aqua is like Sora’ is a way to poke fun at Sora by implying that Aqua is like a dense 15 year old. (Again these are just observations I have made over a decade worth watching the Kh fandom). In talks with other people who are Sora stans or other stans, there is nothing but a lot of talk about R*ku being really good about things. Being superior to Sora, or Kairi, or Aqua and Terra. Over Roxas. Giving Axel two keyblades is never done, but people have given two to R*ku. I get it, people who love characters like to do so much with them. I do the same. I just... never seem to regard the characters I love as perfect as others see R*ku. Also... I just don't see anyone criticizing him (I mean criticism in actual acknowledgment of his character and not hating on said character). Or taking about traits or flaws that are not endearing “He cares too much about his friends” is not really that bad of a flaw in consideration. A lot of people would prefer to have that over say... anger issues. What about the fact he falls back into following the orders of others or doesn’t often decide things for himself?... What about Minor flaws? I just never see them in regards to these characters. Alright, so these are my observations I have made over... 14+ years of watching this fandom. And I want to ask, why do fans see him as such? Besides the only reason being for them is “I like him.” Has it just become such a normal thing to make R*ku better? Is he really that good of a character than he is so universally loved? Or is the backlash of actually criticizing R*ku and seeing that maybe, making him too perfect is... not doing favors for him? An arc is just that, an arc. Doesn’t mean a character is perfect or done with. Doesn’t mean those flaws that persisted in him, are gone. Make your favorite character silly, or doing something very dumb (that does not even have to do with shipping), or put forth of what you would like to see improve in this character or express more about their flaws and their struggles. I love pointing out the negative traits in all my characters because I like seeing their struggle and how that makes them interact with new nuances in other characters. Maybe it's a running joke that R*ku is ‘Mr Perfect’ in the Kh fandom and I am just not seeing it. But it's daunting and just kinda rubs me the wrong way that all these characters in Kingdom Hearts have so many nuances to them and the one who has the best character arc so far in KH is regarded as... ‘Perfect’ I would like to know your opinion and if anyone else who is not a R*ku stan notice this, or is it just me and my own personal bias? (anything said above is in no way should ever be used to promote hate against R*ku or even bash him. In no way, I want to make others hate R*ku. I do not blame people who love this character to portray him in a superior way over everyone else. My address is that I just see this all the time. And I was wondering... why is it so widespread? Not even Axel who has a great redemption arc gets this.) (also another things is the whole sexgod R*ku that is also about however that may go into shipping and that I will not poke a stick at)

#kingdom hearts #character development #just a question #i wish to hear opinions #no bashing #no character hate #fuck antis #fuck character bashing #be mature people #positive and supportive enviroment

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myheadinthecloudsnotcomingdown · 5 years

Text

Splinters

I wanted to get on the Chouette! train, which is @ladyblargh‘s fabulous original story. This story is inspired by this post.

Ao3

Connor kept looking back and forth between his partner, who was running in front of him, and the subject he was currently chasing, a witch who was flying above them. They had simply been following up on a lead when they came to the coven district- they weren’t expecting a chase scene! Not that Connor was complaining. In fact, he thought it was actually kind of fun, running through the city streets and seeing the shocked faces of the civilians as they jumped to get out of the way. Connor cracked a crooked smile and would probably have laughed when his partner jumped over a cart, leaving the shocked vendor to stare at her in shock, but he was starting to get tired and his breath was coming in gasps. Racoons were built for sprinting, Connor thought ruefully, not for marathons. Shame that this witch didn’t seem to respect that.

Connor successfully dodged the cart and looked ahead to Eerie. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew that she was probably scowling in concentration. What he could see was her bow, which was bouncing up and down adorably as she ran. She looked up and Connor followed suit. The witch, it seemed, was getting tired and loosing altitude quickly. She was still high up, but she couldn’t clear the tops of the buildings anymore. The witch risked a look back on the gaining detectives, then veered into a narrow alley on her right. Rookie mistake, Connor thought as they followed. Alleys were his natural habitat.

Eerie ran gracefully through the dim alley despite it being cluttered with trashcans and homeless blankets and Connor scrambled after her with just as much speed, albeit with a little less grace. There was a high, weathered wood fence dividing the alley, blocking their way. Eerie jumped, gripping the rough wood with her talons, then vaulted herself over without any problems. Connor moved to follow – jumping up, aiming to grab the top of the fence so he could scramble after her. Unfortunately, Connor was more tired than he thought he was. His hands slapped the wood a full six inches short of the top of the fence and he started to slide down. That was bad enough, but to make it worse, Connor watched in shock as his left glove snagged on a hidden nail and he slid down the fence bare handed. Connor could feel every splinter and chunk of wood as it dug its way into his supernaturally sensitive skin. The feeling in his hand was so strong that he didn’t even notice the pained scream that tore out of his throat.

When Eerie returned, the witch temporarily forgotten in favor of her partner, he found him curled on the ground in a fetal position with his tail wrapped around him, clutching his injured hand.

“Connor! What happened?” She exclaimed.

The racoon looked up at her with tear in his eyes, trying and failing to joke through the pain, “The fence stole my glove.”

Eerie’s eyes widened as she looked between him and his glove, still pinned to the fence by the traitorous nail. She never looked more like an owl than she did when she was shocked, her head flicked back and forth, taking in the whole alley, until her wide eyes finally settled on Connor, who was still huddled piteously on the ground.

“Let’s get you to the hospital.” She smiled as if she had just said the sweetest thing in the whole world.

Connor sat up, but he looked down. “I don’t wanna go…” he mumbled.

“Why not?” Eerie said in surprise. Even the lowest whisper was no match for her hearing.

Connor’s face turned hot. He couldn’t meet his partner’s wide eyes. “They laughed at me.”

“Who?” It looked like Eerie was more than ready to kick the butt of whoever had dared to laugh at her partner. Connor took a deep breath, still stubbornly refusing to look at anything besides the ground.

“They don’t mean to,” the steadiness of his own voice surprised him, the bitterness did not, “But in walks a supposedly hardened detective who spends his days chasing down ghosts, witches, and goblins, but cries and screams the minute anyone touches his hands.” Connor whimpered, “I hate this stupid curse.”

Eerie looked at him with a mixture of surprise and pity. She had never heard her partner so embarrassed, so … broken. Sure, Eerie was familiar with curse induced embarrassment, like when she swiveled her head all the way around on the train, then realized everyone is staring. Or the time there was a rat in her apartment and, well…. She knew she was never telling anyone about that one. But she had never seen those same emotions in Connor. The closest was when he looked mildly chagrined about having to pay for the plate at a restaurant because he had gone ahead and eaten that along with the food, but that didn’t even come close to the torrent of emotion that she saw in her partner today. Conner was still on the ground clutching his hand. Eerie could tell that he was trying not to whimper, that he was embarrassed by his pain, but Eerie could still hear him. She couldn’t make him go to the hospital. Even if the hospital staff didn’t mean to embarrass him, there was no way that they could understand the quirks and trials of being a cursed person. No one could understand besides another cursed. Eerie cared about her partner too much to put him in a situation that would make him even more ashamed, but she also cared about him too much to let him keep suffering.

“I could take them out for you.”

For the first time since he’d screamed, Connor looked at his partner. His eyes were still clogged with tears, so she was a little blurry, but he could still see the soft expression on her face. He wasn’t used to that. Normally she was so strong and fierce, he’d never seen her care so much, if that was even the right word for the expression that painted itself across her face. He didn’t know what else to do, so he nodded. Eerie smiled.

“Let’s go then,” She helped him stand, then grabbed his glove from the fence and handed it to him, “Your house is near here, right? Do you have any medical supplies at home?” Connor nodded. He had added quite a few medical supplies to his collection of objects over the past few months. He knew that Eerie would kill him if he wasn’t taking good care of himself.

Finally left the alley together.

“OW!!” Connor stared at his palm in abject horror as Eerie gently attacked it with tweezers.

“Sit still Connor!” Eerie was beginning to have sympathy for the doctors who had helped her partner before. He was a baby when it came to his hands, even if it wasn’t his fault. She sighed. “It’s only going to hurt more if you keep jerking away.

“I can’t help it.” Connor was crying, “I see the tweezers and I know it’s gonna hurt and I…” Connor decided that his shoes were a better point of focus than his partner, “I’m sorry.”

Eerie thought for a moment. They could do this. After all, it wasn’t so different from the challenges that they came across every day. They just needed a strategy.

“Well,” Eerie said hesitantly, “If looking at the tweezers makes you queasy, just don’t look,”

“What?” Connor said, “Like a blindfold?” he hesitated, “I think that would make me even more insecure.”

“Ok then, back to the drawing board, I guess.”

“Wait!” The racoon’s eyes danced behind his tears, his brain working faster than his mouth, leaving Eerie in the dust. “Yeah, I think that’ll work.”

They had been sitting on the couch in his neat, if somewhat cluttered apartment. Connor stood and started using his good hand to carefully remove a variety of collected objects from the coffee table in the center of the room. When it was clear, he sat down on the edge and gestured for his partner to come join him.

“If we sit back to back like this,” he turned his back to Eerie and braced himself against her, “I won’t have to look.”

Eerie smiled at her partner’s ingenuity and reached behind her to grab her partner’s hand. He pulled back a little at the skin to skin contact but let her put his hand in her lap anyway. It occurred to Eerie that this was the first time she had ever actually touched Connor’s hand. She grabbed her tweezers and started removing the splinters as gently as she could. Her smile faded into a look of concentration when she heard Connor yelp, but he didn’t pull away like he had before.

They sat like that for an hour, back to back, Eerie concentrating and Connor trying not to cry. He gave up the pretense after the first ten minutes and by the end was letting his tears flow freely. Eerie was simultaneously the best and the worst person to see him like this. She was the best because he saw her every day and she understood being cursed better than anyone. She was the worst because he saw her every day and he was going to have to face her knowing that he had broken down and cried like a baby in front of her. He was supposed to be better than this, dang it.

Finally, Eerie stood up.

“Are you done?” Connor asked, hope in his voice.

“Almost” Eerie replied. Connor’s ears drooped.

Eerie rummaged around in the box of medical supplies for a moment before coming back with a bottle of clear liquid and some cotton balls.

“What are you going to do?” Connor curled in on himself in a defensive stance, wrapping his tail protectively in front of his hands. He suddenly looked even more like a threatened racoon.

“I just need to make sure it doesn’t get infected Connor.” Eerie said, motioning for him to turn back around.

Even though Connor knew it was coming, or perhaps because he knew it was coming, Connor screeched when the alcohol hit his palm.

The Disney movie was largely ignored by the two detectives as they snuggled deeper into the blanket fort that Connor called his bed. He had his head on Eerie’s lap and, if he hadn’t fallen asleep already, he would soon. Eerie smiled down at him, noticing how he still protected his injured hand, even now that all the splinters were gone. She gently started playing with his hair which was as wild as ever. He must not have been completely awake because he shifted under her hand and looked up at her. Her owl eyes were wide in the half darkness and the horned cowlicks in her hair had long since wormed their way out from her bow. He stared at her for a long moment before...

