#critically its handle has enough space for my whole hand inside of it

[halemerry]

Hey everyone what's your favorite mug look like?

#i feel like you can tell a lot about a person by their mug preferences #mines yellow and says 'go get em' with a picture of a tiger underneath it #critically its handle has enough space for my whole hand inside of it #rambles

[lambourngb]

For the first sentence meme: “I didn’t have the words then.”

TITLE: there’s too much smoke to see it

PAIRING: Michael/Alex

TAGS: hurt/comfort, temporary character death, getting back together, lots of talking, lots of sex, brief forlex, malex is endgame, canon typical friendships between everyone

SUMMARY: He had run out of time in making things right with Alex, which honestly was the worst part of dying in Michael’s opinion. It would have been good to die without leaving behind regrets and things unsaid. But then he survived and nothing changed, or did it?

This is finished, 15,858 words.

****. 

“I didn’t have the words then.”

Michael glanced down at the fading bar of his cell phone battery in his hands, before turning to muffle the rib-shaking cough of dirt and grit from his throat into the bend of his arm. In their long history of loving one another, hurting one another, pushing each other, dragging each other back in, this was probably the cruelest thing he has done to Alex, leaving a goodbye message recorded on his phone.

The air was getting thinner in the cavern, the mix of carbon dioxide slowly taking over the available oxygen. Michael wasn’t sure if Mr. Jones wanted him to die from lack of water and food, or suffocate in the sealed space, only that he wanted Michael to suffer. That much had been made clear to Michael as he laid on the rocky ground with the depowering serum coursing through his veins. This was meant to be both his prison cell and grave, sentenced and executed for the crime of being his mother’s son. “I read up on these overly intelligent beasts you’ve surrounded yourself with, and I know they had your mother for a long time, tortured her for years, but it wasn’t by my hand, which lacks a certain emotional closure for me, I’m sure you understand.”

Collapsing the mouth of the abandoned mine with telekinesis, Michael’s last view was the self-satisfied expression of his brother but-not Jones, backing away with a sketched-salute.

After the dust settled and the walls stopped rattling, Michael had taken a quick accounting of the situation. A quick pat down of his pockets had revealed his multi tool, his truck keys and his cell phone, which was half-charged but with zero signal from the insulating barren rock walls of the mine. He had swept the meager flashlight over everything, hoping that he would find a place where there was water seeping in, or evidence that there was a forgotten shaft, only to be met with disappointment. What was even more concerning was that the mineral composition of the mine was unfamiliar to Michael, different from the patterns of strip-mined turquoise he recognized from the caverns that sheltered their pods. 

He wasn’t in Roswell. It was possible he wasn’t in New Mexico at all. The black void from his last memory of leaving his bunker for the night and waking up on the unforgiving ground with Mr. Jones smirking above him could have stretched anywhere from hours to days. 

Michael had paced around the small confines and had traced each crevice with his fingertips for some sign of give to attempt to dig himself out only to realize Jones had brought down the side of the mountain on him. Without access to his powers there was little hope of moving the rock debris on his own. The last time he had been dosed by Helena Ortecho, the effects had lasted for several days, including those frustrating moments when Jesse Manes had held a gun on Alex and then him at the Crashcon. Lucky for all of them that Gregory Manes had been there, and even more so for Maria’s quick thinking with the other bomb.

Luck took a faraway vacation from Michael after that night between getting unceremoniously dumped by Maria, to watching Alex move on easily with Forrest Long, to now. 

When the feeling of his old friend, hunger, began to gnaw at his stomach, he had some hope that the serum would wear off in time to save himself, but then slowly that hope faded from his body when the desire to eat grew quiet, sleeping inside with the burrow his missing powers had made in him.

He was trapped and the executioner’s axe, swinging down on him inescapable, was time. 

Thinking about time, like usual, sent Michael’s thoughts turning down the familiar roads in his mind and heart to Alex. At first, as he pillowed his head on his arms and stared up at the endless black of his prison, he had pretended there were stars above him and Alex was next to him. The rocky ground was just as unforgiving as the metal bed of his pickup truck. He was used to that fantasy, pretending Alex was there with him but just far enough away Michael couldn’t feel his breath or touch his skin. 

It had kept him going during those years when Alex was serving overseas under a whole different starlit sky. It had fueled him during the surprisingly harder times, when Alex was serving in the next state over, one timezone, two at most, but the separation was wider than the Atlantic Ocean under Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. It had kept him hopeful as well, waiting during the in-between times of those scarce visits on leave. And then finally, Alex was serving in Roswell, but by then it was Michael who was out of reach, pulled down so deep in grief and pain he couldn’t see a way forward at all, let alone picture Alex nearby in his mind's eye. 

Now he was out of time to wait and see if maybe the fates would be kind enough to grant them one more chance at being together. 

The screen on his phone went black during his too-long pause. That was happening more and more, thirst was not enough to keep his thoughts sharp and his mind on the task. He kept drifting off on tangents, and time slipped with them as he worked to find the words to say goodbye to Alex. The battery life of his cell phone was dying under every pause, goddamn it, he needed to focus.

“I didn’t have the words then, to tell you how bad things were that summer. You know the one. I know I was too much for you, for anyone, hell even for myself. But… I didn’t mean to do it though, to make you the only good thing in my life back then- that was too much to put on you, when you were just a kid too, trying to survive.” 

His skin was tight and dry, he couldn’t spare the moisture to cry, but his eyes burned with the need. “I blame myself, you know, for you leaving that first time to join up. Going to war. I know you what you said, about wanting to learn how to fight battles and win, but I’m not dumb, Alex. I know your dad catching us together was the real reason. You were trying to fly under his radar, to get out of the house and disappear to California or New York once you turned 18, and I ruined it. And I’m sorry-”

Another rib shaking cough seized Michael’s body, ripping through his throat like a wildfire, leaving ash in its wake as he tried to close his lips around it and hold it in uselessly. It was futile, trying to protect Alex, but he hoped that Alex would hear this goodbye, hear how slow and sleepy the words were and perhaps picture Michael’s death as being a peaceful slip into oblivion. Not the true state of affairs, that he was fighting for air as the walls of the mine seemed to creep closer and closer with every inhalation.

Like the rest of his previous attempts to protect Alex in his life, he was failing again.

 “So, that apology was twelve years overdue. It wasn’t your fault I was a mess back then. And, the shitty part is Alex, if I had to relive that summer again, I can’t promise I would do anything different… except, maybe I would have been there to say goodbye to you.” 

The bar on the phone was slipping closer to the critical red line. 

“Guess that’s what this is. This recording. My poor attempt to make amends and give you a proper goodbye. I don’t have enough room on my phone or battery life to apologize for everything I’ve done, and honestly, what good are apologies? They don’t change the past. I think we did the best we could at the time. It is just- I lied before when I said I used to think we’d end up together.”

That bittersweet morning of watching Alex walk away one last time had changed something inside of Michael though he didn’t know at the time. He had thought he could close the book on their sad story and move on, trying as hard as he had with Maria, only to have that same damn book hurled at his head after Crashcon by Maria when she had ended things. He had spent so much time holding his and Alex’s story open in his heart, that the book didn’t close anymore. The spine was cracked, the binding bent in all the places where they had loved each other and hurt each other, that it made it impossible to shelve again and move on. All it took was the softest breeze of memory; the cover would flip open, and then Michael was right back in the middle of their story again, knowing that he would love Alex forever. 

His thoughts were wandering again, bounding down hallways of melodrama. He almost laughed at the metaphor he had crafted for Alex; that their love was a roughly handled book. Forrest would appreciate it, being a researcher and lover of libraries. Forrest seemed to appreciate everything that Michael hadn’t. 

Michael forced his eyes open, struggling to make sense between the black that circled his vision and the black of the mine. “I tried to stop thinking about it, picturing it, you and me, making a life together. I might have succeeded for a little bit, probably long enough for you to think I got over you. But I didn’t. It never really took. So yeah. I really thought we were going to have more time together. Time to try again. Or like, really try for the first time. I was ready now, to be good to you.” His lips cracked as he smiled in thought, the taste of blood sharpening his attention. “I had these big future plans. I was just waiting for- for the right time.

“Now I’m out of time- fuck, is it cruel to tell you this? I don’t want to be cruel to you. I love you. So much. So, I’m sitting here in the dark, and I’m trying to think good thoughts. God, Alex, you’re every good thought in my head, and I was planning on showing that to you, if you still wanted me.”

If. Michael forced himself not to linger on that. It was a huge ‘if’, considering how happy Alex was at the moment with someone else. Amazing what sharing hobbies but not trauma could do for a relationship. Well, Michael could admit it, that he was selfish enough at this moment not to care. He had held all these thoughts inside for so long, their only company his lost opportunities and dead dreams about finding his family. If he was going to die here, so be it, he didn’t want to leave anything unsaid.

“Maybe you don’t, maybe all you have for me is love in the past tense and that’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve stood there before myself, when my tank was dead-empty, and I couldn’t trust that another go-around would take me anywhere but back to heartbreak. Just, if you could indulge me one last time? I want you to know how I saw us.”

His lips stung, the cut breaking open again as he uselessly tried to wet them one more time. Michael curled around his phone holding it close to his mouth, his head was too dizzy to hold up anymore, but he pushed on, this was the important part of his message. “So, the plan was this. It is the same plan I had when we were 17. We’ve both taken some detours, almost got lost even, but I think this was where we were heading. A house, a yard, kids. We were going to have it all. I was going to play the guitar, you would play the keyboard, our daughter would play the drums, our son the flute because fuck gender stereotypes, am I right? Of course, you would have to sing, my voice only sounds good when I’m backing you up.”

The battery hit the final red bar of warning. There was a splash on the phone screen. Carefully Michael brought it to his lips to lick the precious tear away for moisture. His body had surprised him one more time, with tears. 

“And yeah, that’s the gist. I would back you up on everything in our dad band, but you have to let me be the disciplinarian about homework, okay? Also, you don’t know this about me, but I make the best breakfasts ever. That was going to be what I led with by the way, if you were ever single again. I was going to make you breakfast and woo you. Every day for the rest of your life if you wanted. Whatever you wanted. I just want you to be happy… I love you.” 

He closed the recording, saving it as the phone shut down on the exhausted battery. It wasn’t perfect, his last message to Alex, but then, when had he ever managed to tell Alex everything and get it right? He never had, and would never get a chance again. Never. 

Michael tucked the phone into the pocket of his shirt, resting it over his heart and shut his eyes. He was aware that he was breathing harder, his lungs were looking for more non-existent oxygen in the closed off mine. Hopefully, he would slip into unconsciousness soon and feel the weight of grief that had taken up lodging in his chest sometime after the age of 7, finally check out. Evict that pain at last, and he could be free. 

It was the bitterest irony of his current imprisonment.  

***

continued on AO3 -

#malex #alex manes #michael guerin #hurt-comfort #getting back together #angst with a happy ending #for the first line meme #aewriting #sorry if this ends up in the tags twice #just found a privacy setting that was causing issues grrr

[longitudinalwaveme]

Longitudinalwaveme Reviews Some More Old Comics (and One New One), Part 2

Batman #321, “Dreadful Birthday, Dear Joker...!” 

The story opens with Commissioner Gordon receiving an invitation to the Joker’s birthday party. “Black tie optional, funny hats mandatory”. A few seconds later, everyone in police headquarters doubles over laughing, the victims of Joker’s, well, Joker gas. 

Batman is on the scene only a few seconds later, and starts punching out Joker’s goons. Unfortunately, by the time he’s finished doing this, both Joker and Commissioner Gordon have disappeared. 

Eminently Quotable Joker: “Ah---the Batman! What an expected surprise! And what a waste of a perfectly good window! Couldn’t you have used the door?” 

As Joker leaves in his Jokermobile, the police officers tell Batman that the Joker also captured Robin earlier that day (by pretending to be a woman with car problems!) 

Meanwhile, Selina Kyle, Lucius Fox, and Alfred are talking when the Joker bursts in and kidnaps them as well. Notably, Selina mentions that she’s been having terrible headaches. 

Selina Kyle wakes up in a room with Batman; the other kidnapees wake up in the Joker’s “Ha-Hacienda” on his “victim-go-round”. 

Eminently Quotable Joker: “Tomorrow is my birthday, and by way of celebration, I intend to eliminate all you who’ve crossed me, while all of Gotham watches! It’s not exactly the catcher’s mitt I really wanted...but it’s a pretty fair second place! HAHAHAHAHAHA!” 

Hawkman stars in a Hostess cupcake ad! 

The Joker murders one of his own henchman with his “BANG!” flag gun for not laughing at his joke. 

Eminently Quotable Joker (in response to Robin saying “You’re out of your mind!”): “Gloriously so! Isn’t it wonderful?” 

In order to get his audience, the Joker put an ad in the newspaper that states that the “Harlequin Baking Company” will be inviting all of Gotham to  sample its wares at the Seaside Coliseum. AND IT WORKS, because everyone in Gotham has the IQ of turnips. A bazillion people come to the Coliseum to get free food. 

Joker dramatically reveals himself to everyone and explains that he’s going to blow up all the people he hates with a giant cake bomb. Then Batman arrives and offers himself in exchange for the other hostages. This goes exactly how you’d expect it to go, but Batman manages Batman his way out of the trap, saving both himself and all of his friends. 

Joker runs away and jumps into a boat. Batman follows him, they fight for a bit, and then the Joker apparently blows himself up. But he’s not dead, because nothing can kill the Joker. Batman even says so. 

This would’ve made a great episode of B:TAS. 

Batman #322, “Chaos--Coming and Going!” 

And now for something completely different! 

Catwoman looks at a bunch of old newspaper clippings of herself, as the comic hints fairly subtly that she might be unwell (just as her headaches last issue did). 

Meanwhile, a van is delivering issues of the tabloid The Gotham Guardian...when a thrown bundle of newspapers is intercepted by a boomerang! Captain Boomerang is in Gotham City! 

The two men in the van react by promptly trying to run Digger over....only for him to slice their van in half with a boomerang!

Digger yells at them to tell their boss that this was only a warning: the mysterious boss owes him a million dollars, and he wants it in 24 hours or else. 

Then Batman shows up out of nowhere and he and Boomerang get into a fight. Digger distracts Batman by using his exploding boomerang to damage a nearby building. This causes some rubble to fall on one of the drivers. Batman goes to rescue him, and Digger vanishes. 

Green Arrow stars in a Hostess fruit pie ad! 

Batman talks to Alfred about Captain Boomerang, telling him to ask Lucius Fox to find out who owns the Guardian, since he’s probably Boomerang’s next target. He also refuses to call the Flash in for help. “The night I can’t handle a punk like Boomerang is the night I hang up my cowl!” 

Catwoman goes to a doctor and it’s confirmed that she is, in fact, dying. She has less than a month to live and the only cure is some Egyptian herbs that have been lost to time. 

Meanwhile, Captain Boomerang lets us know that he hates Gotham. “Lor’, but I hate this cronky town! I never would’ve come her from Central City if it wasn’t for my million quid!” 

Apparently, Captain Boomerang set up a retirment fund for himself and is ticked off that has money was subsequently stolen. 

“It’s really rum--downright ironic! The one time I play the game by their rules--and it’s me who gets taken for a sucker! Well, nobody crosses “Digger” Harkness--and gets away with it intact!” That’s our Digger! 

Also, he has a giant boomerang hidden under a tarp. 

Catwoman goes to the museum to see a display about cats...and conveniently, some ancient Egyptian medicinal herbs are there. Catwoman determines to take them so she can save herself. 

Batman asks the most Irish Irishman to ever walk the pages of the comic book about where he might be able to find Captain Boomerang, but he hasn’t heard anything. Then Alfred calls Batman and tells him that Lucius has discovered that the Gotham Guardian is owned by a corporation which serves as a front for a guy named Gregorian Falstaff. 

The man in question is eating dinner at a hotel when he is rudely interrupted by Captain Boomerang, who knocks out Falstaff’s bodyguard and demands his money. Falstaff plays dumb, claiming that the whole thing was an unfortunate accident and offering to write him a check. Boomerang insists that it’s cash or nothing (since he doesn’t trust Falstaff). Then Batman shows up, and Digger throws a smoke bomb boomerang that distracts Batman long enough for him to knock him out with another boomerang. 

“You gave it a fair dinkum try, cobber-but fair ain’t enough when  you’re dealin’ with the likes of me!’” Didgeridoo! Crikey! Steve Irwin! Can you tell I’m Australian yet? 

Selina Kyle tries to call Bruce but can’t get ahold of him, so she decides to take matters into her own hands and pulls out her Catwoman costume. 

When Batman comes to, he’s been tied to the giant boomerang. 

“Nothin’ permanent, mate--you’re simply tied to my giant rocket-powered boomerang! Only Flash’s super-speed saved him from the original--and without super-powers you’ll never escape this improved version!” So...which one of the giant boomerangs you used to launch the Flash into space are we talking about here, Digger? Because there’ve been at least four at this point. 

Boomerang launches the boomerang into the air and it explodes. Digger is naturally convinced that he’s killed Batman, only for Batman to promptly prove him wrong by showing up alive and well. “Nobody could possibly survive a flight on my Doomerang!” Oh, Digger...

Batman explains that he survived by “maneuvering my bonds toward the Doomerang’s rocket-jets--and the ignition-flames freed me! Then I simply slipped away under the cover of all that smoke before the Doomerang took off!” I love that Batman also calls the thing a Doomerang (with a totally straight face, mind you.) 

Then Digger throws a boomerang at Batman at the same time Batman throws a Batarang at him. But because Batman is Batman, he wins the boomerang duel and knocks Digger out. Way to take away Digger’s only accomplishment there, Batman. It’s like if Superman won any of his races against the Flash. 

Batman decides to investigate Falstaff. 

Meanwhile, at the museum, someone who looks like Catwoman is stealing one of the exhibits....

Flash #286, “The Color Schemes of the Rainbow Raider”

This issue introduces the greatest villain of all time...the dreaded Rainbow Raider! 

After a long day at work, Barry Allen is heading home...only for an alarm to go off at the Centrex Art Museum! Barry has to promptly go into action as the Flash as Barry thinks about how tired he is. Apparently, his new police chief, Darryl Frye, has made him work overtime three times in one week alone. 

Suddenly, a rainbow appears, bewildering Barry, as it hasn’t rained for the past week. Barry runs inside the museum to find the guards crying inexplicably. Barry deduces that the thief has been altering their emotions and realizes that this is probably not one of his established Rogues. 

Sure enough, he soon comes face-to-face with the Rainbow Raider!

“Welcome, Flash! I didn’t think you and I would be meeting so soon...but sooner or later we were bound to clash! Allow me to introduce myself! I am the Rainbow Raider---the most colorful criminal this city’s ever seen!” Oh, Roy. You’re so amazingly silly, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Roy shoots a beam of blue light at Barry, who somehow deduces that this was what enabled him to mess with the emotions of the guards. Barry dodges the blast of blue light, but it hit and knocked out by a blast of black light. 

The police are suitably baffled by the Rainbow Raider, who, incidentally, signed his crime scene with “The Rainbow Raider was here!” That’s amazing. 

Meanwhile, the Flash runs home, for the Rainbow Raider has...uh....sucked all of the color out of his body! Somehow! Wha? 

Meanwhile, in a mobile trailer, Roy is gloating to himself. “Now I know I’m ready for the big leagues--on a par with seasoned criminals like Captain Cold and Mirror Master!” Uh...sure, Roy. 

Batman and Catman star in a Hostess cupcake ad! 

“Roy G. Bivolo is compelled by higher motivations--like art appreciation!” 

Roy reveals that he suffers from achromotopsia, a rare form of colorblindness that means he sees the world entirely in greyscale. This fact apparently scuppered his burgeoning artistic career, because the art critics of Central City have never heard of black-and-white artwork even though it totally exists. 

Also, Roy’s dad was apparently a, quote, “leading world-renowned optometrist”, and he tried to create goggles that would allow Roy to see color. He passed away shortly after Roy turned 21; having finished the googles just days before. 

When Roy tested them a few weeks later, he found that they hadn’t cured his colorblindness...but that they could shoot out “bands of multi-colored solid light particles that I could literally “ride” through the sky”. Roy then uses his father’s notes to unlock even more abilities with his goggles. Eventually, his mother also passed away, and Roy decided to turn to crime. 

“Since I was robbed of a brilliant art career as a painter--I think it’s only fitting that I rob others....rob them of the pleasure they’ve derived all these years from priceless works of art I myself have never been able to enjoy! If I can’t see them in all their glory---then neither will anyone else!” Roy...that’s insane. 

Barry Allen fails in his attempt to flirt with Fiona Webb, then exposits about pseudoscience. “The color black appears black because it absorbs the light waves of all other colors...without reflecting them! Those black beams the Rainbow Raider enveloped me with must’ve had a similar effect--saturating my body with radiation that prevents me from reflecting any and all light-waves...leaving me totally colorless!” SCIENCE! 

Barry uses makeup and hair day to make himself look normal. As a result, he’s 20 minutes late to work and gets chewed out by his boss. 

Also: “The unnatural inner-vibrations from this color drain are steadily sapping more and more energy from my molecules by the minute!” More SCIENCE! 

Barry is about to get to work when he hears about the opening of the Skytop Art Gallery. Assuming that this would be an ideal target for the Rainbow Raider, he goes into action as the Flash. 

Roy has created a distraction by using his emotional manipulation powers to get all of the art patrons to fight each other while he escapes. Barry runs up a building and onto Rainbow Raider’s rainbow...whereupon Raider shoots a blinding light at him, causin him to slip off the rainbow and almost fall to his doom. Luckily, his ability to vibrate through anything saves his life, as he manages to vibrate through a green car he was about to land on. 

Barry then finds that he’s turned totally green. ‘I must’ve been vibrating on the precise wavelength of the color green when I passed through this heap--somehow allowing me to regain my capacity to absorb green light-waves!” SCIENCE! He then starts running through vehicles of other colors to regain his capacity to absorb those light-waves, too. Since Raider is colorblind, he can’t figure out what the Flash is up to. 

When Raider takes one last blast at the Flash, the effects restore him to normal, and Flash is able to make quick work of the Rainbow Raider. 

I love the Rainbow Raider so much.

#flash comics #batman comics #dc comics

[scarsmood]

Mental Health and Otherkinity

This is my panel I did today! enjoy! it’s the script

             My name is scar im apart of a system of 4, I am mightyenakin from pokemon. Trans ftm and very queer. We have a lot to go over so lets jump in.

             Today I want to talk about my experience with being psychological kin. Talk about how this has shaped me as a person. How the community handles psychological kin as well as the greater outside world. So lets get into it. Otherkinity has been in my life ever since I can remember. From the age of 3 I can remember feeling non human and having alters that were also non human. I’ve also found for my life and my experience my mental health and my otherkinity are two things that have wound themselves together. I can never look at one without the other are both play a critical role in my identity.

               I can say as psychological otherkin right now I stand at an interesting intersection of my life where I have the most freedom I have ever had and dealing with the worst trauma I’ve had to face. I recently got out of a bad long term relationship of something I had been in for 7 years. I can say the events I’ve lived did and still do directly impact my identity and change how I see myself.

 for me I cannot explore my otherkinity without exploring my trauma and mental health

these two parts of myself are closely woven together. DID is a product of trauma and it’s something that rules over my life daily.

It is something I don’t just accommodate it is a way of life for me.

For the past 3 years I’ve been in intensive therapy going at least once every two weeks. At one point going twice a week, completed an inpatient and outpatient program. Needless to say I have been fortunate enough to not be in a lot of debt. However I would like to think that these things have helped me immensely.  With the background talk out of the way lets get into how these things have shaped my identity.

 A little bit about me. I am diagnosed with DID or dissociative identity disorder. This means my identity is split apart between alters or alternate personalities. If your unfamiliar with plurality I can say with confidence that can be its own talk but heres what you need to know.

•            My alters are distinct each having their own morals, ideals, life perspective, lived experiences and memories separate from my own.

•            We all share one body like roommates share an apartment space

•            My alters are a result of trauma I experienced during my life. Each of us hold our share of trauma so imaging trauma is sandbags instead of 1 person holding 100 pounds of sand we have given 25 pounds of sand to 4 alters. Which is much more manageable.

•            My alters including me were shaped from the environment they came from

·       Alters also share an inner world where they can interact with one another. This also a place where I can easily my identity and how I view myself internally.

 Some others fun things about me is I have some mild psychotic symptoms. Since I’m in my early 20’s they’re pretty manageable at the moment I am always keeping an eye out for them worsening though. These things include hallucinations visual, auditory, touch, smell, taste. I also have a weird mix of beliefs that can mix into delusion territory but aren’t damaging to my life and therefore cant really place a good label on them. So I consider them delusional like but not the same experience as a true delusion I believe I could very much be wrong.

my first identity shift was when I was a child about 3 years old was the first time me as an alter became prominently separate from our host. It was apparently at that time I was non human and a hyena. I looked like a hyena from lion king roughly no character in particular and acted as a companion/ friend.

When I got a bit older at 4-5 my identity shifted once I moved and left behind some family. I changed from a hyena to a pokemon. If I could guess I would say due to a pokemons inherent loyalty. My identity became a mightyena a wolfish hyena basically and the codependency that pokemon carry also carried over.

I was depended on to be support for our host and to take care of them as a friend and caretaker. We experienced neglect at the time and this was reflected with my identity. I was a creature that was supposed to stay with someone forever basically giving a comfort we were missing to our host so they could continue functioning. I would say my identity changes based on my environment and is sensitive to my environment all the time

depending on what I experience I see myself change and adapt because of how sensitive we are as a system trying to adapt in the world around us. I often think if my identity isn’t shifting a little it might be a sign of trouble and us shutting down being unable to adapt and change.

 When I was 5-6 it changed to its own species a threatening wolf. Which it stayed until a few months ago. My identity as a threatening wolf changed a lot I had spikes then got a sword tail then was able to breathe fire, my size would shift and change, my tail length and ability to move it would change. Teeth, eye color,  would all change depending on my environment. For example when I was deep in abuse with my ex I gained the ability to breathe fire suddenly as a needed adaption to scare them away. My eyes turned red to look scarier. I got bigger. This all happened internally as my ex was able to interact within our system in our inner world. Which is a terrible idea by the way don’t be an idiot like me. Which was why I needed to look scarier as a way of protection

 Lately I have been healing from trauma and now that my ex is gone so is a lot of pressure to defend myself so I turned back into a mightyena which is much more defenseless but much truer to how I see myself in a safe space. Im sure if trauma happened again I would shift back to a threatening wolf as a means for protection.  When it comes to plurality labels I fall under protector and host we are pretty integrated though so we have grown out of most typical labels due to how functional each of us are now.

 This concept of a changing identity is taboo in otherkin communities

              usually we are lead to believe when we were kids we have always been one strict animal for our whole lives and just now learning about it. this animal never changes it is static unchanging and we simply learn about it as we grow up. My experience has been wholly different. My animal and my identity changes based on my environment it can be subtle or drastic. I never evoke or ask for the changes they simply happen and I have to adapt to the new way I see myself. Trying to apply my identity to the common otherkin rhetoric gave me a lot of grief as a teenager

when I was about 13 because I would discover something about myself say breathing fire or growing in size and be ashamed because I knew these changes were not “typical”

as an aside I think this notion that my experience is atypical is also false. I think this is fairly common but a lot of otherkin just handle it in a way that flows with the static concept where we learn we have a new kin type but still also have the old one, we learn something about our kin type that totally shifts it but connect it back to our old kin type, we find new features, personality traits or experiences that now define our kintype that were never there before and newly discovered

               Otherkinity is about self discovery and how it’s essentially chasing a dragon. Literally. We will never fully know our internal identity no matter how closely we look into it. there is so much that we learn and how to weave into our identity otherkintiy is as much of an art as it is a science when it comes to self reflection. It’s just like any other aspect of ourselves we can create labels for our sexuality and they work but they don’t capture 100% of what you experience theyre a short hand for others. I find that otherkinity is this concept on steroids. I find my identity to be a much larger part as it impacts everything including my sexuality it is more prominent for me so trying to put it under labels becomes increasingly difficult.

How are we supposed to create a short hand for who we are? All of those moving pieces inside of us that shape our perspective, experiences, how we interact with people, how we love people, how we go through day to day life, and we are supposed to just say something like “bear therian” what if it changes? What if we have quirks that our outside of this label? When I first joined the otherkin community it was pretty frowned upon to change your identity. You had to be a wolf therian, you had to be a dragonkin. Once you picked a label that was it. your locking into your identity if you didn’t you weren’t taken seriously.

Ableism in the otherkin community

I question as well if this correlation between identity stability and maturity/credibility is ableism. Usually I noticed when I first join the therian and otherkin community there was a push for “not looking crazy” so as to not get bullied further for identities. I’m sure anyone in the LGBT community knows trying to please people making fun of you really doesn’t work. There is a prominent fear of seeming to outsiders as if were roleplaying or kinning for fun which seems to be a whole other topic in and of itself. My personal experience has lead me to the conclusion that these people are going to come at you regardless of how often you shift your identity, how seriously or goofy you take it, how analytical you are with your identity whether you write essays or one sentence it does not change the views of outsiders.

Endels, clinical lycanthropes, and other nonhumans who have mental illness-based identities face a similar ableism. It wasn’t until earlier this year, 2021, when the connection between mental illness and nonhumanity was finally accepted by the greater community. But even still, Endelic communities are more often treated as a novelty; not something to be taken seriously as an identity, just something “interesting.” Mental illness, especially psychotic disorders, aren’t pretty or tame, and the greater nonhuman community appears to subtly enforce this stigma. Werewolves are monsters, and the greater community spares no feelings in reminding us of this, with such unwelcome words my friend babydog’s met as and I paraphrase a quote here from my friend baby dog “you’re welcome here, but you should expect people to uncomfortable about your identity as an endel or question your endelity. I dont personally believe people like you should be part of alterhuman communities.” End quote Many of those who are part of the greater alterhuman community are still concerned about respectability politics, how we appear to outsiders, rather than being concerned about how inner-community members are finding their welcome. Arguments like “But, clinical lycanthropy was previously used as ammunition against all Otherkin! We’re playing into anti-kin’s stereotypes!” isn’t an excuse anymore, because throwing your own community under the bus isn’t acceptable anymore. We want a higher standard in this community than being driven by shame that makes us hide members of our own community. It’s much better to stand with them.

               Lets also take a moment to acknowledge these actions stemmed from an act of seeming more credible and not “crazy”. I’d like to say also that the stereotype of crazy doesn’t exist when we think of crazy we think of someone whose mentally Ill and struggling to function.  In reality these people have an untreated mental illness or going through an episode that’s only one aspect of a person. They do other things with their life including myself. I write poems and go out with friends but if someone only judged me at my worst and lowest I would fit into this “crazy” stereotype. Its not fair for us to judge people based on actions they cant control. Based on trauma or brain chemistry people are more than that I think can agree.

we should be understanding with these people treating them as whole people not just one descriptor. crazy is really just a derogatory name for someone with a mental illness. So to avoid being crazy means to avoid any signs of neurodiversity people view as abnormal. Or signs of nonconformity with nuerotypicals

 -endels still face ableism typically in the form of being treated like a novelty and not really being taken seriously. Endels are still getting called interesting a lot) and it makes them feel like a specimen within their own community. I’m sure those who suffer from mental illness understand how degrading it is to be looked at as some sort of test subject or lab rat. I think as a community we can do better and be more accepting and open to all forms of otherkinity. Shutting down this kinda of language would be great for endel otherkin.

-endels are still having to deal with other community members who use psychotic/delusional/etc as insults or jokey words. These words are derogatory and insulting they shouldn’t be said as insults or jokes there are plenty of other words that could be used and it pushes endels and otherkin with psychotic symptoms away from the larger community. Using this language shows an ignorance to the ableism still alive and active towards endels.

-none of this helps internalized ableism!! All the actions described above only reinforce internalized ablism. This creates a combative and toxic environment for endels and otherkin with psychotic symptoms. It would be in our best interest as a community to help bring down ableism and be more aware of what were saying and to who.

Some things to keep in mind

-treating psychotics like they cant make their own choices is not ok/ thinking for them

-insults and jokes using derogatory language is triggering and alienating

-treating psychotics as lab rats or something to gauk at as “interesting” is demoralizing and takes away someones individual power as a person. Its hard to have an identity and a voice if everyone is busy staring at you like a lab rat.

               What about the internal side of the otherkin community? I found when I was apart of the therian community this was a more prominent problem and still is in some corners I wander into. Otherkinity also holds some ableist views but from what I’ve seen not to the same intensity as therian communities. This I would say is a cultural difference from a new age of therians that took over the internet, p-shifting cults, wolf packs, and some forums for therians were intense I know previously therians and otherkin identities didn’t have to much of a difference besides animalistic tendencies or a way to further define an identity.  Once this shift happened it became more so about earthly creatures or animals based on earth. earth mythics, animals that exist present day and extinct, and plants as well. I’m not an expert of the history of otherkin and therians so I would direct you to house of chimeras and who is page for more information over it gladly. If im wrong please correct me. That’s my understanding. This shift to earthly animals also carried a sentiment or notion of being more “real” than otherkin that I often experienced in the wolf packs and forums. Since they’re identities were based on “real” animals it made them more valid otherkin. An easy question I asked often or others would ask was a simple “why?” and the response I experienced a lot was “so were more credible/ don’t seem crazy” this was 8-9 years ago which was at the time the height of otherkin hate. It came across as a borderline phobia to be seen as an antikin steriotypes which were ableist stereotypes to begin with. some of these communities in reaction created ridged and strict cultures of how to be therian. This would leave an imprint on many people including myself.

               so that was 8-9 years ago why do I bring it up? Because I still see this sentiment present just subtle.

              Some things I feel were carried over is: Overly present and specific about kin types, an obsession with details and intricacies to a degree where its no longer beneficial to learn, embarrassed or shamed for certain kin types, a focal point on kin type tendencies and ignoring or pushing aside human experiences to further pronounce a kin type. A fixation on the past and not taking into account of the present, always centering around the past. I would say these behaviors in the community were influenced from the wolf pack cultural shift.

             These are a remanent set of reactions from a more intense time of grilling, questioning and if validity was questioned your title could be easily taken away in close knit communities. I think the otherkin community still has some skeletons in the closet so to speak of a more intense time that a lot of members endured and witnessed. We passed on this culture, myself included as we grew up cause its how we learned to present our otherkinity. We can unlearn though and I think it’s time to push for more freedom and new ways to take on otherkinity.              a larger problem I see is a fixation with the past which once it gets to a certain point I don’t think can be constructive or healthy. Exploring your past is good, gaining context for your actions and your background is good, but living in the past is not healthy. Reshaping how you live in the present by escaping to the past isn’t really healthy. I find it worrying how common it is for otherkin to not tie their humanity and the present to their identity. It hurts to say, it can be uncomfortable but being human is apart of our experience. Now my therapists always say “never damn a coping skill” if looking to the past and living in the past finds you comfort and it keeps you stable that’s ultimately a good thing your staying stable and keeps you functioning. I urge though for people to start to take the time to explore humanity with our otherkin identities and living more in the present. How your identity effects you right now. How people interact with you and what you can do to tie your otherkinity to the physical world to the present. I think it’s a balancing act ultimately trying to find a sweet spot between the past and the present. Not completely ignoring your past and only staying in the present or only living in the past and neglecting the present. Its not easy and something im actively working on myself.

               I want to highlight the present cultural imprint the wolf pack phase in present day otherkin communties and how new otherkin members seeing and reacting to it. we as older members may not realize how impactful our words are and may not notice us carrying an imprint of the past with us. Here some quotes I picked up. I asked a few friends their experiences who had come as otherkin in the past 6 months. I was also able to get 1 anecdote anon from my tumblr after sending out a request earlier today they are also pretty recent. Here what they had to say. These are all anonymous.

“(tumblr)My experience was pretty good! The community is super open and friendly, or at least the side of it I'm on (idk about the fictionkin side of it which might be more controversial/full of discourse).

It was easy to get into which is good because I was super scared about it 😅” “(friend) the whole community is

scary, for me at least, mostly because some of the older grey muzzles seem really intimidating and cliquey

the discord group im in seems like really cool to me, they are all super nice and helpful but the rest of the community is super scary for me”

 “(friend) [when asked about getting into the community] it's weird to me, it really is.

like

I've spent a good chunk of time just like

wondering what it could possibly mean to be "valid" otherkin

like, who's judgement is that? mine?”

 My Take on otherkinity

               Im telling my story because my mental illness causes me to fall into an undesired or taboo identity categories or stereotypes of otherkin often. I find instability, identities that are less material or easily relatable, signs of mental illness with otherkinity. Are swept under the rug. I’d like to change that and show that instability, less relatable, highly specific or vague identities are just as valid. My experiences can be something of an uncomfortable truth for some that otherkin can be cringy or be easier to target from outsiders. I ask to everyone that has some reservations about accepting more diverse identities to consider how beneficial these new perspectives bring to our community. These identities give a perspective and voice we are missing and is needed. It’s beneficial for our community to be heard fully so we can support and help everyone. Endels may have a perspective other therians/otherkin may not have considered before. the wider range of experiences about our community that we share the better. It gives us the tools to make the community even stronger.

               I would say overall psychological kin are extremely diverse and no experience is going to be the same. Its difficult at best to say anything that all psychological kin experience because the definition is so broad. We all have unique and diverse stories and I’d like to encourage everyone to share them even if they show mental illness. Things like Delusions, trauma responses, trauma sourced, episodes and regression. I would love to see more inclusivity for the messier and less understood part of psychological kin.

               So lets get into some of my specific experiences. my identity is messy at the moment as my brain seems to have an interesting understanding of what a mightyena is. It has 2 images instead of one

These two images are houndoom and mightyena. Both of them I see myself as but are the same entity. My brain cant see the difference between the two as an identity at the moment. So theyre both “mightyena” its quirks like this that I think should be seen as more acceptable in the community because its messy at best. It has made me on several occasions go “that makes 0 sense” but from a trauma stand point it doesn’t surprise me

my brain has trouble picking only one. If my 5 year old or 3 year old brain attached itself to both images and called them the same then well that’s it im both of them at once. Brains don’t tend to work very logically and while it sounds confusing I would say it probably feels similar to having 2 kin types active at once. The two identities don’t blend (ie mightyena wolf hyena doesn’t breathe fire while houndoom does. ) I experience a range of both identities at once. They’re both mightyena it just so happens that image that’s associated with houndoom is present when something happens that only that pokemon could do or associated feelings or states. I would say theyre 2 different kin types except if I say I have a houndoom kin type I don’t think of anything and don’t feel anything. When I say I have a mightyena kin type I have images and feelings from both. They also cant seem to be separated both images and associations need the other. Its interesting. Its very funky. The wonderful world of trauma. Could probably make anew label for that but that’s alright im not one for labels.

               I experience something I call m-shifting which is really animal regression. It’s called m shifting because I was previously in an p-shifting cult where it developed it. it’s uncontrollable but I can start it or trigger it if I want to. When I go into an m-shift I cant understand English, read English, walk on two legs well, speak, or know basic things most people would know. My brain goes into instincts and impulses. I don’t think critically or contemplate much. My thoughts are in images and feelings. Its fun. But its difficult to control, I find it’s a way for me to relieve stress in excess when I cant seem to find a good outlet for it.  this is part of my identity is what makes me relate to the werewolf community so much since its involuntary and frowned upon generally to greater society .(aka internalized ableism) One of my biggest fears is shifting in public or with friends. It’s hard on me for sure.

 Another thing that effects me is coping linking as someone who deals with trauma I have found lately I’m starting to create involuntary coping links. I had a brief coping link as a sled dog its purpose was the personality of a sled dog was something I needed to be at the moment to stay functional and coherent once I learned to do that without my coping link it went away. I notice myself having brief coping links on and off each of them usually teach me something or a skill I couldn’t fully understand yet.

 I experience false memories. My memories change depending on my identity. I don’t force or make them change they simply do.

they hold the same narrative throughout all the changes though. The narrative from what I understand seems to be a re telling of my trauma. My false memories don’t seem to be a major part of my identity and I think I may have them simply because of p-shifting cult trauma and the pressure to have a past life or noemata. I think my false memories are a way to retell my trauma in a form that gives me validation as an animal. I do know seeing myself as human in memories is inherently triggering for me as I cant recognize myself so a set of false memories that lets me see myself in those situations as an animal is comforting and validating. It helps me evaluate my trauma better and understand why I feel the way I do about trauma. A dog that looses its molars would be distraught while a human doesn’t really care if they get wisdom teeth removed. Evaluating trauma through an animalstic lens has helped me immensely.  I’ve noticed the more I evaluate and see my trauma through an animal lens the weaker my false memories become and I think that’s neat.

               My perspective of the world also changes as my identity shifts

I see the world differently as a mightyena than I do as a threatening wolf. Objects, people, environments and habitats have different meanings to me and associations according to shifts and how my identity changes. These associations and meanings are ones that either I had when I was a child, or ones I repressed due to being childish or something I didn’t see as acceptable at the time. So my identity now has a wider range of perspective. My threatening wolf perspective toned down a lot and let the repressed associations and meanings take a more dominant role.

               Another thing that effects my otherkinity is when it comes to species dysphoria I would say it’s a large factor in how I experience otherkinity. I would say my otherkintiy is something very based in the present. I don’t think about my kintypes past, I don’t think about its future or let my mind wander off a lot about whats going on with it. I am usually observing it in the present moment. A big part of that is my species dysphoria which tells me a lot about what I am. I’m trans female to male though that’s debatable as im considering a gender to my kintype. Human gender dysphoria is something that bothers me a decent amount. What has sent me to therapy though is species dysphoria. It is unbearable for me. I have fangs, a tail, a collar, wolfsbane pendant for mythology about werewolves, pointed nails, short hair thicker hair to resemble my kin type. I had to learn how to make animal vocalizations like growling, snarling, whimpering because I felt incredibly stressed being unable to emote properly. I learned to walk on all fours and run as well. I learned to play and move like an animal mostly from m shifting but it helps immensely. Getting on T has helped a lot as I got furrier, deeper voice, thicker hair, generally able to gain muscle better. Overall has helped my species dysphoria. Its something I’ve always had that brings me immense discomfort. I’m planning to make a prosthetic muzzle to wear and possibly some ears.

               This dysphoria is apparent when you see me on the street cause im wearing a collar, tail everything I can’t hide my otherkinity because it triggers my species dysphoria to much to hide it so I just have to roll with it. the census? Its really not that bad being out or showing im otherkin. It’s a good conversation starter and most people are friendly about it here which has been nice. I do get asked if im a furry I usually say yes just cause I don’t feel like explaining otherkinity. If someone asks why I usually just say I see myself as an animal. Responses are mixed but people are polite about it. wearing gear makes me feel much more grounded in where I stand with my identity. I noticed a feel much more confident about myself when I am being myself unabashedly. Who knew. Also planning to get some combat boots and add some spikes to them to imitate claws. Should be fun.

 Heading back to my weird quirks and otherkinity experience Phantom shifts are something I experience all the time 24/7. In part due to p-shifting cult and also a way to manage my species dysphoria. It’s pretty intense for me and its something I find comfort in and encourage. It’s a way for me to find the world more relatable. Often these shifts calm me down and make it easier for me to navigate the world. I would say my phantom shifts only effects parts of my body im aware of not my entire body all the time. Rather whatever body parts im using. It also does its best to not have any “clipping” through objects and my shift may phase out if there may be clipping to a body part im aware of.

               Lastly My gender and sexuality I would say tie to my kintype as well. Im attracted to otherkin moreso than humans. I really like animalistic aspects to people and traits I see in my kintype in other people. I find I get along best with canine kintypes. My gender im realizing is more so tied heavily to my kintype I want to be a male mightyena whatever that entails and it plays closely with my species dysphoria. I find when I relieve my species dysphoria I tend to also relieve a bit of my gender dysphoria to. I say im ftm as a short hand because that’s what my kintypes gender seems to line up with the most. Though I think that will be less and less the case as I start wearing things like a prosthetic muzzle which is pretty animal gender to me.

   Therapy and Otherkinity

               On this topic I would like to talk about how therapy and otherkinity interact cause that’s something central to this panel. For me I always noticed that when I am given analogies in therapy they are always about an inner child, how I was as a human kid, how I am as an adult. These things are good but they lack the context of me as a whole. I am not just a human I am an animal in a human body which changes a lot in how I’ve had to take care of myself and apply advice given to me by professionals. For one I always have to tell professionals im otherkin and what that entails. That it isn’t a hobby or one aspect of me but something that impacts my entire perspective. Methods of self soothing just wont work for me if I don’t change some wording around. There is no inner child for me personally theres a puppy and a puppy seeks out an entirely different sets of behaviors, emotions, and emotes/ way of communication than an inner child would. You would be able to talk to an inner child hug them and act as a type of parent to them. With a puppy I tend to act more as an owner or an animal parent depending on whats needed.as an owner i have to bridge the communication gap with things like chew toys, petting, dark cozy places, brushing or grooming, non verbal communication

             which plays a much larger part in my healing process than what I read or what methods im taught. As an owner to myself I have to learn to take care of my inner puppy the way I needed which can be difficult when no one you know has to follow that method. As an animal parent I also have to act as I am, an animal to my inner puppy that’s what we both understand the common language we speak is non human and is critical to my healing. I find protecting my inner puppy as an animal parent gives me a larger sense of catharsis it feels like something I can finally understand however the methods don’t translate well to the real world. I cant just snarl at people I have to talk to them in a disagreement. I cant go hunting I have to go shopping. Which is why having both an owner and an animal parent.

Both are important because both aspects cant be ignored and need to be used in tandem.

               Healing for me when it comes to trauma involves a lot of balancing between my human life and my animalistic needs which is something I have had to do and explain to therapists the difficulties of doing so. I notice most therapists I have met cant seem to grasp this and see otherkinity as more of a metaphor than an identity. I noticed a lot of my therapists would just change metaphors to talk to me instead of reshaping a technique for healing which has caused a lot of problems. An example I can think off the top of my head is instead of “a family sticks together” may be “a wolf pack sticks together” which is helpful sometimes but if it’s the only change it becomes detrimental to me. Often because while not intentional I think a lot of therapies are human-centric. There is an assumption you are human in order to apply the coping techniques or healing strategies. This lead to me unintentionally repressing a larger chunk of my otherkinity just because I was applying these skills without changing anything. Sometimes present day I still fall into this and notice it triggers my species dysphoria to worsen. It can be difficult to spot for me as well because otherkinity is so uncommon no one else is having the same issue in my real life friend groups. So I assume whatever im doing must be ok cause it seems to work ok for everyone else. Which ends up not being the case.

              A solution I’ve found to help with this is for one explaining as I go with a therapist what is and is not working. I have to be an advocate for myself and teach them as well what I like and what works and what doesn’t. I try my best to let them know when something they do is detrimental. I also try to explain what brings me comfort and what doesn’t. a nice talk isn’t going to help my puppy self but a hug would. Things like that. When it comes to internal imagery some therapists use I know stating to them youd like them to consider your kintype as yourself has helped me by them not seeing me as a fully human being or just my irl body.              overall I hope this talk has helped some people. Given some new perspectives. And I am happy or reiterate some topics I went over. Thanks for coming to my ted talk.  

#long post #it was 11 pages #im so sorry #otherkin #therian #fictionkin #psychologicalkin

[kettlequills]

the burning fire within

Henon's shirt rips while he is cutting wood. He takes it to Tinoryn to be mended.

My entry for TES Fest 21, prompts family and apotheosis. CW: referenced character death, fantastic racism - it’s set in Windhelm, you know the drill. I also wrote this in about an hour at 2am last night so, uh, enjoy. On A03 here.

Henon Virith was angry. Nothing new, that. He hefted the axe over his shoulder and brought it down with a satisfying crack. Two neat halves of firewood fell away to collapse perfectly onto the growing stack either side of the chopping stump. He swung the axe again.      Crack.    Again.      Crack. 