“Thank you.”

Eerie smiled and began playing with his hair again, “What are partners for?”

#choette!#eerie #connor #ladyblargh

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purplesurveys · 4 years

Text

614

Happy Christmas eve on y’alls side of the world, and Merry Christmas from mine!!! If you celebrate Christmas!!! If not, happy Tuesday!!!

Do you have any stickers on your car? I have a sticker on the windshield that I had to get so I can get into my village, so it’s like a membership sticker of sorts and also a sticker for security purposes. On my rear windshield I used to have a UP sticker for...pride purposes, for lack of a better term HAHAHA but it since faded out and so I had it taken out, but I’m planning to get a new one by next year. Do you own a jean jacket? Yes. It originally belonged to my mom and it was a gift from my dad back in the 1990s when they were still dating. You can have a milkshake right now. What flavor do you choose? Peanut butter and chocolate. Have you ever given someone flowers? Yes, I have. People say that texting has ruined our written language. Agree or disagree? I think ‘ruined’ is a little harsh. The very point of texting was to serve as a convenient alternative to talking personally or on the phone, so it’ll always surprise me that there are some who don’t take too kindly to texting acronyms. Also, it looks like for the most part people know when and where to use their slang, so it’s not like abbreviations like ROTFL and LMK have taken over the every aspect of the world lmao. So save for the people who make it their life’s mission to give everyone a migraine with the amount of slang that they use, I wouldn’t apply the word ‘ruined’ for texting.

Are there any lamps on in the room that you're currently in? No but my mom has actually been looking for lamps to put in the living room. How often do you get on Facebook? I have to everyday because it’s where work is done – contrary to y’all, Facebook is still ridiculously popular in the Philippines and is the go-to for a lot of stuff like schoolwork and buy-and-sell. But since I’m on holiday break, I’ve deactivated my account since December 20th or something. Everyone’s family, vacation, and/or Christmas posts make me sick to my stomach and it’s stuff I’d rather not see while I’m at my lowest during the holidays. What day of the week is usually your busiest day? Depends on my schedule and how many classes and meetings I have that day. Last semester, my busiest day was Wednesday – I had five classes that started from 7 AM and ended at 4 PM. What age do you wish you could stay forever? 16 was a great age to be in just because luck was on my side that year and everything good and fun happened to me. I had great friends, got into my first relationship, started to build up my image in school, and my mom started letting me go out more so I was experiencing more too. Do you have any concerts coming up? No, not for a while. Have you ever rode in a Corvette? I have not. Do you enjoy the sound of thunderstorms? I love it. When was the last time that you packed your suitcase? April 2016, if I remember correctly. I typically use just a big backpack when travelling, but that time I was headed to a cruise and visiting three countries so I really needed a luggage. Do you own an iHome? Nope. Is there a place that you will never return back to? I can think of a couple of places, yeah. Do you listen to Blink 182? No, I was never a fan. I’d hear them from time to time though because my sister used to be obsessed with them and still has their music on her playlists. When was the last time that you created a PowerPoint? About a month ago. Do you like group work? If my groupmates are cooperative then yes. Do you have any stickers on your laptop? Yeah, but I have them placed on my laptop case because I don’t want my laptop itself to be populated with stickers. I have a:

Pixelated heart with the colors of the asexual flag

A sticker supporting Lumad schools

Some cute space-themed sticker from my orgmate Kiana’s other org

Two stickers referencing UP

Two stickers referencing Friends (a small Central Perk one and the purple door with the gold frame)

A sticker of a drawing of Hayley Williams my sister made for me two Christmases ago

Three small stickers of various Filipino street food.

How is the weather at your place right now? It started out cloudy because there is a thunderstorm brewing in the country at the moment, but since it isn’t affecting our area directly, the cloudiness is gone and it’s all sunny now.

Have you ever stolen one of those pink plastic flamingos? I have not.

Is music or the TV on while you complete this survey? My siblings are playing with our new Nintendo Switch on the TV :D

What song or TV show? They’re playing some Mario game.

Does your grass need cut currently? No, it was recently cut.

Do you listen to Nirvana? Not really, no.

What color are the doors in your house? It ranges from light to dark brown.

What brand of shoes do you wear? I’m barefoot right now but I own several brands.

Have your friends ever not wanted you to be with someone? LOL yes, they weren’t really on board with Mike.

What thumb do you use to hit the space bar with? Index or thumb, for the most part.

Do you own a red dress? I have a maroon dress.

#survey #surveys

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ardaaman · 5 years

Text

The Trident’s Return

Novel Prep Tag

FIRST LOOK

1. Describe your novel in 1-2 sentences (elevator pitch)

Petryn Alenyath, disgraced former governor of the island nation Azmarin, suspects her political successor in the theft of the island’s greatest treasure, a powerful enchanted trident once belonging to Petryn’s ancestor. The only hope she has of reclaiming the governor’s seat lies in recovering the trident and proving her rival’s guilt... but, as every Azmarin native knows, there is always something lurking just below the water’s surface.

2. What is your novel’s aesthetic?

Political intrigue layered with high adventure on the high seas. Pirates and merfolk and magic and creatures from the darkest depths of the ocean.

3. What other stories inspire your novel?

As with The Alchemist’s Curse, everything here originated in D&D. Petryn was a PC in one campaign, then another, then a major NPC in another, and finally she landed here. Arda’aman and its history originated as a campaign setting. Even the plot was modified from a campaign idea I had. Despite all appearances, in a story so rooted in D&D and elemental magic, Princes of the Apocalypse had very little influence on this project, since I’ve never played that module.

The Hobbit, specifically Lake Town, influenced the look and feel of Azmarin’s Serenity District.

Surprisingly enough, I’m also drawing some inspiration from the Princess Diaries movies, since I realized the dynamic I was aiming for with Petryn and Galen was very close to what Queen Clarisse and Joe had. So I bought both movies on Amazon. For research purposes.

4. Share 3+ images that give a feel for your novel

(x) (x) (x)

MAIN CHARACTER

5. Who is your protagonist?

Petryn Alenyath, descendant of one of Arda’aman’s greatest heroes and disgraced former governor of the island city-state, Azmarin.

6. Who is their closest ally?

Galen Glaucus, the son of a dock worker and an undine—an elemental spirit from the plane of water—and the current druidmaster of Azmarin.

7. What do they want more than anything?

She wants to live up to the Alenyath name, to the legacy that carries with it. She wants to do right by her people.

8. Why can’t they have it?

She did have it. For exactly eight years. Then Remora beat her out in the polls and destroyed her reputation, and Petryn... This was Petryn’s whole life, the governorship. She wants it back, and the only way to do that without stooping to Remora’s level is to prove Remora stole the Namoros Trident.

The trouble is, Remora didn’t.

9. What do they wrongly believe about themselves?

In her original incarnation as a PC (and again as a muse on this blog), she wrongly believed that fencing and swordfighting were interchangeable skills, and she still believes that in The Trident’s Return. She’s a champion fencer, and her first instinct after Remora “ousts” her is to run away to someplace where she never has to face the shame of failure and become a wandering adventurer.

She loved adventure stories growing up, and the archetypal action hero in any D&D-based story is a wandering adventurer. The problem being, “real” wandering adventurers tend to be trigger-happy bounty hunters who think they’re above the law and take every available opportunity to abuse it. In short, murder-hobos.

Petryn is not a murder-hobo. Nor is she a swordsman.

10. Draw your protagonist! (Or share a description)

What, you think I can write and draw? No way. Credit: (x)

PLOT POINTS

11. What is the internal conflict?

There’s the whole “the only reason she’s still on her feet after Remora beats her is her conviction that Remora stole the trident and the subsequent burning hope that she can regain her career and exact revenge all at once, when the truth of the matter is that Remora had nothing to do with the theft, the real culprits are trying to undo everything Petryn’s ancestor worked to achieve, and Petryn has to come to terms with the fact that she’ll never get the governorship back, nor can she ever return to that time in her life, and she now has the daunting task of rebuilding herself from the ground up.” But I don’t know how to word that succinctly at the moment.

Then there’s Duty vs Desire: Petryn has a duty to her family name, her ancestor, her city, and... herself? Nah, that sounds fake. Basically she always puts duty—her work obligations—before her own desires—in this case, Galen—and that doesn’t change just because she didn’t get reelected. Before, Galen was her adviser and subordinate, and a workplace relationship of that nature would be inappropriate, and now, with her reputation the lowest it’s ever been (thanks Remora!), she can’t afford the barest hint of a scandal if she’s to have any hope of winning the revote she’s trying to force.

On the other hand, he’s sexy and compassionate, and she’s madly in love with him.

12. What is the external conflict?

There’s the rivalry between Petryn and Remora. They’re both cunning and relentless, but where Petryn holds herself and her people to a high moral standard no exceptions, Remora readily takes advantage of more, shall we say, underhanded tactics. So basically Man vs Foil

There’s also the massive, underground religious cult bent on bringing about a second apocalypse to keep everyone on their toes. That counts as Man vs Nature, right?

13. What is the worst thing that could happen to your protagonist?

Uhhhhhh pretty much someone stealing the closely guarded weapon that her family has kept safe for generations and using its magical powers to open a rift to the Water Plane to unleash the angry genocidal monster that her ancestor personally imprisoned. No biggie.

14. What secret will be revealed that changes the course of the story?

Yeah, Remora’s not the bad guy here. Sorry Petryn, you’ve got bigger fish to fry. You probably should have seen that coming.

15. Do you know how it ends?

It’s kind of a bittersweet ending, because on the one hand, she fails in her personal goal to get her job back. On the other hand, she saves the world! On the other hand, there’s still three more chapters of this cult trying to destroy the world. On the other hand, at least she’s knows they exist now and can’t be blindsided again! On the other hand, they also know she exists now.

On the other hand, she and Galen finally get together!

BITS AND BOBS

16. What is the theme?

Uhhhh something about... legacy, and... you can’t always get what you want.. and........... but if you try sometimes you just might find you get what you need oh yeah.

It’s a lot easier to spot themes once the story’s already written.

17. Where is the story set? (Share a description!)

The Sovereign City of Azmarin, the Floating City, home of Port Serenity. Situated smack dab in the middle of the Marized Ocean, halfway between Sylanta and Haolong. The great cultural salad bowl of Arda’aman.

18. Do you have any images or scenes in your mind already?

It’s near the beginning. Petryn is slumped in a seat in the Rat ‘N a Barrel Pub and Lodgings with a brandy in hand. All around her, sailors are singing off-key shanties and celebrating their brief stint on solid ground, while Petryn quietly drinks herself into oblivion. As she nears the end of her third brandy, Galen slides into the seat next to her.

19. What excited you about this story?

It’s a swashbuckling adventure full of magic and fun worldbuilding!

20. Tell us about your usual writing method!

Outline first, put on a playlist that fits the mood, then start writing.

Tagged by: no one, I just wanted to do it Tagging: Everyone who reads this all the way to the end!

#writeblr #writeblr introduction #writeblr intro #wip introduction #wip intro #the trident's return #it's tentative name at least #til i can come up with something better #about ; petryn

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kamen-rider-zed · 5 years

Text

Artiste et Muse Ch4

Okay confession time: because depression sucks and my job is eating me alive, this is the last complete chapter of this fic. I'll try to have this done by the end of the week, but I can't make any promises. Just know that I appreciate all of the amazing comments, and I've been so glad to get even a bit of my writing mojo back after so long.

AO3

Chloe groaned and forced her eyes to open against the massive migraine sitting on her skull. She reached out and felt the sheets she’d slept in the previous night; somehow, she made it back home. She closed her eyes again and focused through the pain. How did she get here? What did she remember? The wedding album, crying, lots of crying, the cafe down the street, more crying, and Nathanael holding her.

Her eyes snapped open and she flinched against what she assumed was afternoon light slicing into the room through the thin crack in the drapes. Nathanael holding her? Comforting her? Why would he do that? He hated her, right? But then...why? She sat up, pressing a hand to her temple, and noticed her heels sitting next to the bed. He must have guided her back home, into bed, and even taken her shoes off. Her heart thumped harder in her chest but she shook the feeling away. Why was he having this effect on her?

She slipped out of the bed and out into the living room where she found Nathanael with a sketchbook on one knee and the wedding album on the other. He lifted his head when he heard her enter the room, and Chloe could have sworn there was the faintest smile on his face when he saw her.

He cleared his throat and whatever smile there had been disappeared. “You’re awake.”

A rude and snarky retort sat just behind her teeth ready to tear into him, but there it sat. Whether it was the migraine or her new and confusing feelings directed at Nathanael that held it back she couldn’t tell. Instead, she pressed her fingers into her temples and asked, “How long was I asleep?”

“A few hours. It’s just a little after one.” He pointed his pencil towards the kitchen. “There’s some pain pills on the counter if you need them. I would have made some coffee, but…”

“But you don’t know how?” She rounded the island in the kitchen and spotted the tiny red bottle. A quick search through the cabinets and she finally found a water glass.

“I know how to make coffee, but…” He turned his eyes back down to the album. “There’s nothing but whole bean in there.”

“Of course, I refuse to live under the same roof as pre-ground bullshit.” She found the beans and a grinder, paused, then turned back to Nathanael. “Get in here, Red. I may not like you, but everyone deserves to know how to make a decent cup of coffee.”

When she saw Nathanael blush at her invitation, she had to fight against the word ‘adorable’ crossing through her mind. He set the books aside and joined her in the kitchen. She taught him the proper proportions of beans to water, the proper grind settings, then set a kettle on the stove. As they waited for the water to boil, she asked, “What were you doing with the album?”

He was quiet for too long to Chloe’s liking. He finally said, “References. I thought I’d...practice drawing a wedding.”

Chloe moved across the kitchen to stand in front of him and crossed her arms. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that? You have the internet, a window into the next ten years of fashion and design. Getting to see that before literally anyone else? And you choose our...the wedding album?”

Nathanael matched her glare for a few seconds before he rolled his eyes and looked away. “Okay, I got curious too. I didn’t get that good of a look at it this morning, so I started flipping through it and...wanted to draw a few things. There, happy?”

“No. What about that book could have piqued your curiosity?”

A subtle movement dropped her gaze to his hands, where she noticed him twisting his wedding band about his finger. “I guess...it’s like I said to Marinette and the others last night; I want to know how this happened. How did we go from being bitter enemies to…” He lifted his left hand, fingers still playing with the ring.

Chloe stared at his hand for a long while. The Chloe and Nathanael of this world obviously had a strong relationship, but where had it come from? Sure, ten years was a long time, time enough for her to move on from Adrien and possibly to...but that was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. There was no way she’d choose someone else over Adrien...except she had. Or this world’s version of her had. And the Adrien of this world seemed happy with Marinette. Her thoughts flashed back to what Nathanael had said about the Akuma. Fairytale was supposed to make people live their happy endings. Did this mean that her happy ending wasn’t with Adrien?

The low whistle from the kettle broke her out of her thoughts and she finished showing Nathanael how to properly use a coffee press. Chloe found herself inexplicably smiling as he took his first sip of properly pressed coffee and melted into his mug. She raised her own mug to her lips to hide the smile, but had the slightest suspicion she hadn’t been quick enough. The damnedest thing was that she didn’t care. Maybe it was because he’d seen her at quite possibly the lowest she’d ever been in her life, but she wanted him to see her smile.

“Do you want to go through the album together?” Chloe looked to him and raised a brow. “You know, actually take a good look at the photos now that you’re…umm...” He turned away and bit his lip.

“Now that I’m not obsessed over my mother. That’s what you were going to say, right?”

“No!” Chloe stared at him. “Okay, kinda. You know what? This was a bad idea.” He squeezed his way past her and made his way back to the couch. “I should probably just-”

“Sure.”

Nathanael whipped around and gaped. “Wha?”

“Sure, let’s look at the album together. It’s not like I have anything else to do until Ladybug gets us out of here. Besides, if I do get all weepy over my mother, I have…” You, she was going to say, because he had been her sole source of comfort since waking up in this strange world. As much as she hated his guts, having him around, that sense of familiarity, was better than nothing. She bit the inside of her cheek and reminded herself exactly who he was, who he worked for, and continued, “I have to get over it eventually.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, but soon shrugged and slid over on the couch to make room for her. Okay, not what she expected. She grabbed her coffee and sat down beside him, then turned her attention to the album on his knee.

An outdoor wedding. Flowers everywhere, rows upon rows of chairs set in...Chloe reached over and flipped another page, searching for an identifying landmark. Ah, there. The Jardin du Luxembourg. A nice venue. Several women in yellow sundresses. Marinette, Alya, Kagami, and...Sabrina. Chloe pulled the album into her lap and ran her fingers over Sabrina. When had they made amends? How long after Sabrina walked out on her, tired of Chloe using her superhero status to shove more and more schoolwork onto her? More tears pricked at the corners of Chloe’s eyes, but she wiped them away and turned another page.

She blushed at the picture of Nathanael, wearing black slacks, a purple button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a black kippah. Somehow the purple worked for him, and...was he wearing a bee charm bracelet? He looked...really nice, especially with his hair tied back like thaaaa-no. No, she wasn’t going to think about him like that. Focus on something else, Chloe. He wasn’t wearing a jacket or a tie, so maybe they were going for a more casual wedding? Which didn’t make sense, if one of Paris’ superheroes were getting married, it would be a huge event, right?

On the next page...ah, her dress. A black lacy bodice with a low-scooped neckline, halter straps, and pearl adornments dangling from the front. From the waist down, a pure white sheath skirt with gold embroidered hem and a pale yellow sash tied about her waist, the knot somehow tied in such a way to resemble a flower. Lace fingerless gloves in the same yellow as the sash. A simple diamond and pearl tiara with her veil flowing from the back, her hair tied up with a plain white ribbon, and a bouquet of yellow dahlias. She squinted and looked closer at her necklace. Stones of purple, blue, and green. Paon’s colors. Now that she got a better look at it, it was subdued, but still spoke to her color pallet. Light fabrics to let it breath in the heat of summer. Marinette outdid herself.

“Are you nervous, Nath?” Chloe turned to the laptop at the sound of Nino’s voice. It was a shaky video of Nathanael buttoning up the shirt she had just seen, and another blush crept up on her face.

“Nervous? No. Relieved that we’re finally here? Yeah. Relieved that all of the planning and prep is over.” He chuckled. “Not that Chlo let me do much. She insisted on doing almost everything, including pay for all of this.” He turned to face the camera. “You know, her original budget was over a hundred thousand euros? Do you know how long it took me to talk her down from that? I mean, she justified it as a ‘charitable donation’ to expand the gardens, but that was still a bit much.”

“Well, Queen Bee is the face of the international ‘Save the Bees’ movement,” Nino said from behind the camera.

Nathanael smiled again. “Yeah, she is, however accidental it may be.” He leaned over to grab something off of a nearby table. “I didn’t even really want a wedding if I’m honest, but the moment I mentioned the word ‘elope’ to Chloe, she became a living nightmare until I relented.”

“Yeah, that sounds like you,” Chloe heard from her left. She elbowed Nathanael in the ribs, but kept her eyes on the video.

Nathanael stood back up stuffing whatever he searched for in his pocket. “But I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad she’s…” He turned his gaze to a nearby door and somehow, Chloe knew she was...no. Her alternate self was beyond that door. “If you’d told me ten, fifteen years ago that I’d eventually be married to Chloe Bourgeois, I would have laughed in your face. But I’ve never felt this way about anyone. Not Marinette, not Marc. She…” He chuckled. “She’s come so far since we were in lycee, and I’m so happy…” When he turned back to the camera and smiled, Chloe felt her heart skip a beat. “I’m so happy she’s about to be my wife.”

The screen faded to black, and when color bloomed back in, Chloe stood in the center wearing her wedding dress, her hands fidgeting and her eyes trained on a mirror in front of her.

“Chloe! Stop squirming!” came Marinette’s voice from just off frame.

Chloe looked down and mouthed ‘sorry’, then looked back into the mirror and sighed, her frayed nerves evident in her eyes.

“Don’t know what you’re so nervous about, girl,” Alya said behind the camera. “You’re Le Grand Paris’ chief event coordinator so you obviously know what you’re doing and you’ve triple checked every-damn-thing. This is probably going to be the smoothest wedding ever, granted Mayor Bourgeois doesn’t break down into tears like M. Dupain did.”

“Okay, just because my dad sobbed so loud the priest had to start over three times, that does not mean our wedding didn’t go smoothly.”

“It’s not the ceremony!” Chloe stomped, eliciting another swear from Marinette. Chloe apologized again and wrung her hands together. “I’m...kinda waiting to wake up.” Marinette’s head lifted into frame, a couple of pins hanging from the corner of her mouth and an inquisitive look in her eyes. “I treated Nath like shit for years, treated all of you like shit, and now look at us. Marinette made me a custom dress, Alya and Nino are handling our album, Sabrina agreed to be my maid of honor, and Nath…” She turned her eyes down to her left hand, her engagement ring sparkling in the light. “He proposed. After eight years of probably the rockiest relationship ever, he...chose me. Chose to spend the rest of his life bound to me. Me.

“I feel like this is a dream. I feel like the moment I say ‘I do’, I’ll wake up, I’ll be a teenager again, and Paon and I will be back to kicking each other’s teeth in.” She turned down to Marinette. “Did you ever go through this whole ‘too good to be true’ thing with Adrien?”

The camera lowered to Marinette, who huffed and flashed a wry grin before returning to her work on Chloe’s dress. “When he agreed to date me after two years of stalkery pining, kind of. After I found out he was Chat Noir, definitely. I thought there was no way the guy I loved and the cat who loved me were the same person. Even on our wedding day, I expected it to be some kind of Akuma spell, but here I am, six years deep into marriage with a pair of five-year-olds, and I couldn’t be happier.”

She smiled up at Chloe. “I assure you, this isn’t a dream. You deserve to be happy. After everything you’ve gone through, you deserve this.”

“Especially after all the bullshit you went through with The-Bitch-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

“Alya!” Marinette scolded, but the smile on her face betrayed her true feelings.