He could do this with his eyes closed. Sometimes he did, imagining sneering Windhelm guards under the axe’s blade. Imagined he’d found the insincere bastard that had come swaggering into the Grey Quarter one day, to inform    Henon his mother had been ‘found dead’.

 “Hunting accident, looks like, no sign of her partner,” the guard had said. Had the temerity to look at Henon softly. Henon remembered the words like they’d been burned into his soul.

 “My-”      Crack.     “-condolences-”      Crack.     “-lad.”      Crack.  

 Three more logs joined their split fellows. He rolled his neck until it cracked and kicked the piles in just the right spot to have them topple down neatly so it looked like he stacked them. Another log went on the stump.

 Henon had anger enough to fuel him for years.

 His next chop was powerful enough that his axe stuck into the chopping stump. Helon grunted. Placing one foot on the stump, he grabbed the axe handle and yanked. The burning muscles in his shoulders bunched under his shirt. He tugged, once, twice, then heaved as hard as he could. With a crunching rip, his shirt tore across the shoulders. The axe came loose.

 Henon bit down on his knuckled fist and the molten fury that ignited the sleeping fire in his body. Deliberately, he lowered the axe onto the stump. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled slowly through his gritted teeth, tried to remember the breathing exercises the Priestess had taught him last winter to control his anger. Henon inhaled, exhaled.

 Once. Twice. Three times.

 In his mind’s eye, he pictured the searing rage inside of himself as a bonfire. It would be wild, messy, sparks ripping off the crackling wood like arrows. Heat would roll from it like a wall, and the flames inside would laugh and leap like crackling tongues.

 “That sounds like a good fire, Henon,”    the priestess’ encouraging voice was gentle in his memory. “It’ll keep lots of people warm. But an unchecked fire will set beds alight at night. How much fire do you think we need right now?” 

 “Not much,” Henon muttered aloud.

 Henon imagined, carefully, lovingly, pressing soft cold soil over the edges of the fire, tightening its circle. He kept going, shovelling handfuls round the edges, shaping the fire he saw until it was bright and strong, but no bigger than a hearth-fire, banked and safe for the night.

 One final time, Henon exhaled, then opened his eyes. Calm settled like a blanket onto his stiff shoulders. Without the punishing ache of the anger he’d used to fuel himself, Henon suddenly became aware of just how sore he was, how sweaty, how his arms trembled with fatigue.

 He glanced at the sky. The sun was halfway down the sky, hovering almost directly over the Palace of Kings. No wonder. He’d been chopping wood for hours.

 Henon cast an eye over the piles of wood. His mind ran quickly over the calculations as he vaulted the ice-slick rail onto the steps of Candlehearth Hall. The sums came easy to him; he didn’t need to look twice.

 No Susanna to watch him today, calling laughingly for him to take off his shirt; he’d have to go in and ask for his earnings directly. A shame. Henon liked Susanna. Liked kissing her even more, when she leant down over the railing rosy-cheeked. She was soft, everywhere soft, like bitter anger had never found her. She made quiet animal noises, warm breathy sighs, when he touched her, her breasts, her hips, between them. It was fun, and casual, and she was always happy to see him.

 It didn’t take Henon long to collect his wages and stack the fruits of his efforts by the fireplace. Even sour old Nils was grudgingly silent at the amount, though the door closed on a snappish comment when he saw the rip in Henon’s shirt baring his shoulders.

 Henon jogged down to the Grey Quarter, letting the surge of annoyance work itself out through the drum of his feet on stone. He’d get his sparking shirt fixed. Nils didn’t need -

 Exhaling raggedly, Henon focused on the hearth fire, the little curl of smoke that would lick out the chimney. By the time he had made it to Avalathil Tailoring, he was clearer-headed.

 The tailor’s was poky and small, and the old sign’s paint was curling. Below it, a brazier sat, thickly fed with coals and fire-runes. Henon paused by the brazier, looking down at the soft red glow of the runes, and felt a little surge of warmth that had nothing to do with the brazier.

 Tinoryn. He always left a little flick, right at the end, like a signature.

 Henon went inside.

 “Welcome to Avalathil - oh, hi, Henon.” Tinoryn was bright and cheerful as ever. He bounced up from his stool behind the counter with a wide, infectious grin. “How are you? I thought you were working today. Did you finish early? I’ve heard the ships are coming in, they might want more help unloading if you want extra work. We’ve had two sailors already come in with mendings, and one of them mentioned getting a whole new outfit commissioned, if you can believe that!

 Apparently they went to Solstheim, you know, that island off the coast, you can see it from the Point when it’s clear out? Anyway, well he liked the look of the clothes they wear, and he wanted something similar that wouldn’t ‘have him freeze to death faster than a skinned horker’.”

 Something in him settled at Tinoryn’s chatter. He was always the same, always happy, always with a story to share. Henon found himself smirking as Tinoryn imitated the sailor’s dour tones.

 “I’d want to see that,” he said.

 Tinoryn’s nose wrinkled. “Eurgh! A skinned horker? That’s gross, Henon. It would be all wet and red in there, like muscles! It would bleed everywhere! Though I suppose they do have to skin them to get the furs off. But definitely not while they’re alive! That would be horrible. We      add    clothes, not take them away here. Speaking of,” Tinoryn’s smile, somehow, became even brighter, until Henon swore he could see each and every one of his teeth, “Can I do anything for you? Ruvene’s not here, so you just have me.”

 “That’s just what I want,” Henon said, and shrugged off his shirt. He had to wrestle with the buttons for a moment, and when he looked up, the highs of Tinoryn’s cheekbones had flooded with pink and his soft lips were parted. He didn’t react when Henon thrust the ripped shirt towards him, his gaze trapped somewhere at Henon’s chest. “Tinoryn?”

 Self-consciously, Henon rubbed at his chest. He couldn’t see anything there, apart from maybe a bit of sweat in his chest hair. Tinoryn was much more fastidious than Henon, but it was just      sweat.    Tinoryn’s attention made him feel odd, prickly-warm, like he wanted to square his shoulders and straighten his back. He’d been shirtless around him plenty before.

 Tinoryn blinked, then his eyes refocused on Henon’s face and he was back to beaming. “Yes! Of course, I’ll take that. Just another fix? Hmm, yes, you’ve torn it, right across the shoulders. Nasty! But it won’t take that long and it’s been dead in here today, all of our orders are all done that I can do without Ruvene’s permission, and you      know    I’ve read everything I brought. I have been so bored I started talking to the mannequin. I’m calling it Dolly. Because it’s a doll? Or a mannequin, I suppose. A doll for clothes. I can do it for you right now! We’ll have to add in a panel here for you if you keep broadening up though.”

 “Not now,” Henon interrupted uneasily, “Just - can you fix it? Like it was?”

 Tinoryn’s eyes softened. “Yes, just like it was. I know how important this is. It suits you, by the way. It’s the last one, isn’t it? From your father, Azura keep him.”

 “Thanks. And yeah.” It sounded a bit strangled, but Henon couldn’t bring himself to care.

 It was stupid, probably, but he trusted Tinoryn not to mess it up. Ruvene would have just added the panel to the back, grumbling at Henon for sentimentality. But of the shirts that Henon had inherited from his father, the others were gone, all torn, ripped, mended to oblivion by Tinoryn, or lost over the years. When he wore it, he thought of their shapes, how they were probably the same in the arm, but that his father’s wrists had maybe been thicker, because it was stretched there. Henon didn’t remember much of his father. Henon had not been that old when he’d been found dead on the docks, sitting on one of the crates he was meant to be unloading, frozen to death with a peaceful smile.

  “Uh, how much?”

 He fumbled awkwardly for his belt pouch, but Tinoryn was already waving him away with a sunny smile.

 “Ruvene’s not here,” he said conspiratorially, “No one will know, let me just fetch my needle and thread. Besides, no need to charge for such a simple fix.” He hopped up and rummaged around under the counter, fishing out a small wooden box with a triumphant, “Ha! There you are. I swear it hides… You know I can teach you to do this, if you want.”

 Slipping a silver thimble onto his thumb, Tinoryn pulled Henon’s sweaty shirt into his lap. He eyed the rip critically, holding the needle between his lips as he threaded it. Henon watched, impressed by his dexterity.

 “I don’t need to know,” said Henon dismissively. “You’ll do it.”

 Tinoryn smiled down at Henon’s shirt. “That’s true.”

 Henon rounded the counter and dragged Ruvene’s unused stool over with a clattering scrape of groaning wood. He slumped onto it and rested his tired arms on the countertop with a groan. Their knees pushed together under the counter for space, Tinoryn’s bony leg warm against his even through layers of clothes.

 “You don’t have to stay, it’ll take me a moment,” Tinoryn added, glancing at him from under his eyelashes as he stitched. They were thick and dark, curly like his hair.

 “I’ll wait,” said Henon. He didn’t have many other shirts, and besides, whenever Tinoryn’s bright eyes strayed to Henon’s bare torso, the tips of his ears flushed cherry-red. It made Henon feel powerful in a way he couldn’t describe, like how he felt when Susanna clung to him brokenly when he touched her. Like Henon was the only ship in a storm he had created.

 “Alright then,” said Tinoryn, and then he quieted, concentrating on his work.

 Henon fiddled with a coin as he waited, a septim from this morning’s earnings. It flew, golden gleaming, around his slate-grey knuckles, spinning over the countertop like he held it on an invisible string. Idly, he played a counting game with himself, one taught over long hours of solitary boredom.      One, two, three    spins to the right,      seven, eight, nine,    to the left, one flick up,      twelve.    Then back around again, adding each number of spins, until he tired of it. Numbers were easy, but soothing, too. They were predictable.

 He was beginning to feel tired, sleepy, even. His fatigue was catching up to him. The pressure of Tinoryn’s leg against his was comfortable, the sound of his breathing familiar. The shop was warm and quiet, a little dusty in places, with thick bolts of fabric hanging down from the walls. The mullioned windows were frosted white, dim shapes passing by and setting distant shadows to chase each other across the rolling hillocks of prepared cloth. Dolly the mannequin waited patiently in one corner, crowned by a glorious confection of gull-feathers and snowberries wrapped in stained jade silk, someone’s earnest attempt, Henon thought, at making spring into a hat.

 Henon flipped the coin into the air and caught it, a shining disc like the sun held between his thumb and forefinger.

 “Wow,” said Tinoryn from beside him. “How did you do that? That’s amazing! You just caught it, so fast!”

 Henon glanced over, and Tinoryn’s expression was unreserved and inquisitive, brilliant with pleasure at the trick. “It’s not hard,” he said, uncertain how to name the feeling that Tinoryn’s eagerness aroused in him. “You just, look, like this,” he demonstrated.

 “Can I try?” Tinoryn asked, eyes round, and Henon handed the coin over.

 Tinoryn made a valiant attempt at throwing the coin, but it hit his hand as it fell, rebounding sharply off his knuckle and disappearing into the darkness below the counter. “Ouch!” exclaimed Tinoryn, “Oh, that is      much    harder than it looks. You made it seem so easy! Do you want me to find your coin - oh-”

 Henon had already slid off the stool into a crouch, scanning the darkness for a glint of gold. He grunted, it was dark, and dusty under the counter, cluttered with boxes and cloth scraps. He spotted one or two needles, but no coin.

 “Here, let me help,” Tinoryn said above him, and Henon looked up at the gentle      snap    of fire crackling into existence.

 What he saw then arrested him completely.

 It was Tinoryn, just Tinoryn, but… Tinoryn was leaning forward on the stool, his boot planted on the floor to stop him from falling. Henon reached to touch his calf, felt the muscles engaged in supporting his weight through his trousers, and had no words for the nameless surge of feeling that pooled in his gut.

 In one hand, Tinoryn held Henon’s shirt, the other, a crackling fire spell, humming with magic and energy. He was smiling, as always, bright and soft, and the flickering firelight shimmered off his dark, curly hair, the hint of wetness on his lip. The ties that held his shirt (soft green, like grass) were loose, leaving space for the shadows of the fire to race over his collarbones, a smooth triangle of soft grey skin of Tinoryn’s skinny chest. Henon felt his mouth flood with saliva, felt the strangest urge to lave his tongue along the arches of Tinoryn’s collarbones, scrape his teeth over the skin until it reddened like the tips of his ears.

 Tinoryn’s eyes had always been bright, ever since they were children. It was one marker of being a strong mage, that slight lambent glow, like the magic couldn’t quite be contained within him. But now, they looked like the heart of a fire, or maybe lava, brilliant, burning, changing everything in its path. Like a beginning, like being reforged anew, into something divine, Henon felt blood rise warm on his cheeks, knew Tinoryn could see how it flushed his chest ruddy. He wanted -

 “I think I see it,” Tinoryn said happily, breaking the spell. “Down there, see, just under that - yes, you’ve got it, there!”

 Henon cleared his throat, feeling bizarrely awkward as he slipped the coin back into his pouch. It was just Tinoryn. He straightened up, stretching his back until his spine popped.

 “Thanks,” he said, “for the light.”

 “Thank you for the practice!” Tinoryn’s face lit up again. “I finished your shirt, by the way! All done, good as new.”

 Henon traced his fingertip over the mend. He could barely see it. Tinoryn had done a great job.

 “Thanks,” he said again, and reached out to clasp the back of Tinoryn’s neck, his thumb pressing into his curls. They were soft. Tinoryn’s neck was warm and solid under his palm. “It looks good,” Henon added, not wanting to be churlish, but as he stared down at Tinoryn he was not quite sure if he could even remember what the shirt looked like.

“Oh,” said Tinoryn, and his hands clenched oddly in his lap like he was holding them down, and his face flamed red. His ears were pricked forward though, clearly pleased. “It’s my - pleasure, Henon, really.”

 “Say,” said Henon, “you want to get out of here? I reckon we could go and nail some helmets with rocks down in the training yard round this sort of time.”

 Clearly tempted, Tinoryn bit his lip. Henon watched his teeth press down on the soft flesh and catch on tiny ragged edges of skin, saw how it made his lips flush pinker, saw the wet dart of his tongue. He tightened his grasp on Tinoryn’s neck, thumb smoothing down his hairline, feeling the tiny feathery hairs there tickle his skin.

 “I can’t,” said Tinoryn, sounding truly disappointed. “I have to watch the shop for Ruvene.”

 “Alright,” shrugged Henon. He grabbed the edge of the counter and heaved himself up to sit on it, grinning at Tinoryn’s delighted surprise. Now he was here, Henon found that he didn’t particularly want to leave. After all, the tiny tailor’s shop did have      something    in it that held his interest. “Guess I’ll teach you that coin trick while we wait.”

 Tinoryn’s radiant smile in answer was more than enough.

#tinoryn othravel #henon virith #skyrim #tesfest21 #inkwrites #tinoryn/henon #dawn #apotheosis #my fic the burning fire within

[goldenraeofsun]

Remember Me, Honeybee

Part I

Two hours into the farmers market, and Dean’s had enough. Even the gorgeous day outside, sunlight streaming down from a cloudless sky, does nothing for him.

Next to him in their produce stall, Sam rearranges their vegetable display with all the intensity of Bobby Fischer facing off against the Soviets. He adjusts an eggplant a few inches to the left, eyes it critically, and moves it back where it was.

Yesterday, Dean got sunburned from too many hours in the sun harvesting. But before he could even think about a shower, a visitor pounded on their door because some neighbor ratted them out to local Fish and Wildlife. So on top of dealing with a peeling forehead and an aching back, Dean had to take care of Ms. Rosen nearly breaking and entering to get at Sam or his watercress - she wasn’t really clear on which was her priority.

Sam, the cowardly sasquatch, bolted the moment her car tires pulled up to their farm.

It took an hour to get Ms. Rosen to leave. First, Dean had to show her Sam’s pet watercress plants at the edge of their property. According to Ms. Rosen, they’re an invasive species, which Sam could’ve mentioned to Dean at some point. Then, Ms. Rosen explained the $150 fine - all the while heavily implying she could dock a few bucks if left alone in a room with Sam.

Dean forked over the money. Sam’s virtue got to live to see another day.

At least Becky gave Dean plenty of blackmail material. If Sam pisses him off one more time, guess who’s getting Sam’s phone number faxed straight to her field office?

Dean was looking forward to sharing the whole story with Cas when they pulled up to the farmer’s market that morning. But his favorite beekeeper, potter, and candlestick maker is notably absent again.

As Hannah steps away from her stall to replenish her display, Dean seizes his chance. “Be right back,” he calls to Sam as he darts out behind their table.

When she catches sight of him, Hannah turns her back to lift a crate of soaps that would’ve left Dean sore for days. Goddamn angel strength.

“I may be a dumb human,” Dean starts, “but even I know that angels don’t get sick.” His voice drips with disdain. “Where’s Cas? The real reason, this time. Not that BS you fed me last week.”

Hannah sighs, her normally refined tawny wings fluttering in barely-concealed agitation. “He’s… indisposed.”

Dean folds his arms over his chest. “Cas has been here, rain or shine, every market for two whole friggin’ years. Is he,” he forces out the words, dread trickling down his spine, “dying or something?”

“No.” Hannah shakes her head. “He’s not mortally ill. He’s just indisposed.”

Dean gawks at her. “What the hell does that mean?”

“You have customers,” Hannah says shortly.

Dean waves off a soccer mom armed with a bushel of kale and a hungry leer. “Sam’s handling the orders.” He points at the line in front of Sam, and the lady walks off in a huff.

“Is that right?” Hannah asks innocently once Dean’s attention darts back to her.

“Cut the crap,” Dean says sharply. “Why hasn’t Cas shown for the past two weeks? The real reason. None of that indisposed bullshit.”

Hannah sighs. “You’re keeping me from my own customers.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “So you’d better talk fast.”

Hannah makes a face like she smelled Sam’s post-Chipotle farts. “Castiel was cursed.”

“What?”

“Keep it down,” Hannah hisses, leaning in. “He - well, it’s a long story. Our cousin, an archangel, cursed him.”

“For fuck’s sake, why?”

Hannah’s lips purse. “Gabriel has been very hard to contact for the details. He apparently thought Castiel was moping too loudly or too frequently. ”

“Moping?” Dean echoes, his brow furrowing. “Cas always seemed fine to me.”

Hannah shrugs. “Ask Gabriel. Now, if you don’t mind,” she lifts her nose into the air, wings straightening, “I have customers.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean retreats to his vegetable stand, his head swimming.

Dean never saw himself as a farmer until his health nut little brother decided to ditch his high-paying (and stressful) lawyer job to play Green Acres, and Dean, naturally, followed since there was no goddamn way Sam knew his way around a tractor. Sam was more likely to mow down his own gigantor foot than move a clod of dirt. Luckily, to Dean, an engine’s an engine.

At the farmers market, Sam’s booth was placed next to Cas’s. On their first day, Cas walked over with a complimentary jar of honey. He was stilted and awkward, sure, but he was also the first one to welcome them into the fold.

Lost in thoughts and worries about Cas, Dean almost gives a customer a twenty dollar bill instead of a one, blanks on when their summer squash will be in season, and accidentally rings up asparagus as broccoli.

“Look,” Sam says after apologizing for Dean’s latest mistake, “why don’t you head back and check on the tomatoes? It’s winding down here.”

Dean dubiously eyes the hubbub of people browsing vegetables.

Sam gives him a light shove towards their truck. “Just go. I know you don’t want to be here, anyway.”

Dean grimaces. “It’s that obvious?”

“To everyone and their grandmother,” Sam says under his breath.

Asparagus Man at the front of the line nods gravely.

“Thanks,” Dean says sourly to both of them.

“Go check on Cas,” Sam says as he gestures for the next customer to step up to the register. “Swing by and pick me up in a few hours.”

* * *

At the foot of the unpaved driveway up to Cas’s house, Dean cuts the engine. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, debating with himself. Cas might not want visitors.

But Dean brought pie.

Homemade, of course. And if it was supposed to celebrate Sam’s birthday tomorrow, what Cas doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Sam likes cake better, anyway, because he’s a freak.

Dean grabs the pie, shoves open the door, and strides up the dirt road to Cas’s house before he can talk himself out of it for good.

This is what you do for sick friends, anyway. Charlie drove all the way up to the city with chicken noodle soup, Settlers of Catan, and prime gossip on Benny’s on-and-off-again thing with Andrea when Dean had the flu a few years ago.

Dean is just being a good friend. It’s not weird.

He knocks on Cas’s cobalt blue door, his heart beating double-time behind his ribs as the seconds wear on with no answer.

Dean dawdles on Cas’s welcome mat. He tries again. Cas’s house isn’t exactly small, with its pottery studio in the basement and wax room in the back. Cas might be in his nest, on the can, or in his garden by the hives. Hell, with this mysterious curse, Cas might not be home at all - but stuck in some angel hospital being poked and prodded by docs. He probably should have squeezed Hannah for more details.

The door opens as Dean contemplates, for the hundredth time, bailing with his tail between his legs.

“Hello?” Cas says, peering curiously at Dean.

“Cas,” Dean says, relieved. From one cursory look, Cas seems normal. His hair’s fucked up, of course. His dark wings are equally unkempt, feathers sticking out every which way. All typical Cas.

Cas blinks. His mouth opens, closes, and opens again. But no sound comes out.

“You’re up,” Dean says stupidly. Of course Cas is up, or he wouldn’t have been able to answer the damn door. Dean shifts his weight to his other foot. “Hannah mentioned you’d, uh, been cursed,” he says awkwardly.

Cas relaxes a fraction. “Ah, yes, I was.”

Dean gives Cas another once-over. “I just found out this morning, so I thought I’d stop by. Bring pie." He holds up the pie as evidence. "See how you are. But you look good.”

Cas squints at him, his head tilting. “Thank you?” he asks like he had a half-dozen responses in his head and chose that one at random.

“No prob.”

Cas’s gaze darts down to the pie in Dean’s hands for the first time. “Would you like to come in?”

Dean grins. “Yeah,” he says, stepping inside. “I’ll take this to the kitchen. I’m starving. Do you wanna eat it now?”

Cas gestures him forward. “This way.”

Dean throws him a funny look but follows him to the kitchen he’s been in about a hundred times before - for Cas’s annual Spring Equinox party, for a handful of dinners with other farmers in the area, for water breaks in between weeding Cas’s bee-friendly garden.

Afternoon sunlight from the beautiful day outside streams through the large windows that overlook the back porch and garden. It illuminates the kitchen table, absolutely covered with what looks like all of Cas’s beekeeping books.

Dean clears enough space for pie and strides over to the drawer for the baking utensils, saying over his shoulder, “I hope you’re hungry.”

When Cas doesn’t answer, Dean hastily turns back around - only to find himself practically nose-to-nose with Cas.

Dean takes an instinctive step backwards, his ass smacking the drawer closed again. “Dude,” he says in a strangled voice. His heart pounds in his chest at the close proximity and intense look in Cas’s eye. “We talked about this. Personal space.”

Cas retreats, his brow furrowing. “My apologies,” he mumbles. “I must have misread the situation.”

“I - yeah - I guess,” Dean stutters as he grabs plates and stacks two forks on top.

Cas falls heavily into a seat at the kitchen table. Silently, he moves enough books around for them to sit and eat.

Dean eyes the haphazard piles as he takes his own seat. “D’you have a problem with one of the hives or something?”

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t think so,” he says, his brow furrowing. “But it’s hard to tell.”

Dean snorts as he cuts them both slices. “I thought you knew everything about bees.”

Cas shoots him a dour look. “I did,” he says pointedly.

“Did?”

Cas fusses with a pamphlet on colony collapse. “I’m trying to catch up, but there is a lot of information to learn.”

Dean frowns. “Catch up to what?”

“To where I was,” Cas says, head tilting.

Dean sets the pie server down to focus on Cas, since he’s not making any goddamn sense. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Cas looks at him like Dean’s the one who lost his mind. “I don’t remember how to take care of them.” After a beat, he clarifies, “The bees. I’ve spent the better part of two weeks relearning how to maintain the hives, harvest honey, check if there is enough honey to harvest...” he drifts off, looking more than a little lost.