“What?” The camera shook in time with Alya’s laughter. “Chlo put the kibosh on mentioning her name, so how else are you supposed to know who I’m talking about?”

“You’re right.” Marinette and the camera refocused on Chloe. “You’re both right. I deserve this. I’ve changed so much since I was a stupid kid, and Nathanael sees that. He believes I deserve to be happy, and you know what?” She turned back to the camera and the smile on her face was bigger and brighter than Nathanael had ever seen. “I believe it too.”

That particular video file ended and Nathanael turned back to Chloe, who had her eyes down on the album in her lap. She seemed focused on a picture of her dress, which was strange since she described it as ‘lackluster’ earlier. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Chloe ran her fingers over the picture, and when she spoke, she spoke with an odd mix of wonder and sorrow in her voice. “I...she was right. It feels like a dream. This is me. I know this is me but it still feels like I’m looking at someone else’s life.” Her voice dropped to a whisper and all Nathanael could make out was, “I’ve never seen…”

“Never seen what?”

She shook her head and blinked at him, his voice jarring her from her stupor. “N-nothing.” She looked down at the album, stood, and held it out to him. “I’m done for today. You can look through it if you like.” When Nathanael accepted it, she collected their empty coffee mugs and strode into the kitchen, seeming all too eager to put distance between herself and him. Or maybe the album.

Nathanael looked down at the photo Chloe had been looking at. The Chloe in the photo wore the same smile she had in the video. Judging from the background, Nathanael guessed this photo was taken moments after that segment of the video ended, when Marinette had finished her last adjustments on the dress. That smile...he’d never seen Chloe smile that big or that bright. He’d never seen…

He paused and looked back up at Chloe, slowly realizing what she’d whispered.

“I’ve never seen myself that happy before.”

#chlonathweek2k19 #chlonath #chloe bourgeois #nathaniel kurtzberg #buzzkill au #miraculous ladybug #mlfanfiction #mlfic

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fate-hates-faraday · 5 years

Text

“This is why I drink”

It's fluffy and funny until it's not.

Or: Roman receives love and the whole crew receives a situation they aren't sure how to deal with. Those invisible walls don't help either.

(Follows SvS and DWIT) (A/N: First off, big shout-out to @honeygemtrashbag who not only talks with me about SS, but also helped beta this fic. Secondly, as a fair warning, the first half probably doesn't have much triggering material - it's the second half where excessive alcohol consumption and brief suicide discussion comes into play. Also Deceit. If any of those are triggering, I strongly advise finding a different, equally fluffy/angst/what-have-you fic.)

It's been a couple of weeks.

Things have stabilized (Thomas can't say yet they've improved, not with Remus still hanging around and Virgil walking on eggshells). While Patton is still working on relaxing his heart-strangling grip on the need to be selfless, Thomas can tell he's trying, and the attempt alone feels like it's taken a weight off his shoulders. He didn't know it had been there, but having it gone somehow makes everything easier. He's able to brainstorm with Roman and Logan for some videos, he hangs out with Joan and Talyn when he wants and politely turns them down when he doesn't, he at least leaves Virgil a note saying that his past doesn't define him and regardless of his origin he's grateful to have met and come to terms with his Anxiety.

The Tuesday before the wedding, he calls the four sides together.

"So," he says, holding his hands together as he looks around the room. "I've been thinking about what Talyn and Joan said yesterday." It almost hurts to see the way Roman's expression lights up, and he realizes why: when was the last time Roman was so genuinely cheerful? He thinks maybe it was last February, before they all realized they'd been tricked. He had never gone back to act with Roman like they discussed. Right, focus.

"I'm going to call Mary Lee and Lee tomorrow and tell them about the callback, see how they feel. If they're alright, I'll then tell them my idea: I'll miss the wedding-" He can feel the way both Patton and Virgil tense, but he pushes onwards "-but will be at the reception to give them their gift and best wishes." It's an attempt at compromise - the callback's in the morning, the wedding starts around noon. The reception, however, will start at 1:30, and Thomas will be long finished the callback by then. Of course, he'll still talk with Mary Lee and Lee first and respect their wishes, but it's worth a shot. "Patton? Think you can be available tomorrow to help?"

"Of course!" Despite his obvious tension, Patton grins. He's not alone - Roman is grinning as well, looking ready to cry and for the first time in a while, Thomas feels his heart swell with delight. It's actually a bit overwhelming, how quickly it happens.

"Whoa." He can't help but reach up to his chest to take a moment to steady himself. Virgil's tension grows greater and for a moment, everyone else looks confused. "...you alright, Roman?"

"I-" Roman swallows, and Thomas can hear how his voice is thick with unshed tears. "It's all I've wanted." Something about that bothers Thomas.

"Roman... Thomas said he'll talk with them tomorrow." Logan speaks slowly. "And that if they're alright - if - then he'll share his idea." There's a moment of hesitation. "And there's still no guarantee we'll receive the role."

"I know, I know-" Thomas wishes he could take Roman's hands because now he is crying. "But we have a chance now at least." Ah. There it was. The thing bothering Thomas. He takes a second to compose his thoughts while Patton tries offering verbal comfort, since he also can't offer the hug Thomas wants to give so badly.

"... what you said in the courtroom - has it really been that bad?" Even the slightest possibility of success could affect Roman so much? Thomas had to admit, Roman was usually unrelenting in the pursuit of dreams - steps were acknowledged, and then he planned further. Nothing but total success or total failure truly moved him. But if everything had been going as poorly as Roman suggested-

If there was always something more important than his hopes and dreams-

Roman hesitates, that swell shrinking, and that is enough.

"Alright then!" Thomas claps his hands together to get everyone's attention. "So, new topic, I think we need to talk about how we're going to balance everything going forward." He glances at Logan, Virgil, and Patton. "I'm not going to drop everything just on chances. My friends and family are important, and I need to be healthy and stable to pursue my dreams." Now he glances at Roman, who's trying to recompose himself. "... but I don't think those dreams should always be my lowest priority either."

There's some awkward shuffling, instead of a chorus of responses that Thomas had hoped for. Logan hugs his arms a bit closer. Virgil flicks at the pull tab on his sleeve. Patton tugs on his cat hoodie. The swelling in his heart shrinks a bit more.

"Guys..."

"Sorry!" Patton clasps his hands together as if making a plea. "It's just - it's a lot of big changes right now, kiddo. I don't want Roman to be ignored, but you know you care about everyone so much! It's why they..." He looks down. "...get pushed aside. Because you want to make sure everyone else is happy." Thomas winces. It's an answer he expected, just not one he really wants right now.

"I need something a little more solid to go on than 'balance everything'." Virgil is next. "You can get a bit carried away, Roman, and, really, some of those plans you already have-" He lets out a huff. "Don't exactly feel great about them." Thomas smiles when Roman manages to make his "offended Princey noises", as the fandom dubbed them. "I don't do well in crowds and around strangers. Becoming famous kinda rubs me the wrong way."

"We can act like we're fine. All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players." Roman no longer sounds like he wants to cry, at least. "You were pretty gloomy too about Vine, remember?" He laughs, but cuts himself off when Virgil reaches for his hood. "B-but that's in the past! We've been coping pretty well so far, I think, and I'm sure you'll be fine in the future too!" Yeah, Virgil still isn't feeling well. Thomas considers keeping him after the discussion was done and trying to talk about his past in person. Maybe that'd work better. Roman's words though, 'act like we're fine'... Well. He did have to admit the whole issue had come up because of him, and, while he had been giddy when Thomas admitted his lie, he had gotten inexplicably angry when Roman handed down the sentence. Maybe... maybe he might have some ideas. If nothing else, his perspective will probably start some kind of fight that might lead to a reasonable compromise?

He glances at Logan. Of course, he's at least giving everyone a chance to speak.

"Anything?"

"I can't say anything comes to mind, not since the last time the topic came up." Logan frowns. "I recognize that you have deemed this important-"

"It's just a lot, yeah." Thomas nods. "Right." He inhales, knowing what will come next. ".... I think another perspective might help-"

"No." Virgil glares up at Thomas. "You cannot - you can't be suggesting what I think you are."

"I mean, you guys are stuck. Can it really hurt-"

"Yes it can!" Virgil's voice layers in that loud, intimidating way that Thomas has nicknamed the 'tempest tongue'. Yeah, they really ought to talk later. He can't really understand the degree of vehemence and contempt Virgil seems to hold for the Dark - the Other sides.

"Just because he's here doesn't mean I'll listen to him. He's tried making me lie twice now, and have I done it?" He is very careful to make sure his words are as genuine as he feels. Virgil takes a moment before shaking his head. "Just, you guys admitted it: you're stuck. I don't think I can solve this alone - I don't want to solve this alone, and neither does Roman." He looks to Roman for confirmation, who smiles. The swell returns a bit, and the delight makes him giddy. "Maybe he'll have something, or he might just say stuff that leads us to a good idea. And if he tries anything, I'm pretty sure I can make him leave." He had wished as much in the courtroom - but, really, even Deceit pointed out it was all in his head. He could've technically left whenever he wanted. The other time, Deceit had left, grudgingly, when Thomas yelled. So, yeah. He feels confident he can manage this. "Can we just... try?"

While Logan seems indifferent and Roman nods, Patton is obviously not sure. Thomas can't blame him. His sense of morality has had the carpet pulled out from under him the last few times they've talked, and Deceit almost seems to enjoy harassing Patton the most.

"Patton, Virgil... I will not let anything bad happen. Not to you, not to our friends, not to anyone. I promise."

"And if Thomas can't, I will!" Roman adds, drawing his sword. Thomas can read the desire on Roman's face - don't let this conversation go, just acknowledge some changes need to be made.

Thomas' sincerity finally seems to let Patton relax, and Thomas catches a ghost of a smile on Virgil's lips when Roman speaks. Logan nods.

"Do you wish to try, or shall I?"

"Er, let me." Roman giggles. "He likes me best." Thomas doubts that's true, but then again, Roman does seem to get a starring role when Deceit is around. Maybe it's true in the same way that cardboard is edible compared to antifreeze - true in a sense, but doesn't mean much, not when the other options are 'worse'. Roman turns to Patton. "Padre, if you'll step aside?" Patton listens and Roman raises his arm. "Deceit!" There's nothing at first, but, when Roman tries again, Thomas can feel the way Deceit materializes - the odd music echoing in his ears, the way the light seems to focus on him while his own vision temporarily blurs, and - wait, he doesn't have his hands together. In fact, immediately, before his vision fully returns, he can see Deceit's blurry form raise a hand and make a fist. Thomas' internal panic lasts for a painful second - what was his problem? Starting by silencing everyone else already? Seriously? - but then he realizes the music has abruptly ceased. His vision fully returns to see Deceit lower his fist and glance around.

Thomas can't help but be on guard, and not just due to the way Virgil looks ready to leap off the stairs at a moment's notice. No, just... Ok, he's only really met Deceit three times. Three times isn't really enough to get to know someone well, especially when they're being antagonistic, but each time Deceit seems to value a dramatic introduction. Where's the evil chuckle? The sinister smirk? And what is that in his other hand?

So Thomas watches as Deceit's gaze instead sweeps the room, starting with Patton and ending on Roman. Roman sheepishly sheathes his sword and waves. He's about to speak, but Deceit nods and then pushes past Patton. Patton grumbles a little, clearly more confused than mad, and they all watch as Deceit sinks onto the living room couch. He lifts his other hand - oh, that's a bottle, Thomas belatedly realizes - unscrews the cap, and starts drinking.

He gets two gulps down when Thomas decides to be the first to speak up and ask the relevant question.

"Uh, hi Deceit. We were wondering-" Deceit lowers the bottle and shoots him a look. Thomas immediately amends his statement. "I was wondering if you could help us with something." Deceit doesn't answer, raising the bottle and taking another gulp. Thomas sees Patton frown from the corner of his eye.

"So, uh, buddy," Patton begins, putting on his best Concerned Dad voice, "whatcha got there? Is it pop?" He grins at the pun. Deceit lowers the bottle and doesn't bother making eye contact.

"Tequila."

Deceit takes another swig as if he isn't now at the center of several alarmed expressions. Thomas can't confirm what the others are thinking, but him? He's not exactly a huge fan of alcohol to begin with. Tequila is... pretty harsh. And here's Deceit, a part of him, using it like it's water on a hot day. He instinctively steps forward before hitting that invisible wall that keeps him separated from the sides. And where was he going to go from there even if it wasn't there? Well, maybe snatch away the bottle, but he doesn't quite get what Deceit's doing. He manages a glance back towards Virgil - the alarm on his face is expected, but there's something else. Fear? Sadness? He unfortunately can't spare the time to puzzle over it. Instead, he looks towards Logan, who glances back, and gestures at Deceit. Logan clears his throat.

"Given the hour of the day, the strength of the alcohol being consumed, and-" Deceit finally makes eye contact, a very cold glare as he pointedly drinks more. "-and the rate of ingestion, I think we would all like to know why you are performing this course of action."

"Well, as I am clearly wanted here," Deceit says, gesturing to them all, "I thought I may as get ready for what will surely be a wonderful time. Why wouldn't I?" The sarcasm is positively acrid, burning as bad as the tequila has to.

"I mean, that seems a bit much so fast." Patton's cheer is evaporating. Deceit grunts in return.

"I - that hardly makes sense. You realize even mild alcohol consumption impairs cognitive function and motor skills." Logan can't help but gesture in confusion. "The amount you've consumed - you're still consuming - will have more serious consequences."

"You don't say."

"I do say. You risk passing out or, with an even greater volume, becoming comatose." Thomas can see Logan growing frustrated with the blatant rejection of logic, and the sheer oddity of the situation.

"Hm. I'm sure what I have to say will be understood equally well." With that, Deceit tips his head and the bottle back. The tequila bottle is draining at a worrying rate. Thomas swallows the lump in his own throat.

"Hah... yeah..." The words are as uncomfortable as he is. "I can be a bit slow, huh?" It's deliberate bait, but Patton makes an affronted gasp anyhow.

Deceit pulls the bottle away and coughs harshly. Thomas is considering talking to Deceit after Virgil once all is said and done, and this ...situation (Is he messing with them again?) is resolved.

"Just get back to your... whatever."

And another gulp. Deceit's looking woozy now. Thomas can't help but try again. The alternative, after all, is that Deceit's actions are honest and he doesn't even know where to begin with that.

"I decided I should at least try to attend the callback, you know. I talked it over with my friends, and tomorrow I'll be calling the happy couple. So, I guess you really did win." He shrugs. "I... really wanted the callback." He expects something sarcastic, maybe a laugh at his expense, or a "I told you so" remark.

The silence that lingers in the wake of his words is cold, and he shivers. He should pull the others closer together - can a side get drunk in the first place? What happens if he drinks too much? Can he do that? Has he done this before? - and yet he's afraid to turn away. It's like he's a Weeping Angel: as long as Thomas keeps him in his sight, he can't leave. That's not how the sides work at all, but the rationalization takes the edge off the fear that, if he stops looking, Deceit will be dead next time he looks. Deceit, for his part, pauses in his binge-drinking long enough to sneer and dismissively wave at his audience, splattering imaginary tequila on the carpet and couch. More spills as he attempts to get the bottle back to his mouth. It's half-empty, and every bit spilled is a bizarre blessing.

"Seriously - what is going on here?" He tries to be direct, but Deceit directs his gaze downward, refusing to meet Thomas' gaze. "I - I can't believe you don't have anything to say about this. You took us to a courtroom last time over it. Just - what are you doing?" He lowers his head to try to catch Deceit's gaze, but the side just looks away. He sighs, a bit frustrated but even that frustration is born out of an inability to resolve his confusion and worry.

"Patton? Any idea what's going on?" He asks out of the corner of his mouth.

"Nope." Patton is quiet in his reply.

"Keep an eye on him for a second?"

"Yeah."

He gets a glimpse of Patton as he turns around to confer with the others. Patton can't hide his shaking, no matter how hard he holds onto his arms. Maybe he shouldn't have asked Patton to keep watching - but, facing the others, no one's reacting well. Worst off is Virgil, who has fully retreated into his hoodie, murmuring words laced with tempest tongue. Thomas catches two that somehow make an already bad situation worse: "not again". Roman has no response - gesturing wildly to himself, then Virgil, then Deceit behind Thomas who Thomas is currently trying not to look at lest he trap himself again without a plan.

"He's drunk?" It's a dumb question, but Thomas' brain is still kind of stuck on that.

"It's something we can do - infrequently, as, like with you, it does impair our ability to function." Logan fidgets with his necktie.

"Can he actually die from this? Like, liver poisoning?" It's a horrible idea to contemplate, but he needs to know how severe the situation is. Roman winces but nods. Logan nods. Virgil inhales.

"He'll reform. In his room. It - he's done it before." Virgil can't seem to calm down enough, but Thomas can decipher his words anyways. He wants to ask when. He wants to ask why. Some part of him he wishes he could attribute to Remus wants to know if that's his plan right now.

Patton whimpers, and Thomas whirls around. Deceit has dropped his bottle and is currently sideways on the couch. And, it seems, he has somehow conjured up another bottle. Nope. Thomas is not letting this continue.

"Put that down right now, Deceit!" Since he can't touch the side, this is the best he can do. Deceit hisses back, his grip on the new bottle visibly tightening even as it tips a little. Thomas refuses to let it shake him - frankly, it was more startling coming from Virgil than from someone whose face is half-snake. No, the bigger problem is that he seems uninterested in listening and physical intervention isn't possible. He runs through what little Deceit has said since his arrival and finds a solution. It's... not one he's fond of, as it doesn't actually solve the problem, just relocates it for now. But Virgil is freaking out, Roman is at a loss for words, Logan is struggling to think of some logical way to stop him, and Patton still shakes.

"Deceit - if you're not gonna listen, then go to your room, now!" He points in the general direction of the staircase, feeling more than ever like the parent of some wayward teenager. Except this teenager doesn't want to communicate at all, is drunk, and possibly is entertaining a suicide attempt. Wait, no, he shouldn't have done that. The fear and confusion meshes with the comparison and for a moment Deceit is just.... sad. An unwanted kid, bitter at the world and the people around him, possessing one skill that poses more harm than good.

Then he flips Thomas off as he sinks out without complaint, and, mercifully, it shatters the illusion.

Roman's already begun issuing apologies to everyone and Thomas feels his heart curling in on itself. He holds up a hand.

"It was my idea. I can't say anything except, I'm sorry." Except there's a lot he could say. Mostly what the hell was that all about? Everyone's visibly stressed and upset, though, so he doesn't. He also scraps the plan to talk with Virgil alone right away. "Roman, I'm not forgetting this - we will figure out something. We just need to unwind a bit. I.... I'll check on Deceit later." As for Virgil, he'll just drop in later rather than subject him to worrying about a meeting in the near future. He doesn't know what else to do.

Departure is awkward, few words exchanged, and once the others are gone, Thomas goes to the couch and sits where Deceit was. He tries to wrap his head around his actions. Tries to imagine a possibility where Deceit was being malicious and messing with everyone by putting them in such a distressing situation. Tries to imagine a possibility where Deceit simply can't imagine being wanted and drinks to the point of unconsciousness to avoid another poor interaction. Tries to imagine a possibility where Deceit has just given up and drinks for its own sake and doesn't want to bother figuring out what everyone else will think of him for it.

The imaginary tequila bottle is still there. He can read the label: 46% ABV.

He lays down, staring at it, until he passes into sleep.

#sanders sides #deceit sanders #roman sanders #thomas sanders #logan sanders #virgil sanders #patton sanders #alcohol #drug abuse #suicide reference #maybe?#remus sanders mention #no villains just really unhealthy attitudes and behaviors #not tagging sympathetic because even if he's not a villain deceit is still a jerk in my headcanons #throw Roman a bone 2k19 #Deceit literally has the worst job of all the Sides 2k19 #Trying to figure out what Thomas himself wants and ignoring Remus' impulse ideas and Virgil/Logan/Patton/Roman's wants #janus sanders

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silyabeeodess · 4 years

Text

FusionFall Retro 2019 Holiday Event Fic: Icy Imagery, pt. 2

Previous: https://silyabeeodess.tumblr.com/post/189843252259/fusionfall-retro-2019-holiday-event-fic-icy

The next day—bundled in layers of clothes with a large, black sweater draped over her—Silya marched up the spire to find around a dozen soldiers at one of its lowest bases all gathered by the Ice King’s all but forced invitation. Everyone had a holstered weapon, but fortunately, the area had already been cleared of Penguin Pests. The Ice King had manifested a table beforehand, and had laid a small spread of chips, veggies, dip, liters of Super Porp, and what looked like some kind of potato salad, but they were either slushed or frozen by the time anyone got there. Despite this, everyone had one snack or another pushed on them.

Waiting for the last of the stragglers to arrive, Silya sloshed her iced drink around in its cup without taking a sip, not for the first time that day rethinking her decisions in life. She wondered how insane she had to be to let herself get talked into this and whether or not it would amount to anything. Maybe she’d just spent so much time as one of Dexter’s lab rats that rational thought had abandoned her a long time ago.

Whatever the reason—passion, desperation, or her own madness—there she was, standing in the cold, about to take lessons from a raving lunatic. Well, at least she wasn’t the only one crazy enough to be there…

Even if only a few others showed up after her. Their pitiful numbers didn’t deter the wizard: He just glanced them over with a thoughtful pout and affirming nod before deciding to himself that they’d waited long enough. He raised his arms in a calling gesture, “Alright, alright, everybody, settle down.”

No one was saying much to begin with, all dialogue confined to a dull murmur, but they stopped to fire incredulous glances at him all the same.

The Ice King took on an authoritative persona that was almost comical, pacing in front of them as if he were their commander, ready to lead them into battle. “Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering why I’ve called you here… It’s because your brains are all mush!” He waved his arms at the group. “You’re telling me that you all are capable of drawing from some kind of superpower, but you can’t even use it without a bunch of sciency junk? If it’s imaginary energy, then you should focus on using your imaginations a little.”