Dean blinks. “That’s the curse?” He grimaces as he forks off a generous corner of pie. “Dick move on Gabriel’s part. That’s your goddamn livelihood.”

Cas tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “He didn’t just make me forget the bees.”

Dean chews at Cas thoughtfully. “What else? Please tell me you forgot that time with the goat and a hooker.”

Cas stares at him. “I don’t remember anything.”

Dean’s next bite of pie freezes halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean anything?” he demands.

“I didn’t think it needed explaining,” Cas says waspishly, as all the pieces finally fall into place for Dean. “I thought Hannah told you about it.” His feathers rustle against the back of his chair.

“Hannah only said you were cursed!” Dean flails, “Not that you have goddamned amnesia. Do you know what pie is? Do you know who I am?”

Cas blinks, a little taken aback by Dean’s reaction. “I retain my general knowledge. I know what pie is,” he says. “I don’t remember eating it, but I know it is meat or fruit wrapped in pastry.”

“Oh my god.”

Cas’s gaze falls to the uneaten pie in front of him. “And, no, I don’t know who you are.”

Dean blinks, all the blood draining from his face. He forces out, “You’re serious.”

“I’d hardly joke with a stranger,” Cas says frankly.

Dean lets his fork drop back to the plate with a clatter.

Cas peers at him curiously. “The curse erased all my personal memories, but I was assuming we were friends, is this right? You know your way around my house, and Hannah wouldn’t have divulged my condition to just anyone.”

“Yeah,” Dean says gruffly, “we’re friends. I - my brother and me, we have a stand next to yours at the farmer’s market.”

“Oh,” Cas says. “Work colleagues, then.”

Dean snorts. “A little more than that.”

Cas bites his lip. “But you told me to respect your personal space. If we were -”

“Woah!” Dean cuts in before Memento can come up with any more bright ideas, “We’re close friends, alright?” he says before Cas can get another word out, “But not… like that.”

Dean doesn’t even know if Cas goes for humans. Most angels don’t. Cas never mentioned any romantic partners, and Dean never pressed. Better to keep that box locked up tight. Cas never shied away from giving his opinion to Dean or anyone else. He’s the most blunt, sincere person Dean knows - angel or human.

If he felt anything for Dean - the barest speck of more-than-friendly feelings, he’d have said something.

“Oh,” Cas says, and, behind him, his wings droop the smallest fraction.

Dean scans the table and pushes Cas’s worn copy of The How-To-Do-It Book of Bee-Keeping by Richard Taylor his way. “Test me.”

“What?”

Dean shovels more pie into his mouth. “As’ me anyfin’,” he mumbles.

Bemused, Cas opens the book to a random page. “How do you use a bee escape?” he reads aloud.

“Do you know what they are?” At Cas’s headshake, Dean holds his fingers about three inches apart, “They’re little plastic doodads with little bee-sized holes in the middle. You slide ‘em in the hive right before you’re about to harvest. Once they’re fitted, you smoke out the bees, one comb at a time. Once they’re out of the way, you can scrape off the honey.”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Do you also keep bees?”

Dean can’t help his loud laugh. “God no,” he says as he closes his mouth around another bite of pie. “I’m just a farmer. But I’ve helped you out a few times.”

At least twice a month since Dean moved to this corner of semi-rural America, but who’s counting. Honey is only harvested once a year, but Cas can always use an extra set of hands in his garden. Or around the house. Dean’s worked off more than one argument with Sam by kneading clay in Cas’s pottery studio basement.

“So you know all this from me,” Cas says dubiously.

“Sure do,” Dean says, smacking his lips as he debates another slice of Cas’s get-well-soon pie. “You’re a good teacher, and once you get on a roll about the bees, it’s kinda hard to shut you up.”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” Dean says as he cuts himself another (smallish) slice. “I look hot in a beekeeper suit, anyway.”

Cas frowns, confused. “Do most humans find baggy coveralls and heavy veils sexually appealing?”

Dean snorts. “That was a joke.”

Dean doesn’t mention that he finds the beekeeper getup hot as hell as long as it’s Cas wearing it.

It’s just - Cas doesn’t usually bother with the veil since he likes to have a full range of vision when caring for his bees. Dean once let a whole comb drop on his foot at the sight of Cas bent over, wholly concentrated on the hive, a barely-there smile hidden in the corners of his mouth. His blue eyes were luminous in the bright sunlight, and every few seconds he would lick his lips, probably to wipe away the beads of sweat gathering on his upper lip.

“Oh,” Cas says, a faint blush touching his cheeks. His gaze drops to his plate, and his wings sag behind him.

Dean mentally kicks himself. Cas might still have all a whole encyclopedia shoved in his brain, but jokes will fly right over his head like so many of Cas’s precious bees. Since Dean started hanging around, he had been getting better with the jokes and references, but Total Recall Cas got that goddamn factory reset, so Dean has to cool it for now.

“Forget it,” he tells Cas. “I’m an asshole.”

Cas squints across the table at him. “You are not.”

“Huh?”

Cas carefully spears off a bit of pie. “You came by to check on me, offer me food,” he slips his fork into his mouth, eyes closing as he savors the tart cherries and buttery pastry, “stay and talk.”

“I, mean, yeah,” Dean says, wrongfooted, “we’re friends. ‘S the least I could do.”

Cas has another bite. “This is really good.”

“Thanks,” Dean says before he crams the rest of his slice into his mouth. He studies Cas as they both eat, an uncomfortable foreboding settling deep in his stomach. Now he sees it, how Cas doesn’t look at him with any familiarity. It’s more like, to Cas, Dean is some fucked up jigsaw puzzle slash zoo animal. Eventually, Dean has to ask, “Are you going to get your memories back?”

Cas shakes his head, his expression hardening. “I’m not sure.”

Dean’s mouth falls open. “Are you serious?” He braces both elbows on the table. “But you were cursed - there’s gotta be a way to break it. That’s how curses work, right?”

Cas exhales a slow sigh. “Gabriel did say there was a way to break it.”

“And you haven’t yet?” Dean demands, almost offended on Cas’s - his Cas’s - behalf. “You’re okay forgetting your whole life?”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Are you insane?” he hisses, his feathers puffing up like an angry cat. “Of course I am not ‘okay,’” he says, air quotes and all, which Dean hasn’t seen since he told Cas they were lame. (He felt bad about it for a week afterward and gave Cas a free apology pumpkin. First of the season.)

“I am able to navigate the outside world as well as a human toddler,” Cas continues heatedly. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do for the past two weeks?”

Dean huffs an impatient breath. “What have you tried so far?”

Cas grimaces. “Gabriel said it could be broken like all curses could be broken.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I have no clue,” Cas says frankly. “I spent a week in Heaven’s archives and libraries. The most common way to break curses is by consuming a stone taken from the stomach of a goat -”

Dean makes a gagging noise.

“-or bathing in the blood of a virgin at the new moon.”

“Not any less gross,” Dean says emphatically. “Where the hell are you going to get virgin blood? Are they talking about, like, a whole virgin? Or does born again count?”

Cas shakes his head. “The new moon was four days ago.”

Dean frowns. “Did you have to do the blood thing?”

From the look on Cas’s face, Dean isn’t going to make him watch Carrie anytime soon.

“So I went to more obscure magic,” Cas continues. “I tried bathing in a natural source of water. And then I ran a bath and filled it with salt, since salt repels evil.”

“All I’m hearing is lots of bathing so far.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I lit sage in every room and burned three types of wood. I wore an evil eye bracelet. I sprinkled consecrated water blended with honey over the threshold.”

“No dice?”

Cas throws him a baleful look. “I have ants now.”

Dean snorts. “Well that sucks,” he says, since what else can you say when your best friend swaps all his memories for a Bug's Life?

Cas sighs. “From my notes and research, I can’t leave the hives completely unattended, so I’ve spent the past few days trying to figure out how not to kill them,” he says, gesturing to the rest of the kitchen table. “Once I’ve determined if the bees will survive on their own, I can look back into the curse.”

Dean purses his lips. “Have you prayed to Gabriel? Tried to convince him to take it back?”

“Every day since it happened,” Cas says, his face somber.

“Alright,” Dean says, grabbing Cas’s empty plate, “I can’t help with the curse stuff since I save the teen witch adventures for Sabrina. I can help with the bees, though, if you want.” He gets to his feet and dumps the plates in the sink.

Once his back is turned, he frowns as he thinks his words over. Who knows if this Cas actually wants him around? This Cas doesn’t know him from Adam.

To the dishes Dean says, “The next beekeeper is a few towns over. I could give him a call for you, if you’d rather have him. Cain’s mostly retired, so he’d probably have the time to show you the ropes.”

“Is Cain an angel?”

Dean laughs over the splashing water. “No, he’s a crotchety old bastard who would rather live with bees than people. You get along.” He sets the rinsed plates out to dry and faces Cas. “I’m sure you have his number in your phone too, come to think of it.”

Cas meets Dean’s cautious gaze with his usual soul-searing stare. “I wouldn’t mind if you helped me. Maybe I could call Cain if there are any advanced problems we can’t figure out together.”

Dean smiles. “Sounds like a plan.” He jerks his head towards the backyard. “You wanna get suited up?”

“Now?” Cas asks, alarmed.

“No time like the present,” Dean says as he walks out of the kitchen without waiting for Cas to follow. “Come on, we’re wasting daylight.”

* * *

Cas stares at his beekeeper suit, hanging in its usual place on his screened back porch, next to his gardening gloves.

“You okay?” Dean asks. “You’ve got a spare in your shed, so I’ll grab it on the way.”

Cas picks up the suit like it’s about to bite him.

“’S a good thing I’m here,” Dean says as Cas slowly unzips the front. “It’s always a bitch to get your wings covered.”

Cas’s wings slump. “I have a feeling this is going to be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Hey,” Dean says, taking a step forward, “no, it’s your bees. You love them.”

Cas frowns. “But I don’t remember how.”

Dean grins. “Then you’re a lucky son of a bitch who gets to fall in love with something all over again.” He sighs wistfully. “What I wouldn’t give to erase Star Wars from my brain and watch it again for the first time.”

“What is Star Wars?”

“A trilogy of movies from the 70s and 80s,” Dean says, his smile widening.

Cas nods. “I’ll have to rewatch them, then.”

“Damn right,” Dean says. “I gave you the DVDs for my birthday last year, so they should be around here somewhere.”

“For your birthday?” Cas asks, eyebrows rising. “Isn’t gift-giving normally the other way around?”

Dean shrugs. “But I’d been bugging you to watch ‘em with me for years. Trust me, it was an awesome birthday.”

Cas opens his mouth like he’s not sure where to poke holes in Dean’s story first, so Dean reaches for the wing covers. “I think we should do the hard part first.”

“You’re currently the expert,” Cas says as he sets the suit aside.

Dean frowns as he takes in Cas’s black wings, reflecting muted tones of magenta, purple, cobalt, and green. Normally, Cas rocks the sex wing look - a few feathers askew here and there like someone raked their fingers through them - but now his wings look more like Cas stuck his alulas in an electrical socket.

Without thinking, Dean says, “It’s gonna be hard to get them in the wing covers. They’re a little messed up, dude.” As Cas’s face falls, Dean adds quickly, “Nothing a little grooming can’t fix.”

Cas flushes. “I haven’t been able to reach my whole wingspan on my own. Hannah offered-” he breaks off, his gaze skittering around to settle just over Dean’s left shoulder. “But I don’t know her, not really, so I was uncomfortable accepting.”

Dean takes a step back. “I mean, you don’t need to do it. I’ll have to touch a couple feathers to get these on you, if you’re okay with that.”

Cas swallows. “No, you’re right. My wings are a mess.”

Dean’s fingers practically tingle with the urge to reach out and smooth down the closest feathers, but he shoves his free hand deep into his pocket instead.

“Can you help me?” Cas asks.

Dean quietly dies inside.

Cas’s wings flutter in anticipation, and Dean is so, so weak.

“Yeah,” Dean says gruffly as he drops the wing cover and approaches Cas’s back. “You sure, man? I - I’ve never done this before.”

Cas turns his head. “Never?”

Dean clenches his hands into fists. Don’t touch. Not until he says so. Dean can keep his goddamn hands to himself. Cas deserves that much.

“Do you want me to walk you through it?” Cas asks softly. “I know how, since it’s only personal memories about my life that seem to have been affected.”

“Ah,” Dean hesitates, a hundred and one wing kink porn videos flashing through his head like popup ads. “No,” he coughs, “I know the mechanics.”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”

Dean fidgets in place. “‘S like picking beans, right? Don’t pull on them too hard. They’ll come off if they want to come off. Make sure nothing is sticking out at weird angles.”

Cas makes a face. “Did you just compare my wings to legumes?”

“Maybe?” Dean says defensively. “Look, I know vegetables, and I know what your wings are supposed to look like. What else do you want from me?”

Cas’s mouth opens, but no words come out. With a sigh, he faces forward, presenting his wings for Dean.

Dean inhales a deep breath. Christ, his hands are goddamn shaking. Get a fucking grip, Winchester. He lightly touches the base of Cas’s left wing.

Cas shivers, the feathers rippling.

Dean yanks his hand back.

“Sorry,” Cas says sheepishly. “You took me by surprise. Please continue.”

Gently, Dean grazes the base of the wing again. The feathers rustle like under a moderate breeze, but Cas doesn’t tell him to stop, so Dean keeps going. He feels along the surface of Cas’s wings, most of the feathers slipping, glossy smooth, under his fingertips - until he catches the first snag. Nerves rocketing up to eleven, Dean tugs lightly on the first feather out of place.

Cas sucks in a breath.

It comes loose, and Dean has a fleeting, stupid thought to steal it for himself. But he lets it flutter to the floor.

Dean soldiers on, biting his lip as he tries to keep himself from grabbing handfuls of feathers and burying his face in Cas’s wings. Meticulously, painstakingly, he combs through the mess. As he moves closer to the second joint, Cas’s feathers, which had been subtly shifting the whole time, stiffen.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

Cas nods, stilted. “Please continue,” he says, his voice rough.

Dean frowns. If Cas is uncomfortable and doesn’t want to tell him, Dean’s not going to be the asshole who turns a blind eye to the signs. He withdraws his hands, and Cas’s wings -

They flare out, seeking Dean’s touch.

Without thinking, Dean blurts an astounded, “Dude.”

“Apologies,” Cas says, and, from this angle, Dean has primetime viewing of the back of Cas’ traffic light-red neck. His wings retreat to fold stiff as a board behind Cas’s back.

“Hey, no,” Dean says as he lays a hand along Cas’s wing, petting it gently. “I just wanted to check in with you.” He grins lopsidedly, not that Cas can see him. “Communication is important.”

Cas coughs. “Indeed,” he says, and his voice still sounds off. “Please continue. I,” he breaks off, turning a little in place so Dean can see half of his face, “I was enjoying it.”

“Good,” Dean says with a little too much enthusiasm. “I - uh, me too.”

Cas blinks. “You were?” He frowns. “Grooming is… boring. A chore.”

“Not for humans,” Dean says as he picks up where he left off. “We don’t have big fancy wings to lug around everywhere. They’re-”

“What?” Cas waits, clearly expecting an answer.

Dean sighs. “Cool,” he supplies lamely. “Your wings are cool.”

Dean can’t see Cas’s face with his back turned, but his wings fluff up ever so slightly, so Dean counts it as a win. “I’m glad you think so,” Cas says quietly.

“’Course,” Dean says, easy as pie. He pulls on another feather, and, when it doesn’t come out, tucks it back into its proper place, “I’ve never seen an angel with wings like yours. Malachi’s got dark grey ones, and I thought they were your shade of black, but they’re not. Plus, he’s an asshole.”

Cas chuckles. “I don’t see how him being an asshole has anything to do with his wing color.”

“No, but, if you ever run into him - an angel with dark grey wings - now you know.”

“So you’re only looking out for me.”

“You don’t know this yet,” Dean tells him conspiratorially, “but I’m awesome.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to see that for myself.”

Thank God Cas can’t see Dean’s face. Equally embarrassed and pleased, Dean rambles, “You should also watch out for Metatron - the white-winged dude who runs the thrift shop down the road. He’s been angling to set up shop at the farmers market for fucking ever even though he has a storefront for all his crap. Whoever said white wings meant purity was full of shit because Metatron’s a douche.”

Cas laughs, and Dean nearly slumps over in relief.

He can still make Cas laugh.

“Hannah, she’s okay,” Dean continues as he combs through the rest of Cas’s secondaries and coverts before he gets to the primaries, large and built for flight, and completely within Cas’s reach to groom himself. “But her partner, Duma, hates you for some reason, so I’d steer clear of her.”

Cas’s wings dip a few inches. “It doesn’t sound like I’m on good terms with many angels.”

Dean lightly runs his palm over Cas’s flight feathers - while he’s back here, he might as well. “I guess not,” he admits because Cas is right, “but they’ve all got massive sticks up their asses, so you’re better off.”

“They’re family.”

“They’re dicks,” Dean corrects. “Come on, you’re goddamn cursed with amnesia , and not one is here helping you out? Dick move for dick angels,” he finishes.

“Hannah visited.”

“Like I said, Hannah’s okay,” Dean says as he straightens up.

“At least you’re here,” Cas points out.

“Yeah,” Dean says bitterly as he brushes out bits of fluffy down near the base of Cas other wing, “After two weeks.”

“You said you didn’t know.”

“I should’ve.”

“How?” Cas asks, sounding baffled.

Dean scoffs as he cards his fingers through the shorter feathers near the bone of Cas’s wing, “You didn’t show at the farmers market. You always show.”

“But-”

Dean shakes his head. “I should’ve known something was up.” He yanks a little too hard on a feather, and the brittle shaft breaks between his thumb and pointer finger. Dean lets it fall to the floor in disgust. “But Hannah said you were sick, and I didn’t know if you were the type who wanted company or everyone to stay the hell away. And then I talked to Sammy, and he said angels don’t really get sick like we do.” He exhales a slow breath, consciously holding himself back from tearing any more feathers out. Cas doesn’t deserve that, especially after all the shit he’s dealing with.

“We do get sick,” Cas says, his voice breaking through Dean’s morose reminiscing of the past week, “But never with the type of illnesses that can be treated outside of Heaven.”

“That’s what Sammy told me,” Dean says heavily.

“You were worried?”

Dean pokes him in the muscular part of the wing. “Of course I was worried.”

Cas’s head tilts, but not enough that Dean can make out his expression. “Because we’re friends.”

Dean swallows. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “because we’re friends.” He tugs on a few more feathers, and one comes loose. He holds it between his fingers for a beat, rubbing his thumb along the vane. With a sigh, he moves onto Cas’s other flight feathers. He gives them a few long strokes, unable to help his smile as he feels at the power, the potential, all hidden in Cas’s wings. But, eventually, he has to straighten up.

“All done,” he says with forced cheer as Cas turns around to face him.

Cas blinks a few times like he’s coming out of a trance. “Thank you,” he says gruffly.

He spreads his wings.

Dean’s breath catches in his chest, and his awe must show all over face, judging by Cas’s barely-there smirk. But, dammit, Dean’s going to enjoy the sight. Cas never puts himself on display like this, preferring to play the nerdy beekeeper in a trench coat rather than an almighty Angel of the Lord.

Cas turns his head to inspect Dean’s work. He gives an experimental flap, sweeping all the old feathers littering the floor up into the air. “Thank you, Dean,” he says sincerely. He folds his wings back, and Dean’s heart aches for something he never had in the first place.

“Don’t - don’t mention it,” Dean chokes out.

A fluffy piece of down drifts down to settle on Cas’s nose. He goes cross-eyed to keep it in view.

Dean cracks up. Grinning, he reaches up to brush away the offending bit of down.

Cas catches his arm in an iron grip, his own face oddly intense.

“Cas?”

But before Dean can finish his sentence, Cas pulls him closer and seals their mouths together.

Dean lets out a muffled (completely manly) noise of surprise against Cas’s lips before muscle memory takes over. As Dean kisses back, Cas makes a light soothing rumble in the back of his throat, his touch gentle and warm. Dean’s other hand grasps desperately at Cas’s shirt, anchoring him in place. An electric, bubbly feeling is exploding in his chest, a wild kind of joy Dean normally would tamp down, tell himself, watch out for the other shoe to drop.

Other shoes like Cas’s missing memory.

Dean freezes, and it takes him a long moment to realize Cas isn’t moving either. His grip on Dean’s arm has gone slack. Dean opens his eyes to find Cas’s eyes wide open and glowing with an electric blue light.

Fuck.

Dean’s watched his fair share of angel-on-angel porn and more than his fair share of angel-on-human porn, and kissing’s not supposed to do that.

Dean takes a stumbling step back. “Cas?” he tries.

But Cas doesn’t move. He doesn’t give any sign he heard Dean at all.

Dean falls forward, tripping over his feet. He grips Cas, hard, by the shoulders. With his heart in his throat, he gives Cas a small shake. “Cas?” he tries again, and his voice sounds alien to his own ears, loud and breathy with his panic. He shakes him harder. “Cas!”

Several agonizing seconds pass, and the light slowly dims from behind Cas’s eyes, leaving behind his normal blue.

“Dean?”

Dean’s knees nearly give out with relief. “Hey,” he says weakly, “Nice to have you back, buddy.”

Cas blinks a few times. He swallows, a strange expression coming over his face.

“You okay?” Dean demands. “What the fuck was that?”

Cas stares at him. “That was the curse breaking.”

Read Part II here!

#profoundnet #angel castiel #beekeper castiel #farmer dean #fluff #wing grooming #amnesia #mutual pining #friends to lovers #rae writes fic

[cynettic]

Red String of Fate

A/N - Not really genshin, its more of a quick vent drabble. Angsty and nsfw for triggering topics and gory stuff :’) I felt kinda proud of this one which is why I’m posting it, any constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!!

_-_-_-_-_

I’m a murderer.

Red string idly tied around my pinky, delicately swaying with every whisper from the wind. Caressed and woven into this world by fate. A gentle binding, thread spilling down to my foot and loosely littering the wooden panels of my floor with loops and twirls. Adorning the dust and encasing me whole in its meaning.

Its promise.

I’ve always hated being bound, held and grasped by an irrevocable hold. Ones I’ve put myself in, ones others have clutched me in. 

Pinching the red string that hung around my finger, I tugged at one of the loose ends of the knots. 

Ones that the red string of fate has tied me to. Several, tangling along the jagged ridges of my knuckles and slipping past the gaps between my fingers. A soft velvet against dry skin, the calloused pad of my thumb gentle when nimbly rolling it along the back of my palm. Silken texture brimming in abundance and pulsing in rhythm akin to one of heartbeat. Slow, steady, eternal.

Full of life.

The darkness in the cramped space of the apartment cages me in like an animal, body growing numb and sending a tingling sensation up my spine. Subduing aching muscles into a deep heavy sleep, complexion falling into well needed slumber. Till it was just the consistent thrum of the thread along my hand that held me awake, fate wrapping its hold on me once again.

Snip.

The motion is always slow, prolonged with the weight of the scissors in my hands. A spectator to the red thread as it slowly dissolves into ash, a ticking time bomb to the end of a life. Another. Seeping at their lifeline until the string finally dissolves at their fingertips, draining the last of their existence and sparing mine.

Greedy for comfort, I selfishly choose myself.

I can’t feel my elbows as I lean forward, ice prickling at my toes and cold slivers digging into my fingertips. Hazy, guilt eats me up like the snowstorm that enraptures my body in snow. Freezing me in place and biting at my mind, frosty reach clawing at my sanity.

But its my body thats numb, I wish my head was.

To be pliable with the nothingness that threatens to devour me, stained and greasy hands fervently scratching the fibers of my tunic. Dirty, I was oh so dirty. Contaminated with a bubbling hatred that quelled inside, pounding with deprecating fists that begged to get out. Pleading, because hands and knees dug for an eternity on the ground wouldnt be suffice to the lives I’d taken. But thread against skin arose an anxiety I could not thwart. Until I was no longer sure how long I’d spent sitting on this desk, staring into the pale grey walls of my apartment. Absent. Knives and scissors littering the corners of the wood, small chunks scraped with only the splinters in my nails to blame. Soiled hands incapable of holding life, a desperate cry to the heavens to spare me the responsibility, to let me go.

Because no matter how feather light the thread felt, the weight of a life pulled me under. Down into the depths of anxiety, because no matter how much I choked in the sea, I could not breathe. No matter how much my arms flailed, I could not rise. No matter how much I screamed, I couldn’t be heard. Not by others, not even myself.

String grows laden with water, a weight pulling me down to the bottom where I cannot rise.

I’m sinking.

The strand pulls me into a gentle hold of uncertainty, coaxing me into the decision to choose myself again and again. Until I’m hesitant to determine whether snipping the vibrant red cord is a punishment or a relief. To finally make it to the shore of the beach, form lifeless against grains of sand. Condemned in self pity, looking for the blood on my hands. 

My hands are clean.

I want to cry because they shouldnt be.

An endless cycle when the waves wash over my ragged form, snaking through my legs and under my arms. Sand letting the sea take me. The murky water is salty against my tongue, and I can only feel the dim sensation of something around my finger before I’m once again plummeting down.

But I always come back up.

Unable to rectify my crimes, I keep adding onto the list, nails slowly biting into the wood of my desk as I mark another one. Another death.

Snip.

I’m so cold.

But regret is like a spider, a horrid looking thing that scales up my leg, embedding sharp legs into the icy numbness of my shins. It leaves me petrified, the idea of swatting away leaving me with immense disgust. So does leaving it there. I don’t want to touch it, not when its on my thigh, on my stomach, up my shoulder blades. Not when it slowly makes its way across my arm, flexing its angular legs until it reaches my hand. Spiders terrify, they make people do things they dont mean to do. So does regret, reaching my frostbitten hands and sending a rush of warm blood. It's a spiking pain that hits, biting the soft skin of my palm and leaving ugly red flush in its wake.

Regret was my drive. My push when I decided to sever the digits that let fate take control.

It was easier to grasp the knife on the side when I was running on raw hatred and self loathing. When my hands were throbbing and I could picture the red string that held me captive, feel the thread palpitate against my finger.  Knowing with certainty that someone was on the other end of that string.

Bound to them.

The first few fingers were easy, blade sharp against unnourished and neglected skin. Soft ligaments and weakened bones posed no threat to my determination, body willing to my wishes. One by one, until the hilt was in my mouth and I was shaking my head back and forth with a strength I hadnt had for days. Wooden splinters buried themselves in the cracks of my teeth, gagging when the tail of the handle caught on the inside of my cheek and dug further into my mouth. I didnt stop, not until I was cutting the wood of the desk.

Until all ties to this wretched fate were cleaved.

 Hands all but circular blobs of discolouration, blue and purple tinting the tips of bumpy flesh and splintered bones. Blood coated pads that soaked into the rotten planks of wood, spilling over the desk and onto the floor. 

Finally. Finally my hands were stained in blood.

Not nearly as much as their ought, but it served its reminder perfectly. A pang of relief slipping through my body just like the crimson liquid that oozed down to the floor. Matting the hollow lines between floor panels with trickles of blood and soaking into my socks.

I was free.

Eyes fluttering closed, the sharp icy pain was gone, shock taking over my body and leaving me motionless. Solace was an odd little thing, consolation after actions of regret. But it was warm, and I could dimly register the ease that spread through my body like a drug. Bitter tasting but leaving me weightless, mind overdosing on the dopamine that pumped through my veins. Vasoconstriction quickening my pulse and leaving me breathless in the best way.

I was free.

Delusional satisfaction left my head buzzing and I didnt know if I was smiling or my face seemed to rise. Eyes rolling to the back of my head before returning to my sockets, head tilting forwards and nearly touching the puddle of blood on the desk. But I was happy, I was free.

Until I wasnt.

Till a bright red string settled once again, blurred vision transfixed on the way it slackened right above my collarbone, below my chin. 

Around my neck.

It was soft, warm as I struggled to realize it was someone elses heartbeat pressing against my jugular. Throbbing at an inconsistent pace and sending my thoughts into a whirlwind of activity. Till all I could think about was taking the scissors in my hand, grip firm and unrelenting to the viscous game destiny played.

Snip.

The realization came too late, palm on the base of the tool when it occurred to me I couldnt grab it. Simply watch as blood slipped through the gaps where my fingers shouldve been, pain seizing my wrist and presenting itself to me for the first time. It was electric, jolts of torment taking me by surprise and leaving me stunned. Shocked, but not enough to tip me off my high. Wretched grin widening across my face when I stared down at the red string, parched lips letting out a measly croak as I spoke. “You outplayed me.” Because at that moment it all felt strangely hilarious, pain building up in the nonexistent slim skin of my fingers. It was as if I could still feel them, and a feverish laugh spilled from the bosom of my throat as I sagged, shoulders shaking. 

The realization was bittersweet and brief before I leaned my forehead on the puddle of blood, baring with the pain of my actions. The consequences to my regrets. 

I cannot escape fate.

#angst #writing #what even is this #reader #cynsbadbadnsfw #;-; #this kinda makes me sad #and really empty

[darkdevasofdestruction]

When You Save Them

Risotto Nero

“STOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!” you cried out desperately as you stood above Risotto’s fatally wounded form, just as 4 people arrived at the scene. “Y/N...Run away...” he coughed some blood on the ground, trying - and failing - to get up. “Don’t move, Risotto! You’re only going to injure yourself more. Let me handle this, the way it should have been done from the very beginning!” you growled in anger and pent-up frustration. “I’ve...Never heard you scream before. Y/N, this is Buccellati’s gang, the one we’ve been fighting.” Riz explained, which only made you grit your teeth. “You’ve been fighting for nothing! Buccellati, you were sent to bring Trish back to the Boss...So why are you here, running away? That only means you’ve betrayed the Boss for some reason! And if you’ve betrayed the Boss, it means we’re on the same side! The enemy of my enemy is my friend, isn’t that the saying?” you asked, trying to find a way to negotiate. “We’ve been trying to take over the Mafia.” the blond boy spoke up. “Saving Trish was our way of trying to find out and dethrone the Boss.” he explained simply. “La Squadra Esecuzioni was trying to steal Trish away to find out the Boss’ identity. You both have been killing each other while trying to achieve the same goal. Don’t you get it?! You could’ve worked together! Have a temporary truce, at least! This could’ve all been avoided if only we communicated in some way! The Boss manipulated the both of us to kill each other so he’d get rid of anyone who’d try to find out who he is!” you tried to reason, feeling tears fall down your cheeks. “How could you benefit us, then? The only one still standing in La Squadra is you, Risotto. The Capo.” Buccellati asked in a firm tone. “Capo? Capo over what?! Over ashes?! We were La Squadra! We were a family! And now they’re all gone! Because of that fucking monster! Risotto can’t be Capo anymore because he has nobody to lead!” you stomped the ground in anger. “But, Buccellati, if you promise to let us run away from this place, I can help you find out who the Boss is! Instead of making that guy down there try to see how the boss looked so many years ago...Get him here and make him find out what happened in Risotto’s fight, since he almost killed the Boss!” you cried out as a group of multiple gasps was heard. “You...Fought the Boss...?” the shorter one stared in shock. “Bring Abbacchio here.” Buccellati told the guy with the hat, and he did as ordered. “I was hiding behind those rocks so he wouldn’t see me, but I saw all the fight going on. That guy had pink hair, just like Trish. And he has trying to hide a photograph desperately. His Stand is very dangerous...I can’t tell what it is though...” you got into detail, telling them everything you found out, as Abbacchio used his Stand to discover the person who attacked Riz, only for him to speak. “It’s as if he could predict some of my moves. I don’t know what it was, but be cautious when fighting him, you won’t get him so easily.” Riz finally explained what happened, getting in a sitting position. “I can’t fight anymore and I’d only get in your way if I were to come help you out, but if I could, I would. The Boss took my whole Squadra away from me, and I will never forgive him for that. However, I’m going to keep on living, at least for Y/N’s sake, and by the time I get home, I hope I’ll hear of Buccellati’s gang’s victory.” he closed his eyes solemnly for a while, before pushing himself to stand up. “Very well. We thank you for your cooperation and we are thankful that you willingly stepped on your pride to give us information, so you could protect your lover. Down the road, there was a car. You can take it to go away, to safety.” Buccellati gave you his blessing to get the hell away from there.

You helped Risotto stand up and you both rushed down the road as fast as you could, and put him in the passenger’s seat, and standing there, looking at him, you could feel a few tears prickling at your eyes, seeing him in such a pitiful state.

“Don’t...Ever, in your life, do that again.” you muttered, biting your lip. “I’m sorry, Y/N. We’re in the Mafia, and I, of all people, was the Capo of La Squadra Esecuzioni. I should have been the first to easily accept death...But seeing you here today...I just can’t accept not seeing you again. I can’t accept you shedding tears over someone like me. You’re my angel, and even though I don’t deserve to have an angel’s love, I will be selfish and live.” Risotto’s low voice echoed, as he reached out his hand to touch your cheek and wipe away the stray tears streaming your skin. “Don’t ever say that again, please, and don’t even think about leaving me alone.” you whispered, planting a soft kiss on his lips, afraid that he’ll break. “Now, let’s go home and get you fixed up. I’ve done enough worrying for one day. Let others deal with this problem...For now, I’m not letting you out of my sight ever again.” you chuckled weakly, before getting in the driver’s seat and drove home.

---

Caesar Zeppeli

As soon as Caesar got pissed off at Joseph for insulting his family, he ran away to defeat Wham, which got both the boy and Lisa Lisa worried and went looking for him. You, however, got worried for him and decided to run off after him almost as soon as you saw him closing the gate, and fearing about his feelings getting hurt and potentially getting in trouble, you traced his steps in the snow, getting in front of a ruined building that looked like an abandoned cathedral.

You were reluctant to get inside, afraid of potentially getting killed, but all your worries went down the drain once you heard groans of pain and agony from inside, and now a much bigger dread came over you.

As soon as you burst inside the place, and you saw Caesar on his knees, bloody and bruised from top to bottom. Seeing your lover in such a pitiful state only made you go insane with rage, so much that you leaped over, punching the enemy with the most powerful Hamon you could manage, making him fly through the wall behind him, giving you enough time to get Caesar and take him out of there, thankfully meeting Lisa Lisa and Joseph just outside the place.

“Y/N! What happened?!” Joseph yelled, getting over to you, helping you carry a barely conscious Caesar. “It’s one of those Pillar Men, he’s inside. I managed to get him away from us so I could rescue Caesar, but I’m not sure how long it will keep him there.”  you explained, biting your lip in worry. “Can you get him home by yourself? I and Joseph will deal with the enemy, so don’t worry about us or getting tailed by the enemy.” Lisa Lisa put her hand on your shoulder as a way to calm you down. “Yeah, I can manage on my own, but please, both of you, be very careful there. If that guy alone could get Caesar in this state...Who knows what more could happen.” you sighed, giving them a pleading look to be careful. “We’ll take care of those bastards, Y/N. Now go take care of Caesarino here, we’ll be juuuuust fine!” Joseph gave us a wink and you started dragging the blond boy back to the house, where you got him in bed and tended to his wounds carefully.

It took a few hours for him to properly regain his conscience, and the first thing he saw as he woke up was the beautiful shade of your eyes.

“Y/N...? What happened?” his voice was rather weak, but he managed to get in a sitting position by himself. “Well...Joseph and Lisa Lisa are fighting Wham, I believe. I got you out of there before things would get worse...Damn it, Caesar, you really worried me. Going off on your own like that...And seeing you almost dead...You’re really gonna give me nightmares.” you sighed, your gaze shifting away. “I...I acted pretty rash, didn’t I? I was stupid, I know...That stupid Joseph pissed me off, I was feeling pressured and...I guess it was too much for me. I messed up.” he nodded, taking your hand in his, kissing every knuckle. “Thank you for saving me, amore mio...And I’m sorry for worrying you so much. I’m sorry for making you go through all the trouble of saving me.” he signaled for you to get closer to him. “I’m not mad at you, darling. I’m just happy that I got there in time to save you. Nothing else matters, right? You’re alive, you’re in no critical condition and JoJo and Lisa Lisa are going to defeat that jerk.” you sighed in relief, as he put you into his chest, kissing the top of your head. “I promise I won’t be a stubborn jerk and I won’t worry you again. I promise you, mi tesoro, that as soon as this whole mess with the Pillar Men is over, I will marry you and I will take you to see the world and I will make you the happiest person in the world.” he kissed your lips, gently caressing your face and gazing into your eyes with so much love. “I would love that. I really would.” you smiled tenderly at him, sharing yet another passionate kiss, enjoying the peace and quiet of the room.

--- Abbacchio Leone

You were on the beach, waiting between the space where Abbacchio was using Moody Blues to find out the Boss’ identity, while the others were up the cliff, checking out what Narancia’s Aerosmith found and attacked on its radar.

You kept looking around with your Stand, trying to make sure nobody will attack, when you notice a bunch of kids playing around with their ball, until it got stuck in a high place and couldn’t get it.

You watched your grumpy boyfriend go over and help them out, despite how annoyed he was, but it didn’t matter, he looked adorable, towering over a bunch of giggly kids.

That is...Until you blinked and a hole suddenly appear in his torso, which made you cry out his name, rushing to his side, catching him just as he was about to fall and helping him down on the stone that was surrounded by beautiful white flowers, as pure as his soul.

Thanking everything in your life that your Stand was capable of healing, you started your work on the man that lay helplessly in your arms, as you heard frantic footsteps coming your way.

On further inspection, you realised it was the gang, so you relaxed a bit, focusing on saving him.

“Leone, baby, my dearest, my darling, please, I beg of you, don’t close your eyes. I’m here now. Please, sweetling, stay with me.” you felt tears of desperation and anguish rapidly streaming down your face as you kept using your Stand to heal your beloved, while he kept looking at you with a tired expression. “I’m...Sorry.” he groaned in pain, not only from the grave injury, but from the painful healing method too. “Y/N! Y/N, please, please don’t let Abbacchio die! You can’t let him die!” Narancia cried, shaking you whilst he was hugging you. “Narancia, stop bothering them while they’re healing Abbacchio. They need to concentrate. Come on, let’s go away and give them some space.” Bruno pried away the kid from your side, letting you alone with your paramour. “Did you find out who did it...?” he managed to croak out, making you shake your head. “No...Not yet, amore, but we will, I promise. We will get revenge for what he did to you, I vow you that. But for now, please, don’t force yourself to talk or anything...You’re already in so much pain...I-I can’t bear seeing you like this.” you spoke out through your tears, which made him let out an exhausted chuckle. “Almost dying makes me want to tell you so many things...So many that I’ve been afraid to say, that I’ve been to afraid to even feel...” he spoke, realising that he regained some of his strength. “You can tell me anything you want as soon as we get home, mi tesoro. We WILL get home, I promise you that. You will be be okay in no time.” you move the hair from his face, looking at him tenderly. “We gotta help Buccellati...” he closed his eyes for a few seconds, before opening them again. “We can deal with that later. You already did your job and we’re so very close to finding the Boss. You managed to show the gang how the Boss looks...I’m sure they can deal with the rest by themselves. I’m sure Buccellati will understand the situation...Please, Abba, I really don’t want to see you in this state ever again. You have no idea what I’m feeling seeing you this way.” you frown, holding him close to your chest, stroking his hair. “I can’t imagine what would a peaceful life be like, but as long as I have you by my side, I won’t care about anything else in the world.” he sighed, almost content. “After we defeat the Boss, everything will be okay. You know that Buccellati will make the Mafia a better and more moral place, just as it should be. And nobody’s gonna bother us again. We can spend all day making fun of Narancia...And Giorno...And at night we can look at the stars, at the beach, with out feet in the water and drink wine and...And we will be happy.” you kissed his temple gently, making him lean in your touch. “Hah...Yeah...I wanna see that little blond brat drink my piss again.” he chuckled weakly, taking my hand in his. “Oh, come on, you’re incredible.” you chuckled at how petty your boyfriend was. “Nah, darling, I’m just a good for nothing, average guy. You’re the incredible one here.” he retorted, feeling strong enough to steal a kiss.

----

Kishibe Rohan

You cursed yourself when you found out from Koichi, who used Echoes to find out Rohan’s location, that the man was being attacked by Kira’s Sheer Heart Attack and had no way of using Heaven’s door to protect himself, so you started running in that direction, leaving the silver haired boy greatly behind, only to see your green haired boyfriend trying his best to escape from the bomb.

You and Koichi encountered it before, when you were searching together with Jotaro, so you got the gist of how to avert its attention to you, so it will leave him alone.

Since your body was already heated up from the running, the stupid little bomb started following you, instead of focusing on Rohan.

The problem is...That you didn’t really have a proper plan, other than making sure Rohan’s okay, so now your were stuck running through the darker alleys of the city, hoping not to run into any innocent citizen and get collateral damage.

Last time, Koichi used his Act 3 Echoes to stop the bomb...But that was it, it was merely stopped, not defeated. Now, you wonder...Okuyasu’s Stand COULD make it go into some weird, different dimension, right? So all you gotta do is get him around!

“Y/N, you idiot, what the hell were you thinking?!” Rohan’s pissed off voice echoed through the place as he ran to me. “Rescuing you, of course!" you chuckled, grabbing his hand and running to Koichi. “Oh, really? Rescuing me? How, getting yourself killed?!” he sneered in annoyance. “Didn’t get enough time to think of a plan, but I’ve got something! Koichi, use Echoes on the bomb! There’s a payphone, so we’ll call Okuyasu to get here and make this thing disappear with his Stand.” you quickly explained the plan, making the silver haired boy gasp in realisation. “You’re right, that could work! Echoes, Act 3! Freeze attack!” he says, making the bomb sink into the pavement, as you quickly ran to the payphone and thankfully managed to get a hold of Okuyasu, getting him to run to your location pretty fast.

The whole ordeal was solved pretty fast, but you were still left with a bitter taste since nobody had any idea where Kira was, how he managed to find Rohan alone and attack him...And there were still so many more questions left unanswered.

“You absolute chaotic mess! You complete dumbass! What the hell was in your head, even?! NOTHING! That’s what it was! Nothing, with a capital N!” Rohan sighed in aggravation as soon as the 2 of you were left alone. “Sorry for panicking and wanting to make sure you were okay?” you replied, unsure of what to say. “That’s not the issue! You could have died, going all Leeroy Jenkins like that! What would I have done if you died for me? Huh? Tell me!” he seemed to tremble with all sorts of emotions. “Rohan...Look, babe, I’m sorry for worrying you, but what would I have done if you were to die and I did nothing?” you asked, crossing your arms with a pout. “Okay, okay...I’m calm now. I’m calm. Good. So, let’s make this clear. We’re not heroes, so let’s not act like heroes. Now, let’s go home. My manga isn’t gonna get drawn itself, is it?” he blushed slightly, grabbing your hand and dragging you back home. “Oh, really? You have inspiration?” you grinned at him, trying to keep walking at his face. “Well, of course I have! I bet everyone will love to see the protagonist get saved from death by his reckless lover by going on a suicide-mission. I’m really curious to hear what everyone’s opinion on the lover is, since honestly, I feel like killing you myself, then bringing you back to life to kiss you until you can’t breath.” he stopped suddenly, turning to look at you with an unreadable expression. “Can we skip the killing part to get to the kissing? I’d like that very much.” you grinned, holding his other hand too. “Fine, have it your way, then.” he smirked, before cupping your face and kissing you passionately, not caring if there were any passer-bys around.

#jojo x reader #jojo imagine #jojo #jjba x reader #jjba imagine #jjba #jjbava #Vento Aureo #JoJo's Bizarre Adventure #jojo's bizarre adventure x reader #jojo's bizarre adventure imagine #jojo's bizarre adventure battle tendency #jojo's bizarre adventure diamond is unbreakable #Caesar Zeppeli #caesar zeppeli x reader #caesar zeppeli imagine #kishibe rohan #kishibe rohan x reader #kishibe rohan imagine #risotto nero imagine #risotto nero x reader #Risotto Nero #leone abbacchio #abbacchio #abbacchio x reader #abbacchio imagine #lisa lisa #Joseph Joestar #koichi hirose #okuyasu nijimura

[yzafre]

when you find me free-falling (out of the sky) Ch 1

AO3

Sora is born into a world where your heart has wings.

This does not make things better.

The children of Destiny Island dreamed of the day they’d find their Flight and take to the sky, as all children do.  Mostly, however, they were content to leave those thoughts as dreams of the future.  In the meantime, they had sand and sun and sea, and that was enough.

Sora especially, knowing his Flight would consist of Riku and Kairi when he’s grown, was content to spend his time on other pursuits.  He leaned into mock fights and races and sandcastle building competitions.

He couldn’t beat out Riku in a fight, where the older boy’s strength and skill were only augmented by his ghost-wing’s ability to shield him.  All the other kids despaired over their planned critical blow being turned aside by a shower of blue sparks, and Sora commiserated right along with them.

In a race Kairi reigned supreme, her quick feet and air-boosting ghost-wings leaving the crowd behind in a shimmer of pink.

Sora’s own yellow ghosts helped him a bit.  The brief moments he could pull them out gave him better stability and balance and recovery from falls than either of his friends, but it was never quite enough to bring him to the top.

He was content to let them lead as the winners of fights and races; he’d take his title as king of naps instead.

That’s how it starts.

  Sora dreamed of stained-glass light in an endless void.  A voice calls for him ceaselessly and shadows gain form, clawing at him with hungry eyes.  There was a weight in his heart and a pressure at his back, and a sense of dread lingering over everything. A last monster grew, stretching from his own shadow, larger and larger, until –

He woke with a jolt to Kairi’s laughter.

That’s how it begins.

  After a long day of collecting supplies and sparring with the other kids, the three of them rested together against a twisted palm tree as they watched the sunset.  Sora listened to Kairi’s teasing giggles and Riku’s passionate questions as they all mused on what they’d find once they get on the raft and set sail.

Riku’d been really focused on that, lately, the idea of leaving the islands.  He’d always been interested in setting off, in finding “real adventures”, as he called them.  Sora was excited too, of course.  He wanted to see new worlds, new sights, meet new people. Riku’s all-consuming focus on leaving was different, though, and its presence drifted behind him in everything he did.

It reminded Sora a bit of when he had too much energy and couldn’t sit still, only with Riku all that energy was trapped behind his eyes where he couldn’t get it out, no matter how much they ran and jumped and swung their swords around.

Sora thought it would be fun to see new places, to go on a big adventure, but Riku had a whole other level of determination.  He and Kairi couldn’t just let Riku go alone, though, and in the end they could always come back home, just like Auntie Emi.

  The next day, Sora found Riku sitting thoughtfully back in the cove.

“We still need a name for the raft,” Riku muttered, “What about… the Highwind?”

“I think Excalibur would be better,” Sora replied.

“How bout-“

“-the usual?”

Kairi came to supervise their little wager, and the two started moving to the starting line of the race.

“Alright, if I win, I’m captain,” Sora said, “and if you win –“

“I get to bring the paopu fruit to Kairi.”

“What?” Sora spluttered and came to a stop, a flush rising on his face.

“The winner gets to be the first to share a paopu with Kairi.”

The paopu fruit – a legend of their small island, a tale that said sharing one with someone would tie you together forever.  Sora couldn’t help but glance over at Kairi, who was waiting for them to finish whispering and start the race.

“Fine,” he muttered, ignoring Riku’s smirk as his cheeks got even warmer.

They approached Kairi, who cocked her head with an exasperated huff, “Are you two finally ready, then?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” Riku said.

“Okay, on my count – go!”

The two of them took off immediately, shoving for space on the narrow bridge.  Sora just managed to get ahead of Riku, but on his next step the board beneath him fell through with a startling crack.

Riku’s laugh echoed above him as he pulled himself back to his feet, spitting up sand, and scrambled to try and catch up.

Despite his best efforts, though, he never quite managed to make up the difference on that lead.  Riku, of course, rubbed it in by sauntering casually through the last stretch, smirking over his shoulder as Sora pushed to try and eke out a win.