“Easier said than done…” someone muttered to Silya’s left. They were right. This was just the kind of thing she was worried about. IE went a lot farther than what the Ice King described—if it didn’t, then it would’ve been seen used in almost every aspect of human life—so, no, just ‘using their imaginations’ wasn’t enough. She glanced back the way she came, already considering her escape.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Who knew what kind of response he was expecting, but clearly whatever speech the wizard had prepared didn’t go much farther than what he’d already said. He glanced over the group again, the kind of look of his face that begged for someone else to step in. When no one did, he held his hands up, “Uh… look, maybe it’d just be easier if I show you.”

A light blue aura shimmered around his fingers, a clear sign to everyone of Ice King’s elemental magic. Some recoiled instinctively, hands lingering by their sheathes and holsters. Instead of directing it at anyone there, however, Ice King instead aimed for the ground. The magic scattered at their feet, manifesting in crackling icy, geometric patterns. Then it swarmed around them, a cold chill pouring over them like a sudden, snowy blast of air. Silya shielded her face from the winds with one arm, reaching for her sword with her free hand in case a stray bolt of ice trapped her legs.

Despite the Ice King’s bad history of encasing people in ice, however, none of them were harmed. Instead, the frosty cloud distorted their surroundings into some kind of strange, starry void washed in shades of green. The spire was gone and they were left hovering in the air. A mix of excitement and panic took over the group.

“What is this? Where are we?!”

“Is this some kind of imaginary world?”

“It can’t be. I’m checking the readings now, but I’m only picking up low traces of IE.”

Silya said nothing, taking it all in. There was no way this could be an imaginary world. Not that she’d ever had the chance to explore one herself, but no one could just summon one up like that! Besides, it didn’t look like much of any kind she’d seen from the reports about them: They were always spawned with some kind of wonderland-like element to them. There was nothing here. Nothing besides them…

Her eyes fell on the Ice King as their brief talk from yesterday entered her mind. Sure enough, he called them back to attention with a proud grin on his face, “Fellas, you’re in my imagination zone! Pretty cool, right?” He wiggled his brows. “It’s like a mindscape where anything goes. Even Finn’s got one of these—and he’s got the imagination of a missing sock!”

“Mindscape?” a young man echoed to her right.

Were they all currently somehow connected to the Ice King’s thoughts then? Like some form of telepathy? She grimaced, unsure of how comfortable she actually was with that…

“Yeah, everyone’s got one they can go to. Or should, I mean, I guess you shmoes never figured that out. But that’s about to change.” The Ice King hunted through his robes until he withdrew a worn, ruddy blue book. “You guys read my fanfiction, right? Since the ideas are all written out for you, it shouldn’t be a problem bringing Fiona and Cake and the rest into the world.”

Caught between a mix of irritation and guilt, Silya didn’t know what to feel worse. Did he make us come here just to see if we could bring his fanfiction to life? It didn’t exactly surprise her: Of course there was a catch. There was always something like this no matter what villain joined the Fusion Fighters. On the other hand, he had such an eager, puppy-like expression on his face that she felt bad for him. She bit her lower lip. While she didn’t have the hurt to dump her copy, she’d buried that brick of text somewhere so deep into her storage bank she didn’t even know where to find it without combing through everything.

One look at the others told her that none of them had read it either. Few of them answered him, and the ones that did had some excuse or another:

“I’ve been fighting fusion monsters, so I haven’t really gotten a chance to sit down with it…”

“Y-yeah! A-and it’d be a shame to rush through the story: It’s so… detailed.”

Miraculously, it worked, although the wizard still seemed disappointed. He lowered the book, muttering a faint ‘oh,’ before a sudden anger took over him directed at no one in particular. “Well, this was a waste of time!” The charge of emotion came and went, replaced with an excited smile, “Oh wait! I can just read some of the good parts aloud right here then! Makes sense, since it’ll keep us all on the same page.”

This time, at last, Silya finally interjected, raising her voice as a look of dread passed over the soldiers, “I think we’re good, Ice King.” Caught under his curious stare, she thought up something quick, “Think about it: No one’s gonna know your characters quite like you do anyway, so even if we managed to create them, they wouldn’t exactly be the same.”

She wasn’t lying: It was a case that happened all the time with imaginary friends. People had their own needs, desires, and impressions, and those things always imprinted on imaginary beings. It was even the case with their nanos, who took traits from themselves as often as they did their original counterparts.

“Artistic interpretation and all…” she finished, scratching the back of her head. “So, if you want to see Fionna and Cake, don’t you want them to be just like you’ve written them?”

He stared at her hard for a long moment—so long that she wondered if he’d snap again—but instead his expression turned a little sad and he dropped his gaze to the book in his hands with a casual shrug. “Yeah, sure, but I tried all that before. Even kidnapped some buddies of mine to find a life-giving mage to do it, but it didn’t work. Took forever to write all the stories again after that…”

She wasn’t even going to ask: Somehow, she just knew that they and the Ice King had extremely different ideas about “buddies.” However, it gave her an idea for how they all could get what they wanted. “How about a trade then? There this place called Fosters’ that specializes in imaginary friends. They might be able to help out. You show us how to enter our own imaginary zones and we’ll get you in contact Fosters’.”

Silya could feel the eyes drilling into the back of her skull from her fellow soldiers. They could judge her all they wanted. Frankie would probably kill her for passing the Ice King along like this, but after all the times she’d had to look after Cheese in the Darklands, the young woman felt that turnabout was fair play. If this was their chance of getting one step closer to mastering IE, then it was worth it: He could make an army of Fionnas for all she cared.

Before she could get an answer though, one of the other Fusion Fighters spoke up, “Wait… If this is a mindscape, then what about our physical bodies?”

The area went so silent that you could hear a pin drop. All heads turned to them, eyes wide with growing realization. The wizard answered somewhat dismissively, “Duh, this is an imagination zone: It’s not like I could bring those here. You’re lucky I was able to get everyone here at all. I never tried it with so many people.”

“But if we’re all here, then who’s watching our backs in the real world?!”

Continued through the following fic...

#fusionfall #fusionfall retro #ice king #fusion fighters #silya #silyabeeodess #video games #fanfic #fanfiction #icy imagery #ice king invasion holiday event #adventure time

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tigerlilynoh · 5 years

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Almost Got ‘em

Written for the 2019 @spnsummergen. Rating: G Featuring: Original characters, and a couple familiar faces Word Count: 3,143 Warnings: foul language Author's Notes: The prompt was “Early season - demons in hell plotting to take the Winchesters down.” I was immediately inspired by the Batman: The Animated Series episode “Almost Got ‘im.” Summary: Deep in the depths of Hell, a group of demons discuss the two latest pains in their collective ass: Sam and Dean Winchester. Rumor is that the brothers had found the Colt and even killed a demon. Of course, rumors are just big talk— yet a pair of demons patiently listen; their plan is already in action.

Two figures made their way through the halls of the third lowest dungeon in Hell. As they walked the jagged stone walls seemed to close in around them, but their petite, female forms prevented the blade-like rock from tearing at their temporary flesh. Even if they were injured it would be of no importance; they were demons and there was a meeting that they very much wanted to attend.

Both were wearing lean, blonde women who might’ve been mistaken for sisters, but that was the limit of their outward similarity. The slightly older of them wore a gauzy, white dress that, when combined with her delicate steps, gave her the air of a drifting spirit. Her partner was another story. The younger demon’s black combat boots thudded with every step, announcing her presence. Her attire was entirely leather—the cow sort, not human—dyed dark enough to hide spilled blood.

Neither of them said a word as they approached the auxiliary dungeon rumored to be containing an unusual sort of rendezvous. The pair didn’t have anything more to discuss for the moment. They both knew their immediate goals, responsibilities, and when push came to shove, which of them was in charge. They damn well better have known. Between the two of them, they’d spent over a decade putting their respective pieces in order and double-checking their work.

When they reached the unmarked door that they’d heard whispers about, the demon in the white dress pushed it open without hesitation. She stepped through the door with an unassuming demeanor. Her colleague followed her, studying the contents of the chamber with a wary eye.

Inside there were eight lesser demons standing or sitting around a storage room. Three racks had been laid out flat, then pushed together to create an improvised conference table. Five of the occupants were perched on crates of acid, steel nails, and other implements of pain. The remaining three leaned against the far wall, cautiously keeping some distance.

A brutish-looking man with pasty skin, a pronounced brow, and stringy black hair glared at the newcomers from the opposite side of the table. He stared with the intensity of someone who had taken charge—he certainly didn’t hold any noteworthy rank as evidenced by his badly calloused hands that hinted at many decades or centuries of wielding a whip, the shoddy ones meant for working souls.

In a low growl he asked the two women, “What do you want?”

“We heard that this is the place to be if you truly hate the Winchesters,” answered the elder one.

He stared at them for a moment before replying, “Get inside and shut the fucking door.”

The pair entered, closing the door behind them. From the way that everyone turned their attention to a stout demon sitting on a box labeled ‘spiders’ they assumed that it was his turn to speak. The two women settled themselves on a non-technically-iron maiden that was lying along one of the walls as if it were a bench.

The stout demon resumed addressing his audience. “So then I tore the cow apart—six chunks, big ones but still enough to spread around, and some smaller hunks. You don’t want to waste it by piling the whole cow in one corner of the room. You might as well not bother cutting the damn thing up—Anyway, I hung pieces of it throughout the house.” The sound of scuttling inside the box he was sitting on filled the room as he fumed for a moment in anger. “It’s a classic omen! It’s a horror! And the older of the brothers makes a joke about hamburgers!”

“So disrespectful,” muttered a female demon with hollow eyes and frayed white hair. Several demons nodded in agreement with her comment.

“That kind of work takes time,” complained the portly demon. “I’m not a high-caste demon. I can’t just wave my hand and make things move. Do you have any idea how long it takes to cut up a cow? And the first cleaver broke and I had to find a store—”

“Was it a vegetable cleaver?” asked the lean demon with a mangled left arm and long, frizzy brown hair sitting next to him. When he looked up at her face in confusion, she rested her hand on his thigh, then said in a soft voice, “Milmont, sweetie, two kinds of cleavers. Vegetable ones aren’t made for bone.”

“I don’t fucking believe this,” muttered a red-haired demon. He was dressed like Billy Idol but his rosy cheeks undercut the attempt at an edgy look. “Did you fight them or not?”

“I fought them!” Milmont replied indignantly. “I had a knife—”

“Paring or bread?”

“—and I swung at the older one’s neck.”

One of the demons standing in the shadows noted aloud, “Swung means a miss. You got your ass kicked.”

The stoat demon flustered a bit before reluctantly explaining, “He shot me in the chest with rock salt and hit me in the face with his gun—”

“You fell on your ass,” guessed the red-headed demon.

“The younger brother can perform an exorcism really fast,” Milmont said while shifting, jostling the box of spiders.

“You shouldn’t have gone after them,” said the brutish leader of the group. “You’re too weak.”