  After Sora finished nursing the wound of his loss, he went to find Kairi for the next step on their sailing plans.  She handed over the list of items, and he made quick work on collecting most of the food.

Apparently Riku required mushrooms for the last of their supplies – ew – so he headed to the secret cave.  The cool, damp air was a nice change from the outside heat.

The walls were covered with drawings, the work spanning back years.   The three of them had carved into the soft rock over and over, filling every last inch with pictures and plans.

Sora found himself drawn to an old sketch, one of his and Kairi’s faces turned towards each other.  These two sketches were put up years and years ago, the very first time he brought Kairi there.

  During those first few weeks when Kairi moved in, when she was still distant and hazy and quiet, there came a day when she seemed… off.  Riku had just beaten all the other kids in a fight, and now the four were squabbling in the sand.  Kairi stood off to the side of it all.  As he watched, she drew more and more into herself, hands clutching at her elbows and shoulders turning in.

A glance confirmed that the others would be busy for a while, so Sora slipped over to Kairi’s side.

“Hey,” he whispered, “come with me, I want to show you something.”

Kairi blinked at him, long and slow, but she unraveled her arms and Sora took that as agreement.  Grabbing her hand, he led her away from the shore with a mischievous smile growing on his face.

He brought her up to a corner of cliff walls and brushed away a covering of vines, “In here.”

The two made their way through the hole and down the hall to the open cavern at the end.  At the time the drawing collection was only just beginning, a few scattered sketches here and there.  He brought her over to the wall and picked up a sharp stone from the floor.

“Here,” he said, “like this.”

Sora kneeled down and began scratching at the wall.  After a moment, he heard the rustle of cloth and saw Kairi crouch down beside him.  He peeked at her from the corners of his eyes and shot her a bright smile. She blinked back for a moment, before turning her eyes to his drawing.

Humming to himself, he kept chipping at the wall, even as matching scraping started up next to him.  When he finally finished, he leaned back and turned to see what Kairi had made.

He couldn’t help the gasp that escaped him – her drawing was amazing, with nice smooth lines and filled in hair.  Kairi froze, glancing over at him.  It’s only when Sora’s smile turned into a wide grin that she relaxed.

Her tense expression melted into a small but glowing smile.  Sora’s breath caught in his throat as an answering warmth bloomed in his chest.  In that moment he knew there was more hiding behind Kairi’s hesitance, and he couldn’t wait to see it.

Riku could say whatever he wanted, but Sora knows: he chose Kairi first.

  Now Sora returned to these old drawings, running his fingers over his messy lines and Kairi’s neat ones.  On a whim he sat down, adding to the image – a hand held up between them, offering Kairi a paopu fruit.

Riku was his oldest friend, and he couldn’t imagine his future without him, but he’d always had an all-consuming energy to him that Sora couldn’t quite comprehend, and lately it had become something sharp and almost cutting.  Kairi, on the other hand, had always been warm and bright, and Sora was captivated.

He turned from the wall and did a double take when he spotted the figure in the corner.  It loomed, a tatty brown cloak draped over a tall figure, with deep black wings draping behind.  Beside them stood the strange door – one without any kind of handle – that had long confused Sora and Riku.  The exchange that followed was strange, nonsensical, and brief.

When Sora stepped back into the sunlight, blinking against the sparkle of light across the ocean, the memory of that conversation faded like a dream.  For better or worse, it would be forgotten.

  Sora returned to Kairi with his haul.  Dropping them into the sack at her feet, he found himself distracted by the bundle of materials in her hand.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a charm - to help us find each other if we ever get separated,” Kairi held up the half-formed star, letting it dangle from the cord, “After all, the three of us will always be together.”

Sora grinned back up at her, fireworks bursting in his chest the way they always did when their future as a Flight was brought up.

The two of them moved to the edge of the nearby pier, sitting side by side as the sun slowly dipped towards the horizon.  Kairi finished the charm and set it aside.  Together, they watched as the sea was stained in warm hues of pink and red and orange.

It was Kairi that broke the silence.

“You know, Riku has changed.”

“What do you mean?” Sora asked, even as his mind shied away from the question.

Kairi hemmed and hawed for a moment, before turning and leaning into him with burning eyes, “Sora, let’s take the raft and go, just the two of us!”

“Huh?”

“Just kidding!”

Kairi pulled way, leaning back on her hands with a strange smile on her face.

For a moment Sora’s stomach churned, a chasm opening inside, but –

He turned his face to the sea and sky, and let the fading light wash it away.

  Next >

#kh #kingdom hearts #sora #riku #kairi #fanfiction #wingfic #wrap your wings AU #Yza writes a thing

[astxlphe-fics]

let me live (let me die)

The end of the fight with the Chevalier, and the start of something between Astolfo and Noé.

Chapter 5/?

< Chapter 4 || Chapter 6 >

Content warning : character death (OC), violence, mentioned character death, implied medical abuse (? Doctor Moreau is talked about)

Noé wants to ask Astolfo many questions, specifically regarding Antonio. Something is bothering him, but it’ll have to wait.

Right now, their focus is the Chevalier Ténèbre.

He still can barely believe that anyone would, on their own will, murder someone’s whole family. There has to be an explanation, a truth neither of them is aware of.

They let him come to them, and the Chevalier has no trouble finding them.

From his perch on the roof, Noé glances down at Astolfo, hiding against the wall at the street corner, a flash grenade held tight in his hands. He is utterly still, for now.

“This is getting rather tedious, though not entirely unexpected,” the Chevalier says. “The Granatums have always been a plague upon vampire kind.”

The glow of his eyes is bright enough that Noé can see it. The shadows move around him, muting his footsteps. It seems to lose some of its density when hit by the moonlight, though not entirely.

So, their suspicions are correct.

Astolfo rips the pin off the grenade, arming it, and lets it drop in the street, where it rolls down the pavement. At this time of the night, when people have either gone home or run away from the fight already, the sound it makes is too loud.

The Chevalier’s head snaps towards it and recognizes it with ease. He takes a few steps back, trying to protect his eyes, but it blows before he has the time.

Noé covers his face, closing his eyes as the bright flash of light explodes through the streets. It feels like it burns through his eyelids still, making him a feel somewhat dizzy, though not as much as if he took the full brunt of it.

The Chevalier isn't so lucky.

He screams, the light snaps his control over the formula, destroys the shadows around him, and Noé winces in sympathy. Having been subjected to an earlier version of the Aegis grenade, he knows it isn’t a particularly good feeling.

Not to mention, any chasseur out and about will be attracting to the flash like moths to a streetlight.

Astolfo darts out of his hiding place, quick enough to come close to the Chevalier while he’s still distracted. Meanwhile, Noé shakes his head to get rid of the lingering nausea, waiting for it to fade before joining the fight.

It looks like Astolfo doesn’t truly need him, though he won’t bet his life on that. He is fast on his feet, striking quick and getting out of range even quicker. Without the distance advantage a spear usually gives him, he has to force himself into his enemy’s space, push him to act before he can think.

Astolfo always was a smart fighter, though Noé supposes he has to be when.

Finally, his vision clears, and reinforces his body before he lets himself fall from the rooftop. His knee collides with of one of his shoulders, sending him tripping forward.

“You’ve brought a friend,” he hisses. “Afraid of facing me on your own?”

The shadows still have trouble reforming around him. The Chevalier’s hands shake as he tries to get them back under his control, and they shift and bubble while Astolfo dashes again. The Chevalier manages to avoids him, but barely, staggering,

Still, Astolfo staggers as well and seems to have forgotten all about Noé’s presence as he turns on his heels and runs straight into him. Noé’s balance wavers, and he grabs onto Astolfo to avoids the both of them stumbling over each other. “Be care—“

But Astolfo shoves his hand off. “Out of my way,” he snarls, pushing him away, “I’ll gut him—”

Noé shoves him out of the way as the Chevalier, having found his lost balance, comes at them. “Be careful!” he calls out again.

“Let—”

Noé’s hands grabs on the Chevalier’s wrist. “A vampire?” the Chevalier says, “no, worse, an Archiviste , helping a Granatum, of all people? Well, I thought I had seen everything.”

“Did you—” The Chevalier tries to rip his wrist out of his grip, but Noé is barely shaken by the struggle, his prosthetic arm holding on tight. “Did you kill his family?”

All Noé needs is a word — a single word that would suggest this man did not do it on his own volition, that something else is at play. Then maybe— then maybe—

Instead, the Chevalier laughs . “And we did our kind a favor ,” he answers, lips curling into a smile. “They deserved it after the what they did —”

And Noé shoves his knee into the vampire guts before he twists his arm until its bends. Then, he kicks his legs, throwing him down on the ground.

The shadows, back in his control, writhe and wrap around his ankles. Noé tries to move to pin him down but they trip him and he almost falls.

Running past him again, Astolfo drops on the Chevalier’s stomach, forcing him to stay down, raises his blade and plunges it deep in his chest.

The vampire howls and trashes, almost throwing Astolfo off but the younger man holds on and, with all the strength his human body can muster, stabs him again — and again and again and again and again , until he stops trashing and the shadows at Noé’s feet fade.

Still, Noé doesn’t move, staring wide eyed as Astolfo doesn’t stop. Blood sprays his face, seeps between the cobblestone squares of the street and his face twists with rage.

“Astolfo,” he calls gently as he pulls on the young man shoulder. “We need to go.” He can hear footsteps coming their way — the chasseurs. If they’re caught here, they’ll be in trouble. But Astolfo doesn’t react, dagger dragging out of the Chevalier’s body with a squelching, wet sound that sends a shiver down Noé spine. “Astolfo, he’s dead!”

He pulls harder at Astolfo’s shoulder, dragging him back on his feet, and the younger man stops. He jerks himself out of Noé’s grip, his blood-streaked face relaxing as he wipes it with his sleeve.

“He is.” His tone flat, he stares, unblinking.

Noé’s eyes linger on the very bloody, very dead vampire on the ground, nausea coming back full force.

Maybe following Astolfo around isn’t Noé’s brightest idea. He isn’t quite sure how many brutal murders he can handle, and as he sends Astolfo a sidelong glance he can’t help but focus on the splatters of blood on his clothes and in his hair.

Astolfo looks back at him, eyes dark — darker than every time the younger man has snapped at him in the past few days, darker than when he’d exploded in anger. But he hides his trembling hands in his wide sleeves and his lips quiver and his shoulders shake as if he’s about to retch so Noé asks:

“Are you okay?”

It takes almost a full minute for Astolfo to answer:

“He killed my mom.” Very audibly, Astolfo gulps and takes in a deep breath. “That night someone — someone was holding me down and I watched him murder my mother. She was— she was screaming and begging and he—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Noé has a pretty solid guess.

She was screaming and begging and Jean Ténèbre laughed.

Then, swiftly, Astolfo kneels back down. He shoves his fingers into the vampire’s mouth as his body starts turning into dust, ripping one of his fangs out with ease. “Let’s go back,” he says when he stands back up, slipping the tooth in his pocket. “I need to clean up.”

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

With a sigh, Astolfo allows Noé in his hotel room.

Back inside, with the lights on, he looks even worse — dirty and bloody, eyes tired. He drops his dagger in the sink and shrugs of his coat, while Noé sets his own, along with his hat, on the back of the chair.

Soon enough, Astolfo disappears into the bathroom, leaving Noé alone with his thoughts.

In all their years fighting alongside Vanitas, he never killed anyone. He always knew he was capable of it, and made sure it didn’t happen, even by accident. He never settled for Vanitas’ justifications of “it’s too late”, always believing in an alternative. But those vampires were cursed, they did not control themselves. It had not been their fault.

The Chevalier Ténèbre is not one of those vampires and, thinking back on the smug grin stretched on his face, on Astolfo’s exhaustion and despair — to the point of asking someone he dislikes for help — he can’t bring himself to feel sorry for the man they left dead out in the night.

Someone knocks on the door before Astolfo gets out of the shower, and Murr hisses in warning. Still, Noé stands and opens, finding himself face to face with the old chasseur he’d barely the time to great earlier that day.

He’s wearing his uniform, a sword very much apparent at his hip, and doesn’t look pleased at all.

Noé’s heart speeds up, and t. What is he doing here? How did he find them? Is he here for Astolfo? He glances back at the bathroom door. The water is still running, and with all the blood and grime, it’s unlikely Astolfo will have finished cleaning up soon.

In the end, a form of anger or annoyance prevails at the memory of his exchange with Astolfo, how he talked and looked down on him.

“Good evening,” Noé still greets politely, wondering if he should be ready for a fight. The formula around him crackles and shifts slightly, unnoticed by the human, and strengths builds up in his limbs.

“It’s very much not a good evening.” One of his hand rests on the handle of his sword. “I’m here to see the boy.”

“He’s not here?” Noé lies, terribly so.

Antonio pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you tell me he’s dead I will chop your head off, vampire.”

“He’s not!!” Noé immediately affirms, shaking his head quickly for emphasis. “He’s unavailable, but alive and mostly unarmed!” Antonio doesn’t seem to be looking for a fight, but he still doesn’t let go of the formula. “And my name is Noé.”

So many people showed up before him seemingly peacefully and the night still ended with beating the shit out of each other.

Antonio looks him up and down critically from behind his glasses. He notes Noé’s guarded stance, the metallic glint of his wrist peaking between his glove and his sleeve, Murr’s raised hackles, the weapon in the sink. “So, you are the one who killed Jean Ténèbre.”

“Uh? No, I —” he hesitates — would it make a difference? The accords between humans and vampires are still recent, less than a year old, and some terms are still being discussed by the Senate, so he isn’t quite sure yet what would happen to Astolfo if they realize he’s the one who killed the Chevalier Ténèbre.

He could claim it was in defense of his life, which would be close enough to the truth and difficult to prove wrong.

Turns out he doesn’t have to think about it for a long time.

“What are you doing here?”

Noé didn’t even notice Astolfo coming out of the bathroom. He looks fresher already, wearing clean clothes and his wet hair a mess, though his eyes are red and somewhat puffy.

He scowls as he sees Antonio, narrowing his eyes as if to hide that he’d been crying. “What,” he repeats, “are you doing here?”

“Someone,” Antonio answers just as coldly, glaring at Noé, “killed a vampire we were planning on arresting and handing over to Altus Italy, like the new accords stipulate .”

“I’m the one who killed him.” His scowl deepens. “It appears that I didn’t need your assistance in finding him,” Astolfo goes on, chin tilted up. “He came to me on his own, and attacked me. I merely defended myself.”

“You stabbed him seven times in the chest in self-defense.”

“Exactly.”

He stares at Antonio, challenge in his eyes, daring the man to refute him. But his hands, closed into fists, shake slightly and tension settles in his jaw, so Noé steps up, moving closer to Astolfo.

“Unless you have something else to tell us,” he says, “I think you should leave.”

Antonio stays quiet for a short moment, before he sighs. "First of all, I wanted to apologise for some of the things I said to you yesterday. It was—" he pauses, looking for the right word. "Unecessarily harsh." Astolfo doesn't comment on that, simply crossing his arms, face blank. "And I promised you a talk. About Moreau.”

Blood pounds in Noé’s ears at the familiar name, and he pulls on Astolfo’s forearm, dragging him closer. He clearly remembers the man, the experiments, the way he referred to people as numbers, what he did to Vanitas and Mikhail.

Was Astolfo another one of his test subjects?

“What about Moreau?”

“I thought— he was interested in your marks —”

“So you thought it was an excellent idea to send me over to him so he could study them up close.”

“Do you really believe I wouldn’t have chosen another solution if there had been? You are my best friend’s son ."

Astolfo somehow met the doctor, Astolfo somehow got into grabbing distance of the doctor, and it was this man’s doing.

“No one in the world knew better how vampires worked, how marks worked. He said —” The man falters, and for a moment Noé can see his walls fall apart, see the anger and the guilt. “He promised he would find a way to erase them—”

“And you believed him?” He crosses his arms, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.

“No one had any reason to suspect him at the time — and he was the only option that didn’t involve making my twelve years old godchild a soldier.”

That...makes sense, actually. At least, to Noé it does, but he’s not the wronged party here and it’s not his place to say so. Astolfo hisses under his breath and takes a step forwards, seemingly ready to go for the man’s throat. Noé’s hold on his forearm tightens, so he settles for glaring at the man, not trying to fight Noé’s grip.

“I think you should leave,” he says again, though not as friendly. He bares his teeth, and Murr snarls.

Antonio glances between the three of them and shakes his head, resigned. “You should leave the country as well. I’ll do my best to come up with a slightly more believable story. Be grateful, there won't always be someone to cover for you.”

“We will manage.”

He doesn’t slam the door behind him but might as well have. The silence following his departure feels loud, and Noé doesn’t dare ask Astolfo about anything.

Astolfo suddenly relaxes, his shoulders sagging, and as he drops down on the bed Noé lets go of his arm. He stares up at Noé, wide eyed, shaken. “I didn’t want you to hear this.”

“Is it something you talked about earlier?”

The younger man nods. “I didn’t want you to—”

“I know, and I didn’t want to be here when you two aired your dirty laundry and yet here we are.” He sighs. “I thought you were going to attack him.”

Astolfo’s nose wrinkles as he grimaces. “I suppose I must thank you,” he mutters, and falls silent again. “For your assistance against the Chevalier and for holding me back.”

"You're welcome." Noé sits down on the desk chair, still facing him, and he lets out a small, closed eyed laugh. Astolfo narrows his eyes at him.

“What is it now?”

“You said we too .”

“Excuse me?”

“You said we would manage,” Noé says again, and grins. “As in you and I .”

“I—” he stops himself and sighs. “I guess I did say it.”

“I’m glad.” He is , truly, because it means that Astolfo has accepted his help, that he’s willing to let Noé work with him for the time being. “We should rest, then decide what to do next.”

#vnc #vanitas no carte #astolfoé #astonoé #noe archiviste #astolfo granatum #writing #story: let me live (let me die)

[diyunho]

The Joker x Reader - “ Nobody” Part 1

After not feeling well for months, The Joker finally found out why: the life threatening condition is so serious there’s only a 50/50 chance of survival.  Dealing with a brain tumor is not going to be easy, that’s why The King of Gotham asked his half-brother Arthur to help Y/N while he’ll undergo treatment.

The Joker yawns, repositioning his head in your lap.

“You want a small pillow?” you pause the movie you’re both watching and he refuses.

“No,” J stretches on the couch. “These are soft enough,” he pokes your thighs and you squirm, ticklish to his touch.

Suddenly, the cell phone chimes and J reaches his hand to grab it from the table.

“Arthur is here,” he announces. “He wasn’t in a hurry, hm?” The Joker mumbles while getting up.

You decline to comment and do the same because you can hear the elevator going up to the Penthouse. You could say the anticipation is making you a little bit nervous: you’ve been with J for about 10 months but you’ve never met Arthur. Probably it’s safe to assume they are not very close yet soon after finding out about the illness, The Joker contacted his sibling to let him know and sure enough he agreed to come over and help.

Although Mr. Fleck is three  hours late, it doesn’t mean he is trying to back out on his promise.

The elevator opens and Arthur emerges dressed in one of his red suits, anxiously passing his fingers through his curls. J wants to criticize and his brother is in no mood for a lecture:

“Before you lash out, I was delayed by an unexpected issue!” he keeps talking and walking in your direction. “My apologies.”

“What issue?” J growls and Arthur extends the palm of his hand, firmly shaking yours, definitely not waiting for an introduction: “Hello there,” he smiles. “I’m the older, smarter, funnier and more charming version; you must be the better half.”

“Riiiiiight…” The Joker rolls his eyes, annoyed.

“Y/N,” you smirk at the man’s remark and he lets go of your hand, explaining his delayed arrival:

“Don’t get worked up, kid. One of my projects required immediate attention and I had to sort it out.”

You expect The Joker to protest the nickname but he doesn’t mention anything: Arthur always called him that since they were teenagers and your boyfriend is used to it. Doesn’t bother him at all.

“Do you want a drink? Are you hungry?” you offer and he nods a no.

“I’m good; thanks,” he takes a sit on the nearest armchair and the couple reprises their position on the sofa.

A few moments of silence before Arthur decides to talk about the reason why he’s at the Penthouse.

“Sooo… What did the doctors find out? How bad is it?” he inquires and you unconsciously cling to J’s arm, not willing to hear about it again.

“The brain tumor is too big, I can’t have surgery yet. I already started with lower doses of medication 20 days ago, I have to gradually build up to the higher doses so my body can handle it. Soon I’ll have chemo every 3 weeks, then every 2 we…”

A low chuckle and Arthur covers his mouth in horror.

“Sorry…” he has a chance to whisper before bursting out laughing.

“Here we go…” The Joker crosses his legs, patiently waiting for his brother to finish his outburst. The King of Gotham may not be an accommodating individual, but his sibling’s condition is something he has always tolerated without any problem.

“I’m very…” Arthur tries to speak but the strenuous sounds he makes at the end of each cackle prove how much he’s struggling to control his inappropriate amusement. “…s-sorry,” he continues to snicker while digging in his pocket for a small piece of laminated paper. He finds the item and hands it over to you; you curiously inspect the writing: it basically explains his neurological disorder in a few words.

“It’s fine, J told me,” you return the information to its owner.

“I can’t believe you still have that,” The Clown Prince of Crime huffs as Arthur is slowly regaining his composure.

“I’m very sorry,” he emphasizes his regrettable outpour. “You were saying?”

J deeply inhales and reprises the briefing:

“I’ll have to do chemo every 3 weeks, then every 14 days until the tumor shrinks enough to be operable. I guess I have a 50/50 chance of surviving the whole thing, that’s why I asked for your cooperation in helping Y/N oversee my affairs. I will get worse before I might get better, thus here we are.”

Arthur pulls tissues out of the box next to him and gives them to the devastated Y/N: The Joker didn’t notice you are quietly sobbing by his side.

“Please stop crying,” he kisses your temple, avoiding your emotions like he regularly does. The best option is to divert the gathering towards another topic. “We got ready one of the bedrooms upstairs for you; I hope that’s up to your standards.”

“My standards are normal,” the truth is blurred out. “You’re the fancy one, kid. That’s why you’re The Joker and I’m Joker; I don’t need any glorification. Plus, I didn’t oppose when you picked this half of town and left me the other.”

“You’re an idiot!” the green haired man stands up from his spot, wanting nothing more than to retreat to the master bedroom after an exhausting day.

“Runs in the family,” Arthur nonchalantly hints and you snort, blowing your nose in a tissue.

“Keep your mouth shut!” J advices and you have no clue he’s referring to more than just the constant bickering going on between them. “I’m calling it quits, are you coming?”

“I’ll have a smoke on the terrace first, “Arthur searches for his pack of cigarettes and you believe this is the perfect chance to chat with him:

“I’ll stay with our guest, alright?”

“Suit yourselves,” The Joker grumbles and you follow his brother outside on the huge patio.

“I forgot how nice this is from the 30th floor,” Arthur stirs the conversation while lighting up a cigarette.

“Yes, it’s a lovely view,” you wipe your tears and he resentfully mutters:

“I fucking hate this town…”

You sigh, not wishing to interrupt in case he has more to add and the plain inquiry catches you off guard.

“How are you holding up?”

The question resonates in the awkward stillness and Y/N elects to bring him up to date.

“I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances. He’s not doing well…” you sniffle and Arthur pays attention to your confession. “The medications may be in low amount, but they are strong; they make him very confused at times, plus the side effects of the tumor… he forgets things, he has no idea where he is or… or… who I am. The doctors advised that when it happens we have to go with the flow and not push for him to recall details. His brain is under a lot of pressure and this is only the beginning.”

Arthur blows smoke up in the air, displeased with the news about his younger sibling.

“Shit, that’s rough…”

That’s surely the understatement of the year for the heartbroken Y/N.

“When he doesn’t recognize me, I tell him I’m nobody, just a person taking care of the place and he doesn’t even know the difference. I suggest you avoid any type of confrontation while he’s like that; please generalize everything you articulate and don’t complicate the situation.”

“Of course… Yeah, yeah, of course,” he is fast to agree with your guidance.