The stout demon glared as he hissed, “I have every right to go after the prey I choose. I’m allowed to prove myself!” He waved his hand at the rest of the room as he asked, “How many of you have been exorcised by them? If you’re here bitching about the Winchesters on your weekly one-hour break, yeah, I’m guessing they made you look like an idiot too.”

Several of the demons nodded in acknowledgement of the point or murmured agreement. The leader let out a small grumble as he reached into an open crate next to him. He pulled out an unlabeled bottle containing reddish-tawny liquid, then yanked the black cork from it with his teeth. After taking a swig, he handed it to Milmont.

“Corceo.” The stout demon toasted him before having a sip.

“You’re lucky that you were only exorcised,” the hollow-eyed woman told him while reaching out, wordlessly asking for a drink. Milmont passed it to her and she took a sip before continuing. “Rumor has it they possess the Colt.”

“Dajhila, they don’t have the Colt,” replied the demon with the bad arm. “I brawled with them ten days ago and they didn’t shoot me.”

“Maybe you aren’t worth the bullets?” jabbed the rosy-cheeked punk.

With her good hand, she picked a knife up off the ground and stabbed it into the wooden table in front of her, inviting him to fight.

Corceo, the leader, hit the table, drawing everyone’s attention. “Tisha, don’t carve Frey a new asshole. He has plenty already,” he joked, earning a chuckle from one of the demons watching from the wall. “The fact is that they had the gun. They killed Tom.”

“Tom was an idiot,” huffed Frey. “The only reason he wasn’t wading through viscera like the rest of us was because he was Azazel’s son.”

“Apparently he was attacking Sam, and Dean shot him,” Dajhila explained. “There were witnesses.”

Frey shrugged indifferently at Tom’s death. “Silver-spooned nepotist should’ve been the one to get his ass beat before he got shot.”

“I’m fine with the younger Winchester getting that bludgeoning,” interjected Tisha. She snarled, “You know that little shit is a psychic? I was so close to killing them. It took me three weeks to lure them to this abandoned insane asylum. I’d murdered twenty people in there—six hunters came before the brothers finally took the bait. That’s the shit I had to deal with in order to roll out the red carpet for those thick-brained, underwear-model-looking—“

“They aren’t that good looking,” said Milmont.

“They are,” countered Corceo. “Now let her finish or I’ll tear your fucking tongue out.”

Dajhila with the hollow eyes quietly said, “We should’ve kept the talking stick.”

Frey held up the pointy, splintered remains of a blood-stained wooden dowel that had evidently been used to stab someone. The woman shrugged, conceding that it had worked better in theory than in practice. The red-haired demon tossed it aside, grabbed the bottle of alcohol from where it had settled on the table, then gestured to their current storyteller.

Tisha waited a beat to see if anyone would interrupt her before continuing. “I swear on my life, that Sam kid really is a psychic. They knew it was a trap. I’m sitting there with a semi-automatic rifle—I’m not fucking around—and all of a sudden the sprinklers are raining holy water.” Her lips curled downward at the memory as she snarled, “Sam used a megaphone from the parking lot to exorcise me. I only got to see their faces as my cloud was getting dragged back down.”

“Jesus,” exhaled Frey. “A megaphone… and you had a rifle.”

“What weapon did you go after them with?” asked Tisha.

He thought for a moment before finally admitting, “A big rock.” Everyone stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter, so he added, “Sometimes simple is best. We’re stronger than them and there was a big rock right there that I could throw— It was a tactical decision.”

“With genius thinking like that, it’s no wonder we can’t catch a break against them,” said Corceo.

Dajhila commented, “The only good news is that the dad, John, he died two months ago.”

“John Winchester, hunter savante— That piece of shit finally dropped?” Milmont looked around, eyes wide with excitement. “What did ‘im in?”

“I do not know.” The hollow-eyed woman crossed her bony arms. “Margot, down in processing, says his file is classified, but it is there.”

Frey leaned forward with interest. “File— We got him? Fucker isn’t playing a harp?”

“In the pit as we speak,” she replied smuggly. “Rumor is that Alastair’s working him personally.”

“Alastair?” asked Corceo. “They’re breaking out the Grand Torturer himself for a Winchester?”

Tisha nodded slowly to herself as she put together a few pieces. “Well, he is classified.”

The two women silently observing from their place on the iron maiden exchanged a knowing glance. The one in leather subtly placed her hand on a bulge by her belt that was obscured by her jacket, but the woman in the white dress discreetly shook her head and gestured for her to wait. At the order, the younger demon gave a quick roll of her eyes before relaxing her posture. By the time they’d turned their attention back to the meeting, the conversation had switched back to discussing different methods of pursuing the still-living brothers.

“Dean is a hedonist,” commented Dajhila. “Take a meatsuit with a figure as an hourglass and lay yourself in his path.”

Tisha raised an eyebrow. “You really think he’s going to fall for something like that?”

“He’s young and proud.”

Tisha countered, “He’s a paranoid with low self-esteem—“

“Here we go,” muttered Milmont.

“—You all think they’re heroes out of a fucking Greek epic, but they’re just men—feeble, petty little things—“

“Little,” Frey scoffed. “Have you even seen them?”

Tisha slammed her fist on the table. “They are mortal children, too absorbed by their grief and self-pity—Yes, they are little, but that makes them paranoid, partially-psychic, sneaky cunts who use megaphones.” She paused a moment to look around the table at the others, then said, “And maybe they don’t have it now or maybe I wasn’t worth the bullets, but they know about the Colt. They know how to kill us— Kill, not exorcise.”

After a brief, pensive silence, Milmont asked, “When was the last time you heard of one of us getting killed? Cain going nuts and turning traitor? That was almost 150 years ago—Earth time.”

Corceo nodded. “Half the crew in my dungeon wasn’t even turned back then. The sniveling pups thought we were immortal until they heard the news: the fucking Winchesters killed Tom.”

There was a grumble of shared frustration at the indignity. Humans had managed to kill demons, for the first time in over a century—and the bastards hadn’t even had the decency to stick around long enough to be killed in return.

“We have to stop them,” said Milmont quietly.

Frey scoffed. “Have you been listening or are ya’ as dense as iron?”

“Oh, choke on a ball of blades,” Tisha hissed.

The red-haired demon waved his arms, sarcastically miming fear.

“Save it. The enemy is up there.” Corceo waited to see if anyone would interrupt, then continued. “I’m tired of all this theatrical, solo bullshit. We murder them in their sleep. If they salt the door, we use guns. If they ward the building, burn it down. Fucking drive an oil tanker truck into them—this is war. So how do we find them?”

Milmont replied, “Since their dad died, my denmate, Bahshin, spotted them a few times with another hunter: male, middle-aged, reddish-brown greying hair and beard, baseball cap, one of those grizzled sorts.”

Tisha nodded. “I know the one. His name is Bobby—don’t know the last name. I’ve run into him and his partner a few times. He sticks to the north central U.S. Rural looking, lots of plaid. He had an old truck.”

“Fucking hick hunters,” muttered Frey.

The woman in leather sitting along the wall wordlessly withdrew a small notebook and pen from her pocket, then wrote down, “Margot: soul processing department grunt,” and “Bahshin: den-dweller, has an Earth pass.”

Corceo eyed the two silent newcomers from his place at the table. “Taking notes? Dainty little things like you gonna go gunning for the big bad Winchesters?” He laughed. “Well get in fucking line. You come here, don’t say shit, and crib off our hard work— How close have you come to offing them? What makes you so cocky you’re gonna be the ones to kill the bastards?”

The woman with the notepad gestured to her partner, inviting her to address the challenge. The demon in white stood up and smiled, unconcerned by the hostile attitude of the others in the room.

“We haven’t tried to kill them,” she replied. “And we have a plan, the likes of which history has never seen.”

“Ready to shared with the class?” Frey asked. “What brilliant plan are you two peons gonna try?”

“We’re gonna give them what they really want.”

Corceo’s eyes passed over the two women. “A pair of eager-to-please blondes in suggestive clothes?”

The woman in the white dress corrected him. “The only one we’re eager to please is our lord, Lucifer.”

A few of the demons chuckled at the absurd statement. Lucifer was a fairytale, as much as God and angels were to the humans.

“I’ll bite.” Corceo’s mouth curled into an amused grin, punctuated by the occasional barbed fangs. “What are you gonna give them?”

“We’re gonna make them heroes.”

The demons around the table laughed outright at the reply.

“You’re going to make them heroes? Those hunter bastards know about the Colt. They killed Tom. They’ve been exorcising us.” He placed his hands on the table and stood up, ready to confront them. “The Winchesters aren’t scared of us—not the way they should be. We’re demons. That still means something. So I don’t know what crazy scheme you’re thinking up, but it isn’t happening. They don’t get to be heroes. They die.”

“They’ll die when we—” She gestured to her partner “—say they die.”

“Looks like we have something of a race on our hands.” Cerceo walked up to her and stood so that they were only a few inches apart. A head taller than her, he glared down at her before hissing, “You think you can beat me to them?”

Her eyes turned white, causing his jaw to drop. “Child you’re busy boasting and we’re on step fifteen.” Lilith waved her right hand, locking the door to the room. In a quick backhanding gesture, she threw Corceo against the far wall, then turned to look at her companion. “Ruby.”

Ruby stood up and smiled as she drew her knife from the holster on her belt. She systematically worked her way through the room, killing the others while her partner held them in place with telekinesis. Afterward, she placed the bodies on the table, then rested her palms on the topmost corpse. A few lines of Aramaic later, blue flame engulfed the bodies, destroying the evidence.

While watching the fire, Lilith asked, “Is Meg ready?”

“She’s still running recon on the other children. In terms of pressure points so far: four have lovers, eight of them are close to a parent, and we have a few like Sam where the sibling could be an incentive. As of yesterday, she was watching the stoner with imprinting telepathy to figure out his achilles’ heel.” Ruby wiped her bloody blade on the sleeve of her jacket to clean it while asking, “Did you take care of Crowley?”

“I encouraged several of his aides to let a few deals lapse. Numbers are down. He’s dying to get a big deal.” Lilith looked at her. “The second Dean Winchester’s soul comes across his desk, he’ll sign off on the contract just to get his name on something. The grubby-fingered broker didn’t check the fine print on John; why should the son be any different? I’ll hold Dean’s contract and the moment he bites it, he’ll get expedited delivery to Alastair’s dungeon. No official processing. No gossip—” She gestured to the smoldering remains of the demon who had accidentally outed Margot as a leak in the processing department. “—No mistakes this time.”

Ruby huffed an unamused laugh. “The two of us sure as hell won’t have time to clean up any messes once this show gets rolling. Round one we could afford to have things go a little sideways. Once we pop up on Sam’s radar, that’s it. We’re in, and I’m not coming back downstairs on a fucking milk run.”

“It will all turn out,” Lilith assured her. “Our lord wills his return. He cannot be denied.”

Ruby didn’t reply to the pious statement. Instead she studied the charred racks in front of them. “I know he’s your mentor and we couldn’t have done this without him, but Azazel can’t survive this. You know that, right?”

Lilith nodded. “When he finishes aligning his pawns, he’ll throw the fight. He knows how important it is that Sam’s anger be directed solely at me. That means clearing the field for the next generation of nemeses.”

“Don’t worry,” Ruby placed her hand on her partner’s shoulder. “When I’m done with him, Sam will be foaming at the mouth to kill you.”

“I envy you,” Lilith sighed. “You’ll live to see our lord. It’s going to be beautiful.”

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

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raendown · 5 years

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Pairing: MadaraTobirama Chapter: 13/18 Word count: 2424 Summary: When Tobirama is exiled from the Senju clan without warning, without even the chance to plead his case, it feels like his life is over. What does he have to live for now without his older brother to believe in him? Captured by the Uchiha in his moment of weakness, Tobirama slowly learns to live again with the last people on earth he would have ever expected to care for - or to fall in love with.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

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Chapter 13

Negotiating the terms of an alliance and designing the blueprints for a brand new village probably would have gone a lot faster if Tobirama had been willing to go to the gatherings himself. The famous trio of intertwined clans, the Nara, Yamanaka, and Akimichi, had all agreed to throw their lots in with this venture even before the first roads were paved. Being able to say that the meetings were crowded enough already with so many people there to protect their own interests was quite a convenient excuse for Tobirama to avoid them.

Madara refrained from calling him out on the lie, though it was clear he had spotted it. It was Izuna that ribbed him about his choice to stay behind – very gently, though, so he knew it was only a way to help the situation feel normal. Tobirama appreciated both of their efforts and he showed his gratitude by pouring over every scrap of cramped notes they brought home to him, writing out suggestions for changes or additions and pointing out the occasional flaw in someone’s logic. The shadows had always been his favorite place to work from anyway. Credit was nice but in situations like this it was more important that things be done right than for everyone to know who came up with what idea.

Whether or not anyone from the Senju clan recognized his influence was unknown but Madara and Izuna both mentioned that his name had not come up more than once, not after one of the Akimichi got halfway through his name only to be cut off by a wild look from Hashirama, dangerous eyes and a lips pressed so tightly together they turned white. Even Madara admitted he had no idea how to interpret that look and no one had dared to mention him again after that. Tobirama tucked that information away, unsure of what it meant but certain that it was important.

Then finally, after almost five long months of arguing, compromising, and general idiocy, construction of the village began. With Madara and Izuna – and nearly half of the clan, actually – away at the construction site, Tobirama and Hikaku were left behind to defend the compound on the off chance someone was stupid enough to think of this as an opportunity. Hikaku stood in as de facto clan head while Madara was absent since he was the one who wore the crest and bore their name but it was Tobirama to whom the people came when they had a problem. Luckily Hikaku didn’t seem to mind, joking that it was less work for him.

Most of the ones who had gone to help with the construction came home a couple days a week, rotating on a schedule so there were never too many absent from the worksite at a time. Quite often when it was Madara and Izuna’s turn to come home they fell asleep the moment their bottoms hit some sort of comfortable surface and their bodies finally accepted that they were allowed to rest. For the rest of the time, however, Tobirama spent most of his days alone in the house they had all shared until recent events separated them.

And he was lonely. It was ridiculous to consider how close they had grown in just the one year they had been together and yet he couldn’t help himself, meeting them at the gate each time they returned and reveling in the affection when one or both of them fell asleep on top of him. It was a treat to run his fingers through their hair and whisper all the little things they had been missing while they were away. He said absolutely nothing when Madara followed him groggily to bed once or twice, only smiled to himself when the man curled up on top of his chest.

Despite now having the opportunity to spend copious amounts of time with the person he had once called his best friend Madara hadn’t changed the way he treated Tobirama in the slightest. Things between them were just as they had always been, they greeted each other after each separation with the same warmth, and Tobirama didn’t even notice until the tension unraveled that he had been silently holding his breath to be set aside in favor of the original duo. Keeping the place he had earned in Madara’s heart was more of a relief than he could say. Whether Madara and Hashirama struck up their friendship again was honestly not important to him but to be pushed away to make room for another would have been devastating.

When everything was prepared and at last it came time for each of the clans to officially move in to the compounds built specifically for them, Tobirama found himself hesitating finally, all packed up but not ready to go. Izuna found him sitting on the empty frame of his bed, sheets and mattress both sealed away for easy transport. The second their eyes met his friend flopped down beside him and fell over sideways across his lap like a massive rag doll.

“I hear cuddling a stuffed animal is good for when you’re having a pout,” he said. “But all my stuffed animals are packed away so I suppose you’ll have to live with just me.”

“You don’t have any stuffed animals.” Tobirama looked away and tried to look offended.

“Well that just means you’re extra stuck with me then, doesn’t it?”

“Ridiculous.” A light shove didn’t shift the man and Tobirama wasn’t much inclined to try any harder at the moment. Instead he crossed his arms and leaned his weight on them, balanced over Izuna’s hip.

He could have just admitted to what was wrong, that he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk even the slightest chance of being seen by Hashirama quite yet, but it wasn’t in his nature to share unless prodded to. Playing along with the teasing was more bearable than opening up his own vulnerabilities even if he had done so for his two closest people several times before. It still never got any easier.

Which was stupid. They had already seen him at his very lowest. What could possibly be more embarrassing than knowing they had watched him literally giving up on life?

It was still easier to return Izuna’s teasing – and more fun, of course, so Tobirama did just that. After living together for so long he knew exactly what to say to press the other man’s buttons in all the best and most terrible ways.

“So what you’re saying is that you want to cuddle on the couch as soon as we get there? We could do that. I’m sure all the ladies would just be falling over themselves to get a piece of you if they see how much of a cuddle-bear you are.” Pressing down, he deliberately put more of his weight on Izuna’s hip. “Especially if they see you aren’t afraid to cuddle with another man. No wrong impressions to be gained from that, surely.”

“Alright! Alright! Get off!” Tobirama let him wriggle helplessly for a minute before letting him go. When he was back on his own feet Izuna made a show of straightening his clothes until he was entirely presentable. “I just thought you would like to know that Madara promised to try and lure the Senju clan head away while the rest of us are moving in so you can slip by without drawing attention. If you want.” Because of course he would. Of course Madara would understand without Tobirama having to shame himself by spilling his guts. Izuna winked conspiratorially and Tobirama paused before answering, an old idea reoccurring to him when he least expected it. When it would be most useful.

“I may have a better idea,” he said. “You already know which house we will be living in, correct?”

“Yeah, I helped build it. Why?”

“Can you bring something in there for me?”

Izuna gave him a strange look but Tobirama only grinned. He’d almost forgotten about this; felt a little guilty thinking about it now, actually. That jutsu had first been conceived as a way to fight the man standing in front of him, had been intended as his ultimate end, and Tobirama could hardly believe how grateful he was that such a thing had never come to pass. It was incredible to think of all the things he wouldn’t have in his life now if those plans had come to fruition.

Staying behind while the rest of the Uchiha emigrated away from their ancestral lands was hard. He had to force himself not to check the position of the sun every five minutes, distracting himself with a dip in the pond – sans clothing, just because he could. It didn’t negate how utterly alone he was in the large empty compound but it did entertain him while he waited.

As soon as dark fell and he was absolutely certain Izuna would be inside the new house with the special kunai he had agreed to carry, Tobirama was ready with his clothes back on and his hands together in a seal he had only successfully activated once before. It felt like the world collapsing in on him for an infinite second, like his body being torn apart and reassembled all in the same instant. It was, in a word, incredibly uncomfortable. Luckily he was prepared for the sensation and consciously blocked the resulting wave of nausea.

Madara and Izuna gave matching shrieks of surprise when he appeared between them without any sort of warning. He probably could have informed them of what he intended to do, explained how he planned to get in to the village without being noticed by a single member of the Senju clan, but he was glad that he hadn’t. This way was much more amusing and he got the extra treat of seeing the impressed looks they both tried to hide from him.

The first thing he took note of was that he could feel Hashirama’s chakra burning as brightly as ever less than two miles away, sorely missed yet entirely unwelcome. Fragments of him sparkled all throughout the village, remnants of his chakra left behind in all the wood he had grown to help their village spring up from nothing. To distract himself from the conflicting desire to rush out and find the man he asked Madara and Izuna to show him around. It was an opportunity they snapped up eagerly even without knowing about the internal conflict he’d just run in to. Both of them had a hand in designing and building this home and they were both quite proud of it, ready and waiting for the opportunity to finally show it off to him.

His bedroom, he noted, was much bigger than before and set right next to Madara’s while Izuna had made sure his own was all the way at the other end of the house instead. The kitchen was more spacious and there were two bathrooms, thank kami. In the backyard he was not surprised to find where another little pond had been dug out then shored up and lay waiting for him to fill it with water.

What he was more surprised to find was the lab, hidden away in the sizable back shed and presented with a dual flourish and knowing grins. Tobirama stood in the entrance with what was probably a very stupid look on his face as he stared unabashedly around at all the shiny new equipment.

“You built me…a laboratory?”

“Look, we know you said you wanted to fund it yourself. But we thought you deserved to be just as happy here as anyone else and that this might help you settle in or whatever.” Madara gestured vaguely to the contents of the room. “We didn’t say this stuff was for us, just for the clan as a whole. And we didn’t order it all at once. I’m not even sure anyone realized we ordered a whole lab full of glass and tubes and crap – or if they did I’m sure they wouldn’t guess who it was really for. Don’t know if we got everything though. I don’t even know what most of this stuff does.” He scratched awkwardly at one cheek while Tobirama stumbled in to the room with wide eyes, trying to see everything at once.

It was perfect. It was better than the set-up he had built for himself in his first home with more advanced equipment and better quality tools. He could hardly believe anyone had gotten him something this amazing as a gift. Already his mind was racing ahead of him and planning out all the incredible work he could do with this equipment but first he turned back to the ones who made it all possible.

Izuna, he noticed, had slipped away sometime while he was distracted with his shiny new gifts. He was grateful for the privacy as he took double fistfuls of Madara’s robe and for once his heart ran ahead of his brain in an effort to express his gratitude.

They were both equally surprised by the kiss. As soon as Tobirama realized what he was doing he froze and the two of them stood there staring in to each other’s eyes with their lips mashed together uncomfortably. They sprang apart at the same time, clearing their throats and looking absolutely anywhere but at each other. Madara was the first to brave the silence with his voice cracking under the strain.

“You like it. Good to know. I should – right? Yeah. Lots of things to unpack.”

“Right. Yes. I have – mhm. Unpacking is – yes. We all have that.”

Nodding very seriously, they turned and stepped towards the door at the same time, pausing before running each to each other and then spending several minutes in an awkward back-and-forth dance trying to figure out who would leave first. Eventually Madara stomped his foot and bulled forward to storm back to the main house. Tobirama watched him go, resisting the urge to press fingertips to his lips like a deflowered maiden in some terrible romance novel.

All other possible ramifications of the unexpected kiss aside, at least he wasn’t concentrating on any of his other problems anymore. Hashirama’s signature continued to flutter from place to place while Tobirama closed the door of the lab behind himself and slowly followed in Madara’s wake with only one thought on his mind.

Izuna was never going to let him live this down.

#rae writes #madatobi #(finally)#tobirama #izuna #madara #fanfiction

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