“Thank you,” you sincerely show your gratitude because you appreciate his presence. “I think I’ll join him upstairs; tonight he’s beginning higher dosage on his pills and he might have a reaction.”

“I’ll stay and finish my cigarette,” Arthur scratches the scar above his lip. “Which bedroom is mine?”

“Fourth one on the left.”

“Perfect, I’ll find it,” he waves as you return inside, eager to check up on The Clown Prince of Crime.

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

“What the … t-the hell?” The Joker stutters, groggy from the strong medications swallowed a few hours ago.

You barely distinguish his wobbly silhouette standing by the bed.

“What’s wrong?” you turn on the lamp on the nightstand, instantly aware of his wet boxers.

“I d-didn’t make it to… to the bathroom,” J seems out of it, yet at least he realizes that much.

“Oh, it’s totally fine,” you maintain your cool and jump off the sheets, rushing to help him. “The doctors warned accidents could happen since the drugs are making you dizzy and super drowsy. Let’s step in the bathtub, shall we?”

You take his hand and lead a compliant boyfriend to the master bathroom; sometimes it’s easy to deal with him in this state, sometimes it’s not.

Luckily tonight he’s obedient.

You turn on the water and he tightly holds his boxers while you attempt to yank them off him.

“Who…who are you?” The Joker sulks, unhappy with your movement.

“I’m nobody,” you reply and manage not to cry at his disorientation. “I’m here to help you, ok?” you calmly try to reason with his baffled mind.

“I… I… I don’t want you to see me naked,” he complains and Y/N has an easy solution for the apparent controversy.

“I’ll close my eyes, deal?”

You do as vowed and J lets you undress him, finally ending up in the bathtub for a quick, relaxing soak.

“You want bubbles?” you glance at him once the body is submerged under the warm water.

“No…” he yawns and you fold a towel, placing it under his head in case he’ll pass out.

“Where… where am I?...”

A faint knock at the door and Arthur talks in a low tone:

“Everything good?”

“Yes, we’re fine,” he distinguishes your reply; he just returned from the underground garage with his suitcase and discerned the commotion: made him wonder if his assistance was necessary.

“Who was that?” The Joker enjoys being pampered by the stranger he doesn’t recognize for the moment; apparently forgot about shyness also because he has no objection to the sponge bath now.

“The maintenance guy,” you lie without blinking while pouring more shampoo over J’s toxic green locks.

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

10 am

Arthur joined you and The Joker in the kitchen less than 5 minutes ago; he positioned himself against the counter, this way he has a broad perspective of the whole space. He sips on the fresh coffee, observing the scene unfolding at the table:

J is reading a magazine and you feed him breakfast, caressing his hair every few seconds. You didn’t mention anything about last night; he woke up feeling a bit better and it’s safe not to agitate him with useless facts.

“Are you hungry?” you address Arthur and he lifts his shoulders up, undecided.

“Maybe… I’ll munch on something shortly.”

“Hurry up before it gets cold,” you encourage him and The Joker is already as crabby as he can be.

“Stop bugging him! If he wants to eat, he’ll eat!”

“I’m not bugging him,” you defend your action, upset at J’s feisty attitude.

“She’s not bugging me,” Arthur tucks a rebel curl behind his ear, disapproving of his brother’s assumption.

“I’m not,” you sweetly smile and The Joker slaps your fingers away from his hair.

The cheerfulness dies on your face and you get up, kicking the chair in the process.

“I’ll bring your morning meds,” you enunciate and leave the kitchen in a hurry.

“Goddamn irritating,” J hisses at your behavior and Arthur can’t zip it.

“Are you stupid?” he sucks on his cheeks and that definitely gets your boyfriend’s attention.

��What did you say?!”

“I’ve been here for minutes and she didn’t take a single bite out of anything, too preoccupied with making sure you eat. Do you even notice how she looks at you?” he raises his voice. “So I’m asking you again: are you stupid?”

“Excuse me?!” J abandons his seat and the threatening demeanor queues Arthur about the imminent scuffle, not that he’s willing to avoid it.

“I wasn’t clear enough?” the latest provokes his sibling. “ARE. YOU. STUUUUPID?” he repeats, cracking his neck with anticipation.

You are coming downstairs with the meds and the ruckus happening in the kitchen makes you speed up.

You are certainly not disappointed at the show: J and Arthur are wrestling on the floor, relentlessly hitting one another.

“Stop it!!” you shout and your plea is ignored. “Stop it!” you insist when you detect Arthur’s bloody nose and J’s busted lip. “Are you deaf?! Stop it!!”

This is the last drop: after another shitty night and the stuff you endured recently, you are completely lacking any kind of patience for anybody’s nonsense.

You toss the vial with The Joker’s tablets on the counter, snatch the ice bucket from the freezer and fill it out with water. The ice cubes float in the clear liquid: the 8 gallons metal container is pretty large since it’s used for J’s grape juice cans.

You thud on the marble floor and dump the freezing concoction on top of the two heated fighters, the sudden shock from the unexpected impact being enough to halt the brawl.

“Ugg!!” J rolls on his back while Arthur crawls by the stove. “What are you doing, Y/N?!” he yells and you storm out, firmly squeezing the ice bucket to your chest without realizing.

The loud bang of a shut door bears witness of your justified rage concerning the altercation; how can you not get mad at such crap?!

Arthur seeks for his beloved cigarettes in the interior of his orange vest, triumphantly lightening one after failing the first trials.

“I like her,” he puffs the fumes out, leaning towards his brother because J is gesturing for the bud.

The Joker takes a deep drag, admitting for once:

“Me too.”

“I thought you quit,” Arthur points out.

“I did,” his brother answers, glaring at the ceiling. “Clean up this mess!” he orders and continues to smoke.

“Nope, we should let fate determine,” the older sibling suggests and J falls into the little trap.

“Rock, paper, scissors?”

“Ready?” Arthur smirks and counts. “1…2…3!”

“… … … Dammit!” The King of Gotham cusses.

“Have fun, kid!” the winner plucks the cig away from J. “Gimme, these are bad for your health!”

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

“Are you in here?” The Joker sneaks in his office and watches you patrol around the desk, still vigorously attached to the infamous ice bucket.

The lack of reply makes him approach the distressed woman; you avoid gazing his way at all costs.

“I need my pitcher,” he sniffles and Y/N disregards his sentence. “You’re aware I like to use grape juice on ice for those bitter capsules. There’s no bucket and no ice in the freezer so… what am I supposed to do? Skip my morning remedy?”

A hint of lowered resistance and he’s taking advantage of it.

“My lip hurts,” he rubs the swollen, red spot. “I need ice for this too.”

You place your precious bucket on top of some folders, cautiously examining the superficial cut.

“Stitches won’t be necessary,” the obvious result updates a pouting J.

“Are you sure?” he plays dumb and wraps his arms around your waist. “Take a closer look, I can’t afford to walk around with chipped dignity.”

You peck the unharmed corner of his mouth, mad you’re giving into such cheap amendments.

“I’m positive…”

The Joker grins and kisses you, entirely convinced it wasn’t hard to get under your skin.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” he rests his forehead on yours and Y/N is speechless at the question. “This is the tumor talking, obviously,” J fixes the tiny mistake when he sees your reaction.

“Obviously…” you whisper, sadly reckoning he purposely avoids any type of sensitive debate about your future together.

The Joker though is carefully listening to Arthur mumbling on the hallway, suspicious at the meaning.

“Is he eavesdropping?!” you focus on the faint words also and it clicks for J.

“Cut it out!!!” he screams while Mister Fleck is not phased, joyfully concluding the ceremony the couple didn’t agree to.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you Nobody and Joker!”

“What was that?!” you crinkle your nose, puzzled.

“He has a minister license and never used it; he tried to hitch me with my ex too,” J clarifies his brother’s odd conduct.

“You may now kiss the bride!” Arthur shouts and The Joker had enough:

“Shut the fuck up!!!”

“What am I supposed to do with my license then?!” the wavy hair pops in the door frame.

“I don’t care!” J snarls, fed up with his sibling’s persistence. “Go pester someone else!” the door is slammed in Arthur’s face; fortunately the 42 years old is not the type of man to be easily offended.

He adjusts the pieces of tissue sticking out of his bloody nose, proudly holding the minister accreditation at eye level.

“I got myself a sister-in-law,” Arthur chuckles at his achievement, impatiently searching for a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of his red jacket.

 Also read: MASTERLIST

You can also follow me on Ao3 and Wattpad under the same blog name: DiYunho. 

#the joker x reader #the joker fanfiction #the joker imagine #the joker arthur fleck #the joker jared leto #the joker joaquin pheonix #the joker #joker fanfiction #joker arthur fleck #the joker suicide squad #joker suicide squad #mister j #Mistah J #arthur fleck x reader #dc #dcu

[ask-de-writer]

PARADOX PLANET (1 part) The arrival of men on the World of Sea

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to the World of Sea

GONE TO SEA

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

Excerpt from a novel of Sea presently in progress

2579 words

copyright 2020

writing begun 2005

All rights reserved.  This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions.  

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

1. Paradox Planet

This was going to be difficult, thought Captain Alain. In the wardroom of his ship, the ESA 14, he faced Mr. Torres, the leader of the colonial expedition. Mr. Torres was not a happy man.

“This is an outrage!” he said ferociously. “I can read clocks and calendars as well as any! We were to be awakened from Crossover Sleep on arrival at the system. It has been over a year, local time, since you got here.” He paused to breathe heavily, angrily and went on, “Now, only I have been awakened! What are you up to?”

Captain Alain Looked over at the gray painted metal bulkhead relieved only by pictures mounted to the wall. The duty crews painted them as a hobby to fill the long empty years of the passage. Even faster than light Crossover Drives had limits. Stars were still an unimaginably great distance apart, many of them were years apart. This expedition, two hundred and eighteen light-years distant from Earth, at just over twenty one years of flight time, was no exception. Unless some further distant worthwhile planet had been found in the passing years, this was the longest colonial run that the ESA had tried.

Captain Alain looked down at the pile of files, data disks and crystals in front of him and back to Mr. Torres. He decided to be blunt.

“You know that due to energy constraints, this had to be a one way trip for you and the other colonists. We were trying to find a way to save your expedition’s lives. We failed.”

That brought Mr. Torres up short. “Trying to save us? You failed?” His eyes went wide, “Did my people die?”

“No, they are all well and asleep. The problem is not on the ship. It is the target world. It is everything that the probe reported. We need to report back and have the probes reprogrammed. Nobody expected a world like Sea.”

“C?”, asked Mr. Torres, puzzled. “Is it because it’s the third world? Why call it C?”

“Sea, as in ocean,” said Captain Alain reaching into his pile of data and handing over a crystal. “Look for yourself.”

Mr. Torres activated the viewing controls and knit his brows in concentration as he examined the picture and data flowing beneath it. “Where are the land masses? On the other side? It says that I’ve rotated the view but it’s no different.”

“It did rotate, Mr. Torres. There is no land anywhere on Sea.” Captain Alain paused to collect his thoughts. “So far as we can tell, the last island sank for good between one and a half and two and a half million years ago.” He gestured at the image. “If you boost the magnification far enough you will find floating weed mats and shallow areas that you can use to follow the rotation of the globe.”

Mr. Torres looked again, at high magnification. The skilled ecologist in him rebelled at what he was seeing. “This is not possible. Without land masses to break up air flows by both barrier and convection effects the atmosphere should turn into high speed bands of wind.”

“My crew and I are well aware of the problem, Mr. Torres,” said Captain Alain with the air of one who wished that he had not found the answer to a puzzle. “The reason that the atmosphere does not band is every bit as bad as what you have just seen.”

Once again he removed an image crystal from his pile of data. “As you watch this, bear in mind that it is a direct recording of an actual event. You can change the time compression to suit your own taste. It won’t alter what you will see.” Wryly he added, “We have already said that it’s impossible. It will spare you the effort.”

In utter disbelief, Mister Torres stopped the crystal playback and restarted it several times. It showed the birth of a storm. A large rotating depression was forming at about sixty five degrees South Latitude. Sympathetically, Captain Alain said, “Go ahead and let it play. It only gets worse.”

The storm swept north along a large curve that appeared to be dictated by Coriolis force. The warmer seas of the tropics fueled the storm and it grew into a monster with a core of powerful storm cells over a thousand miles across. The vastly aberrant storm’s clouds did not limit themselves to the troposphere. They towered high into the stratosphere, where no sane cloud mass, let alone a whole cyclonic storm, belonged. The wind speeds achieved over three hundred and twenty kilometers per hour.

The counterclockwise rotation of the storm should have killed it when it crossed the equator to the Northern Hemisphere where the same Coriolis force would now try to make the storm rotate clockwise. Instead, the storm broke apart into individual thunderstorms that followed precise vectors across the equator and reassembled themselves into a giant clockwise rotating storm, all angular momentum preserved, and with no loss of wind speed.

It followed a Coriolis arc north and finally cold northern waters robbed its energy. It broke up into thunderstorms, squalls and fogs about sixty five degrees North Latitude.

Captain Alain said, “Hard to believe, isn’t it? We have observed eight of those aberrations of nature and they ALL do that. Because of the form of the path that they follow, we are calling them Coriolis Storms. It’s as though there were a guiding intelligence handling the storm. Lovely fantasy. It would take at least nine of the most powerful synchronous orbit Weather Sats with a fleet of Low Orbit backups to get even one of those storms across the equator. It would be touch and go, even with equipment like that. All that we have here are the three moons and the primary star. We just haven’t figured out the natural mechanism yet, that’s all.

“The worst part of this is that while the spacing and placement of the storms appears to be completely unpredictable, statistically every part of the planet will get hit at least once every five years by one of these monsters. The crew has a betting pool on where and when the next one will occur. The sample is still too small to be sure but it is beginning to appear that the storms are not completely random in their occurrence.”

Mister Torres surprised Captain Alain. He accepted the statements without comment and quietly sat, thinking. At last he spoke thoughtfully, “I’m not an engineer but perhaps we can deal with the storms by going under them. Build domes or habitats on the reefs maybe. The water is calm only a few feet below the waves.”

Captain Alain gave Mister Torres points for being quick on his mental feet. Gently, he said, “My crew and I ARE engineers. We did think of that. Unfortunately, it can’t be done. A dome is an engineering nightmare. The buoyancy is massive. The pressure gradient from top to bottom is all wrong. The air pressure inside the dome is controlled by the depth of the lowest part of it. That means that the dome will try to burst at the top because the water pressure is lowest there and the inside air is at the pressure of deepest part where the water pressure is highest. Small habitats would be possible except that we don’t have the materials to build that many of them and can’t get what we need from the environment.

“We brought equipment to mine on land or in space. We can fabricate almost any device except for a tiny problem. There’s no land to mine and the rest of the system is metal poor. This world does have quite a lot of high quality ores. Unfortunately they are under about fifty to over nine hundred meters of water. We can’t get at them. Captain Alain inhaled heavily and added, “We can’t even get useful silica sand on this planet. It’s in the same situation as the metal ores. The common coral sand is useless for glass making.

“What we can do is process the local coral and coral sands into a form of concrete. It is possible to get useful amounts of aluminum, magnesium and small amounts of titanium from the seawater. We can go to the three moons for silicates to make glasses. They even have small amounts of available iron and some other useful metals. The silicates make structural glass a real possibility. Fiberglass is also practical. Many of the local seaweeds will process to yield various useful plastic resins for both the fiberglass and to mold directly into useful objects.

“In this environment, only the titanium and structural glass are durable. Corrosion will destroy the other metals in short order. Concrete made from coral is subject to long term erosion by the water, not to mention the many animals and plants that will attack it. Even the fiberglass will have a limited life due to long term water absorption. Of course you can recycle the fiberglass materials.”

Now it was Mister Torres who spoke. “You know about the nutritional deficiency issues of this world, um … Sea? Good name, by the way.”

Captain Alain accepted the compliment with a nod and replied, “Yes. You will be short a pair of critical amino acids, a small raft of vitamins, and there’s a carbohydrate problem of some sort.”

It was Mister Torres who spread his hands now. “You are right. We brought the solutions to all of that along in the form of crop seeds and embryonic animals. We did not expect to have no place to raise them. Hydroponics could answer the plant problem, perhaps. The animals are a different matter altogether. They have to have a certain amount of space for proper development.” He paused and looked thoughtfully at a painting of Mt Fuji, back on Earth, “Could we bypass the growth of the animals and do a carniculture system? I ask because that is more an engineering problem.”

Captain Alain considered in his turn. Mister Torres let him think. A thousand lives hung in the balance. At last, Captain Alain said, “It could be done. It has been done before. There is a nutrient limitation. You have to be able to supply the culture tissues with the necessary amino acids. The whole animal would manufacture its own from the crops fed to it. The culture can’t do that. I think that with the available resources, you are stuck with raising the animals whole. I can ask. We didn’t think of that solution.” He dictated a note for his ship’s system engineers to look into it.

Suddenly Mister Torres exclaimed, “Those storms all follow the same pattern! That means that if we build a platform, we can design it to be strongest in a direction that will resist the storms best! What sort of tidal variation are we dealing with?”

Captain Alain thought a moment and consulted his data. His brows knit as he worked through the problem. “When the sun and the moons line up unfavorably, the sea level can drop until the shallows become shoal-water. At the other extreme, the water depth can go to twenty meters. A storm depression coupled with a low tide can actually bare the upper parts of the coral. That kills the coral and limits upward growth.”

Mister Torres shook his head. “Between storms, coral should grow on the skeletons of the dead coral and cause island building. Why doesn’t it?”

Captain Alain realized from the form of the question that Mister Torres was giving him credit for intelligence and was pleased. He answered, “There’s a common fish with a hard beak. It seems to think that the dead coral is a delicacy and mows the reef down as it grazes. It chews up the stone to get the dead organisms. That’s what makes the coral sand.”

Mister Torres nodded. “Like the parrot fish back home. Makes sense. The same fish attacks our concrete too?”

Captain Alain just nodded. Then he had a thought. Excitedly he said, “We could put titanium mesh in the outer layers of the concrete. That would keep the fish out of anything structural. Once the platform was built, you could process more concrete on your own. You could re-plaster the areas that the fish attack.”

He subsided, “You’d have all your eggs in one basket, though. The thing would have to be huge. We can only marshal the resources to build one.”

“It’s not really that important,” said Mister Torres softly. “There’s no possible way for us to survive until a ship can return with what we do need. Still, we have to have the platform for morale reasons. My people need hope. It’s all that we can really do for them.”

Captain Alain suggested, “We can request a recovery expedition as soon as we get back. It is ESA policy to have a colony ship ready for just such an emergency.”

Mister Torres shook his head negatively. “I fear that the war that was shaping up will be long over when you get back. I pray that you will be able to survive your return. I do not think that there is any possibility of our survival.”

Captain Alain looked compassionately at Mister Torres. He shook his head. “You’re right. The war will change everything back home. We received messages from Earth before we got The drive up to threshold energy. The shooting did start. We were ordered to return but disobeyed. I can only hope that some form of the ESA has survived.

“As for your platform, even with the Crossover Drive to push us faster than light, we can’t get back to you in time. No platform that we can build will survive long enough. It is going to get hit by at least five and probably more of those Coriolis Storms. One of them will sweep it away. Without its facilities, your people will die of malnutrition in fairly short order.”

Mister Torres looked back at Captain Alain and said bleakly, “I know that. What we are going to do is simple. We will lie to your crew and my colonists alike. We will fake evidence to show that the necessary nutrients can be found in the ecology. We just can’t localize them well enough from space. The search will keep hope in them to the last.”

Captain Alain closed his eyes in pain. This was indeed difficult. Why couldn’t Mister Torres be angry, rail at fate or just cry? This calm acceptance, this cold blooded planning to deceive a thousand doomed people was beyond him. He shook himself and said, “Very well, we will follow your lead. Two of my crew will have to be in the conspiracy. They are needed to create the false data.”

That simply, the decision was made. With massive labor, a platform was built with all of the best systems, electronic controls and computerized communications. It held laboratories, shops, apartments, docks for boats, recreational and farming spaces. All critical exposed areas, like the upper levels of the farms, could be closed over with locking domes in bad weather. On the platform, a space one kilometer by one and a half kilometers, several stories thick, a thousand people were left on a planet that could not support them. Only one of their number actually knew what had been done.

–The End–

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to the World of Sea

#PARADOX PLANET #World of Sea #Written by De Writer

[banditthewriter]

Sweet Treat - Billy Russo

Prompt: Can I request one-shot with Reader - ray of sunshine/baking goddess/must be protected at all costs- moving into a new place and trying to make casual conversation and bringing baked goods and stuff to her neighbour Billy (who probably hates her but he works a lot and looks sometimes so sad and okay, maybe she has a crush on him)? Prompter: Anonymous

I don’t know what happened with this one. It started sweet and somehow ended smutty. But hope you still like it!

Warning: Smutty! 

Tags are at the bottom. Let me know if you would like to be added to one of my tag lists!

*gif is mine*

Enjoy!

*****

The new apartment was so much bigger than your old one. It had a lot of open space, tall windows, and natural light. The whole apartment was amazing, but the reason you signed on the dotted line without a second thought was the kitchen. It was huge.

The last place that you lived had a lack of counter space but that definitely wasn’t a worry with this place. You had more counter space than you knew what to do with. Plus a large island that separated the kitchen from the living room.

So much space. And you couldn’t wait to get back and break it in.

You were shifting the bags from one arm to the other so that you could pull out your keys. As the elevator doors slid open, you didn’t look up before you stepped out. It caused you to smack right into someone, your bags dropping with a loud clatter.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologized as you knelt down to try to gather the utensils that had rolled out of your bags, “I wasn’t looking where I was walking. I’m not usually that rude.”

An Italian shoe came down and stopped your rolling pin from rolling away. You picked it up and then peered up at the person you’d run into.

Of course it was the ridiculously attractive man that lived on this hall. There were only four people on this floor so your odds of it being anyone but the one person you wouldn’t have wanted to make a fool of yourself in front of?

“Here,” he said as he bent down to scoop up some of the other things that had fallen, pushing them into the bags on the ground. “At least you didn’t buy eggs.”

That would have been horrible. You accepted the bag from him with a smile, trying not to jolt when his fingers brushed against yours.

“Thank you. And I’m sorry again,” you repeated as you stood up, making sure you had everything. “I promise to be more aware of my surroundings.”

He simply raised an eyebrow before he stood up, pulling his phone back out of his pocket. He gave you a stiff nod as he slid past you, pushing the down button for the elevator.

You closed your eyes for a moment, scolding yourself for being such an idiot. Great first impression.

You made your way to your door. It gave you an opportunity to look back down the hall without it being too obvious. You looked just in time to see the doors close, separating you from the man that was staring down at his phone.

Of course the first person that you got a crush on in a long time and it was an emotionally stunted businessman who could double as a model if he needed to.

In your apartment you set down the bags. You flicked through your phone until you found something you liked, turning the music on through the bluetooth speakers on the counter. With music playing, you moved around the kitchen to put up your new purchases.

It wasn’t that you really needed new things, but you had felt like a chance. Of course you kept the things that you’d had before; just bought new things, not replaced anything. You had more than enough room in this apartment for all your new items and then some.

With music playing and in the mood to make something, you pulled out the ingredients that you would need. You decided to stick with one of your favorite desserts, setting about making the pie crust from scratch. It lulled you into some form of a trance as you went through the motions.

You could make this with your eyes closed and one hand tied behind your back.

The pie in the oven, you made your way to the couch and settled in. The newspaper had been delivered this morning but you’d just brought it inside without reading it. Now that you had some time, you unfolded it and looked over the first page.

Death, destruction. It was the same thing over and over. You turned the pages with little interest until you saw something familiar. It was a small photo and article, above the fold. The article talked about a business that was teeming with untapped abilities and how it played a middle ground between the elites and protection. The photo, on the other hand, was of a man speaking to a few men wearing polos and an earpiece.

The man was your neighbor.

It had his name listed as William “BIlly” Russo, the owner and CEO of Anvil. Well at least now you knew his name.

You put the first section away. The sports section followed it; you might enjoy sports, but you weren’t about to subject yourself to reading articles about them in your free time.

The third section was the lifestyle section. You flipped through the first few pages with interest until you found what you were looking for. You hadn’t been sure where it would be in the paper, but it was on the fourth page.

Being a food critic, among other things, had its perks. You used a pseudonym while working, a trick of the trade, so no one could attach the article to you. Not that it mattered since this particular critique was very positive. You’d absolutely loved the food at that restaurant and the article was positively glowing with accolades.

You’d stumbled into being a food critic really. After going to culinary school, focusing on baking and pastries, you had worked as an editor on cookbooks for a while as you worked in various restaurants. You weren’t sure why you submitted your own article to a rather popular food blog, but it was accepted. And so was the next one. And the next one.

Food critiquing was fun and it more than paid the bills. You got to travel if you wanted, got to pick your own hours. You got to eat for a living basically.

You still edited cookbooks and did some freelance work for various food magazines and blogs. You’d stopped cooking or baking in restaurants to focus on the other aspects of the job that you liked, and that was good enough for you. You didn’t feel like your degree was a waste of time, despite what your parents thought.

One look around your apartment showed you that you were doing well in life. You made good money and could afford to live somewhere luxurious for no reason other than you wanted to. You still saved up a nest egg because you never knew what could happen.

It’s also why you still edited the cookbooks, still freelanced your writing. You wanted to be prepared on the off chance that being a food critic had a shelf life.

The pie was almost done. You put the paper down and went to check on it. Crust golden, the cherry glaze bubbling just slightly. You smiled as you pulled it out, waving your pot holder over it for a second before you shut the oven and turned it off. You were going to need to pull out the vanilla ice cream you’d bought.

A wild thought came to you about offering a piece of the pie to your neighbor: Billy. He looked like he could use something sweet in his life.

Instead you went back to the newspaper with some scissors. You liked to cut out your articles. As you snipped around the edges, you thought back to running into Billy in the elevator. He’d seemed polite, disinterested. It made you feel a little underwhelmed. It wasn’t like you thought you were some knockout or anything like that, but surely… surely you deserved a second look?

You laughed a little to yourself as you slid the freshly clipped article into the box with the other ones. You weren’t usually so girly and hung up on a guy, especially not one that had barely said ten words to you. If that.

Days later, once you were finally over the brief mortification of running into Billy that one day, you found yourself in the same position. Only this time the item you dropped was a bag of flour that you had just purchased.

The sound of the bag busting came within seconds of a puff of white powder clouding the area. There was also a loud clatter that sounded a lot like a dropped smartphone.

“Shit,” he cursed, coughing to clear his airway. He bent down and picked up his phone, swearing again.

“It’s not broken, I hope? I’m sorry, again.”

Why did this keep happening to you? Had you been cursed without knowing it?

“Cracked,” he said as he tried to wipe the screen with his thumb. You could just barely see through the still hovering cloud of flour that it was also caked in a layer of the flour.

“Crap. I’m so sorry,” you apologized profusely, looking down at the busted bag and the flour that was scattered everywhere. You were covered in it. And so was he, you noticed. “Oh, your suit. Crap, you’re… covered in flour.”

He looked down and sure enough, his bottom half was covered in flour. The black pants and black shoes looked grey.

He rubbed his forehead and then looked at you.

“It was my fault this time,” he explained as he tried unsuccessfully to dust off his phone again. “I didn’t see you coming out of the elevator.”

You looked around at the mess once more and then let out a small laugh. You bent down to pick up the bag, grimacing as the last of the flour slid out of the busted packaging and onto the ground.

“This is going to be fun to clean,” you mumbled as you stood up.

“Just call maintenance,” he said simply as he dusted off his pants, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “They’ll handle it.”

It didn’t feel right to do it that way. Instead of saying anything, you carefully made your way to your apartment. You changed out of your clothes and into something a little more comfortable. Then you grabbed the broom and dustpan before you went back into the hallway.

You had just started to sweep when his door opened. He stepped into the hall in fresh clothes, no flour detected.

He saw you sweeping and you watched him roll his eyes. You felt heat flood your face so you looked down to focus on what you were doing.

He moved around you but stopped. You could just barely see him from the corner of your eye, but you did see him turn to face you.

“I’m Billy, by the way. I don’t think I’ve introduced myself. Billy Russo.”

You switched the broom to your other hand so that you could shake the hand he had extended to you.

“Y/N Y/L/N, human disaster,” you joked with a laugh. “I’m really sorry about your phone. I can pay for a new one if it’s unsalvageable.”

He cocked his head to the side and shook his head.

“Like I said, I’m at fault for this mess. I’d help you clean, but I’m already late for work.”

You waved him off.

“No worries. I just want to get most of it up before I call maintenance.”

He nodded, obviously hesitating. You didn’t want him to feel like he needed to hover and wait while you cleaned.

“Well have a good day at work Billy,” you said as you turned back to the task at hand.

You heard him press the button for the elevator. Once he stepped on, he turned to look back at you, a curious look on his face.

“Have a good day.”

While it wasn’t exactly something you were proud of, you were pretty certain of his schedule. You’d lived there long enough to mentally catalog his comings and goings. After you did as much in the hallway as you could, you called the maintenance man before you locked your door and headed back to the store.

You needed more flour. And you needed a few more things.

The muffins were cooling on your counter by almost six thirty in the evening. Without an idea of his preferences, you had made an assortment. Once they were cool, you bundled them into a small wicker basket, a white and blue checkered cloth covering them.

When you heard the elevator doors, you quietly cursed your timing. You checked your reflection in the mirror beside the door to make sure you looked presentable. With the basket in hand, you went to your door and pulled it open.

Billy was on the other side with his fist raised to knock. When you opened the door, his eyes widened and he stepped back a bit.

“Sorry,” he said as he looked you over, his eyes lingering on the dress that you’d picked out, “you’re headed out. I just, I got you this.”

He held up a paper bag. You looped the handle of the basket over your arm so that you could take the bag from him. Inside was the same type of flour that you had purchased that morning and had subsequently had to purchase a second time to make the muffins.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do this,” you said as you looked back up at him.

He looked almost sheepish under your gaze.

“Like I said, it was my fault. Felt it was the least I could do.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck and looked away. “But I won’t hold you up any. Just wanted to give that to you.”

You weren’t sure why he thought he was holding you up. You put the bag with the flower down on the table next to your door. Then you held out the basket. He looked surprised, eyebrows raised as he looked between your eager face to the basket.

“Uh,” he began.

You laughed and pulled back one of the corners of the cloth.

“I made muffins. For you,” you added because you felt the need to specify. “I wasn’t sure what you liked so I made a few different kinds. There’s chocolate with chocolate chips, banana nut, blueberry, and a really yummy lemon crumble.”

That surprised look seemed to grow. He slowly reached out and accepted the basket from you.

“You made these for me?”

He didn’t seem like he believed it.

“I kinda wanted a do over on our first meeting. I’m usually better with first impressions,” you said as you self consciously ran a hand over your side, smoothing down the dress.

His eyes raked over your body again, drawn by the movement of your hand. Then he met your eyes as he pulled the basket a little closer to him.

“Thanks,” he said with a glint in his eyes, one that made your breath catch in your chest. He stayed there a moment longer before he smiled. “Would you like to go to dinner with me? Tonight.”

You let out a huff of air, not having expected that at all.

“Uh, are you sure? You don’t really know me.”

“That’s why you go on a date, isn’t it?” He waved the basket back and forth. “We can save these for dessert.”

The way he said that was sinful and unfair. You swallowed thickly and looked over at the bag on your table. A giggle left your lips before you could stop it.

“Well you did bring me a flour,” you said with a smile stretching over your lips.

He laughed at that, shaking his head at your word play.

“With the muffins and the fact that I probably haven’t been the most welcoming neighbor, I just want to show you that I’m not as bad as I seem. And with you looking that good, I figure a night on the town isn’t out of question.”

Heat filled you at that. You ducked your head and then met his eyes once more.

“Do you want to go now?”

After dinner, which was amazing, Billy led you back to his place. His apartment was set up like yours but had a more modern look where you had stuck with the open spaces and natural lighting. He pulled out the muffins and the two of you ate almost all of them together. Through dinner and sharing the muffins, the two of you didn’t stop talking. You got to know that there was more to this mysterious man than met the eye and you hoped he saw that there was more to you than your clumsy habits.

He seemed endeared by you either way.

As he walked you to your apartment door, despite the fact that you only lived down the hall from his own apartment, you couldn’t help but grin at him.

“What kind of cookies do you like?”

He laughed and turned to face you.

“Why?”

You shrugged a bit as you fiddled with your keys.

“I like to bake, obviously,” you said as you lifted the empty basket at him. Then you smiled and looked down at your hands. “I especially like baking when I’m happy, so I thought I might make you some cookies tomorrow. If you think you might want them.”

You felt your chin being tipped upwards until you were met with his face, his eyes crinkled in the corner as he smiled at you.

“Surprise me,” he said softly as he leaned in to brush his lips against yours.

------

You were dancing in front of the counter, music playing softly from your bluetooth speaker. You had about three different desserts being prepared as well as a lasagna already in the oven.

Hands fell to your hips and you jumped, turning to glance over your shoulder. You smiled widely and turned in his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“You’re sneaky. I didn’t even realize you’d come in,” you said as you leaned up to kiss him.

Billy smiled into the kiss, his eyes darting over your shoulder at the massive amount of food you were making.

“Are we expecting company?”

You shook your head and grinned up at him.

“Just us. I just wanted to do something special. It is our anniversary,” you reminded him with a tap on the nose.

He pulled back with a fond roll of his eyes. He then picked something up from the table and sat it down beside you.

A bag of flour.

“Happy anniversary sweetheart,” he said with a smile that only grew when you kissed him hard and deep.

Such a sentimental man, even when he tried to pretend he wasn’t.

He pulled back and looked at all the food with another shake of his head.

“Seriously babe, this is a bit much. It’s just the two of us here.”

You shrugged and turned to check on the lasagna, grinning when his hands fell to your hips to keep you close.

“I was always told the way to a man’s stomach was through his stomach,” you joked as you turned back to him once you were sure the food wasn’t burning.

Billy’s grin was lascivious as he pressed his hips into yours, effectively pinning you against the counter.

“Really? I think you have a fair shot a little south of the stomach,” he teased as he leaned in, using his whole body to press against you before he kissed you.

You gripped on to the front of his shirt as you kissed him, your body bending into his immediately.

“Billy, the food,” you complained as his lips trailed down your neck.

“Maybe I want my dessert first,” he joked as he nipped at your neck.

You were about to tell him that dessert wasn’t ready either but you turned to see that he had dipped his finger into the batter. He brushed his finger against your neck, leaving a trail of batter before he leaned in to lick it up. You moaned and pulled his head up for a kiss.

“There’s raw egg in that,” you said between kisses, laughing as he hoisted you up to sit on the counter. “Billy!”

“This way you can make sure the food doesn’t burn. But I’m hungry,” he said pointedly as he spread your legs.

You leaned back as he raised the hem of your dress, lifting your hips to help him pull down your panties. He tucked them into his pocket before he grinned up at you.

“Favorite meal of the day.”

Your laugh turned into a moan as he bent down to circle his tongue around your aching clit. You gripped his hair as he licked and sucked, his teeth scraping against your clit as his fingers slowly pushed inside. You gasped at the sensations, your body already shaking as he worked you over. Your chest ached as you slapped a hand against the cabinets behind your head. Your other hand tightened in his hair as he started to move faster, his tongue rolling over and around your clit hard and fast.

“Bil–Billy, so close,” you warned as you rolled your hips as best you could on the counter.

He hummed against you as he sucked on your clit, his fingers curling to brush that spot inside you that made you fall apart. Your back bowed and you gripped onto his head with both hands as you rode out the waves of pleasure.

He pulled back and wiped his hand over his mouth. You hopped down from the counter, tugging him in for a dirty kiss. While you kissed, you spun the two of you around so that his back away against the counter. He didn’t seem to realize what was going on until your hands undid his belt, tugging his zipper down.

“My turn,” you said as you pulled his cock out, swirling your tongue around the head and moaning at the taste of him. “The lasagna has to come out of the oven in five minutes so hopefully you’ll come first.”

He laughed as he fisted his hand in your hair, fingernails scratching at your scalp as his hips thrusted. It caused his cock to brush against your lips so you opened up to let it slide in.

“You on your knees, your mouth on my cock? Fuck babe, I can still taste you on my tongue,” he said around a moan as you swallowed around him. “Trust me, five minutes is more than enough.”

You wanted to smile, but it was hard to do when you were going down on him. Instead you wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and went to work. You sucked hard near the head, running your tongue up the length of him. You knew just what he liked so you pulled out all the stops.

And he was right. Five minutes was more than enough.

You had to think that dropping that bag of flour was the best thing that ever happened to you. Well, maybe the second best, but it caused the best thing so it was pretty much a tie.

X

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[meaninglessblah-writes]

Oooh! How about 37? #200528

This was a lovely reprieve from all my writing commitments, and just what I needed ♥️ Thank you for the prompt! 

37.) “I can’t feel my fingers anymore.”

"You bring this on yourself, you know," Tim says where he's leaned against the window sill he's just finished slipping through, arms crossed casually over the Red Robin insignia. 

Dick scrubs a palm unevenly down his face, pulling on the thick bags beneath his eyes. "Hand me that bottle of water, please." 

Tim smiles, but unfolds to cross the tiled room, snagging the plastic bottle from the opposite nightstand and passing it over Jason's dozing form. 

"How's the hand?" he asks with a nod at Dick's occupied limb, as he uncaps the bottle with his teeth and takes a long sip. 

"I can't feel my fingers anymore," Dick returns in a grumble, and downs more water. He never thought he'd be so appreciative of water, but hours hovering by a hospital bed rearranges one's priorities. 

Tim's gaze slips down to where Jason's fingers are wrapped tight around Dick's on the blue sheets, squeezing hard even in unconsciousness. Doesn't comment on the fact that Dick hasn't made a move to extract them, and probably won't. 

He watches Tim's gaze slide over the array of monitors, categorising numbers in the reflective glare of his lenses. Dick follows his line of sight, but the blurred digits don't rearrange themselves into anything more discernible than they have every other time he's looked. 

Apparently unsatisfied with the data, Tim turns to slip the clipboard of notes from the end of Jason's bed, leafing through the charts as he hums. 

Dick watches him with bone-deep tiredness. "You seem to be taking this rather calmly." 

"I've seen worse," Tim murmurs without looking up. 

Dick frowns. "That's not comforting." 

"Occupational hazard," Tim returns, and flicks to another page. "He'll live. He's not critical anymore. Can't ask for much more than that." 

"He lost a lot of blood, Tim," Dick says, unable to school the irritation from his tone. 

Tim lowers the clipboard an inch to fix Dick with what would be a scathing expression if his eyebrows were visible. As it is, he looks like an aggressively judgemental bird. 

Dick gets the message anyway, because body language has unfortunately been his long-standing strong suit. 

Tim's head falls back to scanning the nurse's notes. "Forgive me for not being his biggest supporter." 

Dick sighs and props his elbow on the sheets beside Jason's ribs, smothering the drooping corners of his mouth with his palm. "He apologised, remember?" 

"I do remember," Tim confirms, low and airy. Dick hears the scrape of a turning page like nails on the inside of his skull, and lets his eyes flicker closed. "I also remember there being a four inch scar in my trachea." 

It's said so lightly, dangled on a string above where scrutiny can reach. Dick winces. 

"But he did apologise." 

"He did," Tim concedes easily. "And I forgave him. Still not his biggest fan." 

It rubs uncomfortably against Dick's morals, but he keeps his peace until Tim sighs into the silence. 

"We don't all play hard and fast with love like you, Dick. Or with trauma. Some of us compartmentalize." 

"'S'not healthy," Dick mumbles into his palm. 

"Yeah, and running around in gaudy fursonas is?" 

Dick snorts, muffling his snickers even as Tim cracks a smile. 

"I have a point." 

"You usually do," Dick admits, and peels open his eyelids to survey Jason's prone form again. The silence weighs heavy on his tongue before he says, "Bruce got home okay?" 

Tim gives him a sliding mid-tone not unlike a bird's call, and Dick hums his agreement. 

"He'll be fine," Dick murmurs. 

"He will be once they discharge him," Tim agrees loftily, and returns the clipboard to its holder at Jason's blanketed feet. He swamps the bed with his massive frame, heels nearly brushing the endboard. "And until then, he can wait his damn turn." 

Dick warms at the protectiveness in that tone. Doesn't need to ask what divisive countermeasures Tim has employed to give them their space. His gratitude is palpable anyway. 

"You need to sleep," Tim observes, and shifts back to the window. "Proper sleep," he adds preemptively, when Dick opens his mouth. "Not this half and half stuff. Take it from a professional sleep-avoider." 

He can't deny how appealing that sounds, when his eyelids feel like lead weights and his leg is going numb again. 

Dick casts his gaze around the room, blinking owlishly at the sparse furniture. He'd dragged the only chair in the room up to Jason's bedside, and the plastic vinyl has to be the most uncomfortable thing he's had the displeasure of sitting on in his entire life. 

He's eyeing a patch of bare tile beneath the windows when Tim huffs and glares. 

"Quit with the pretenses and climb in the damn bed with him already," he snaps, exasperated around a wry smile. "You do it enough back home in Bludhaven anyway." 

Dick doesn't blush. That would imply guilt, and Dick doesn't feel guilty about sneaking Jason into his safehouse a whole city over to avoid Bruce's all-seeing eye. 

"Indulging your voyeurism again, are you?" he says instead, and Tim barks a sharp laugh. 

"If only I had the time. You two aren't as subtle as you think you are," he warns, and then smirks to himself. "Luckily for you, the Wayne gene seems to take the whole 'blind as a bat' thing a step too far." 

Dick exhales, relief dragging his shoulders from their terse hunch. Bruce's meddling was one thing that Dick was begrudgingly coming to terms with. He's glad to hear he's bought some time before he has to handle Damian's intervening. 

"Steph is already picking out a bridesmaid's dress, just so you know," Tim informs him sweetly, and Dick laughs. The younger man's expression softens at the sound. "Get some sleep. Enjoy each other's company for a while. We'll watch the city for you til you're ready." 

"Thanks, Tim." 

"Don't mention it." And then, pausing with one calf hooked over the sill, as if the thought has just occurred to him. "No, really, don't mention it. I don't want to deal with Bruce's fallout." 

"Your secret's safe with me," Dick replies with a wry smile, rising to stretch out his limbs. 

"Ditto," comes the wind-snatched reply, as the vigilante swings away. 

Dick shakes his head and extracts his fingers to cross the room, sliding the window closed and latching it before he draws the curtains. Jason's expression is still peaceful when he turns back to the bed, and those sheets look inviting, so Dick climbs onto the mattress beside him. 

Singing the praises of his bygone acrobatic years as he contorts himself into the curve of Jason's side, Dick lays his head across Jason's collarbones and lets the slow thrum of his heart lull him. Barely summons the resolve to reach out and flick the bedside lamp off before he curls into his lover's side and lets exhaustion claim him. 

If you want to ask me more questions, check out my list of prompts and quote the 6-digit number in the tags :)

#dick grayson #tim drake #dick grayson/jason todd #franticvampirereads #200528 #meaninglessblah answers

[bagog]

N7 Month, 2019: Day 13 - Medic

A little diversion.

++

It was chaos on the Citadel. The Crucible wave had devastated the station in a way that reminded Jonathan of the Sovereign attack three years ago. He’d been first on the scene, there, too, as part of the Citadel Civilian First Responders. It was the only comparison he had in his mind for the devastation around him, only it was a poor comparison. When the Reapers took the station—towed it back to Earth—thousands of residents had taken their chances and fled. Obviously, not everyone could, and some who could didn’t. The Citadel was in ruins, who knew how many had died or were trapped?

He should be down in the wards helping people—there weren’t nearly enough CFRs to handle the kind of chaos the Citadel was experiencing. Who knew how many CFRs had been killed in the initial blast, anyway. Instead, he had been tagged by a Spectre unit—a Spectre unit!—to search the Citadel core. They’d just appeared and requisitioned his whole team, and even with the world on its head, you didn’t say ‘no’ to a requisition from the Spectres. Any other day, he’d be elated: this would be something to tell his grandkids about. Real spectres.

But the Citadel core? Nobody lived there, that wasn’t where the need was greatest.

When they reached the core, Jonathan gasped at what he saw. Part of the Crucible had fused itself with the Citadel tower, the groan and heave of the two structures shook the ground as they grinded together in space. The room was enormous, a cathedral of broken technology and crumpled hulls, and Jonathan couldn’t tell where the Citadel ended and the Crucible began.

“Need to be quick,” said one of the Spectres, a salarian. “Compartment not secure. Could lose atmosphere at any moment.” Technically, CFR protocol would prohibit them from going into such a precarious situation, but Jonathan didn’t have the feeling the salarian spectre cared too much for that particular piece of protocol. He fumbled to put on his rebreather mask, then he was running into the expansive wreck of a compartment.

They began to work methodically through the debris, omni-tools glowing, searching meter by meter for any sign of life. Every time the room shuddered and the sound of twisting metal rang out through the thin atmosphere, his partner shot him a worried look. Still they searched. Finally, there came a shout over the comms:

“Medic! Medic to zone 314!”

“I can’t believe there was actually someone up here…” Jonathan muttered while he pulled up the zoning map they had made of the room to survey the rubble. The appropriate zone was on the other end of the complex, and Jonathan jogged past the other teams hopelessly scanning incredibly tall piles of rubble.

“Medic! Over here.” It was the salarian spectre again, still brandishing his rifle in one arm while his omni-tool glowed around the other. Two other CFRs were there as well, hurriedly pawing at the debris. A human arm protruded from a break in the rubble, limp and badly burned.

“Careful!” Jonathan ran up and began to pull aside the debris as well. His omni-tool scans were all over the place, barely able to tell if the person buried under the rubble was alive or not. When the arm was fully exposed, he knelt down and grasped at the wrist to feel for a pulse. “Nothing.” He sighed, sitting back on his heels.

“Let’s get him out!” Said the spectre. He had stowed his rifle and his omni-tool had been switched to a cutting laser. Taking his example, the other worked began sawing at the beams that trapped the body in. When they finally exposed the body, Jonathan shook his head. The man was clearly a soldier, but his armor had been annihilated in the explosion, and his body lay limply amidst the wreckage. Just as the other workers were about to pick up the body, the spectre held up a hand. “You two. Go, now. Help other teams.” He turned to Jonathan, great dark eyes staring down at him. “See to him.”

Jonathan turned his scanner back on, running it up the body, seeing the crushed bones and the dislocated joints and the litany of internal bleeding the omni-tool reported to him.

“There’s brain activity. And a heartbeat. Faint.”

“Can you stabilize him?”

“I don’t know,” he set his bag down and began pulling out its contents in a rush. “I need some help getting him out of here. There’s not a lot I can do for him crumpled up like this on the floor.” He opened his comms. “We should call those guys back, they can--“

“No.” The spectre stepped in front of him. “I will help you move the body.”

“We should wait for some help.” The man was big and Jonathan was not a strong man.

“No. Get his legs.” The salarian stopped as he stooped to get his arms under the soldier’s arms. “Any risk of further damage to move?”

Jonathan shrugged.

“Well, yes, but he honestly can’t get much worse. But I can’t do anything for him like that.” The spectre nodded and the two awkwardly managed to drag the man out onto a clear patch of the deck. Jonathan stooped down again, filing through the organized contents of his bag.

“Must move quickly.”

“I got it, just—“ then Jonathan looked at the charred face. “Oh my god, this is… Commander Shepard!”

“Must move quickly.”

“Sorry. I just… shit. Okay. Umm. I can’t do much with his armor on—“

The spectre pushed him out of the way and brandished his omni-tool. He began immediately cutting into the melted chest plate of Shepard’s armor. Jonathan was amazed he had eyeballed the beam tight enough to cut through the armor and not straight into Shepard’s chest.

“Tell me what to do.”

“I need access to his heart. And a defib, just in case. Here and here. He needs oxygen—“ The spectre removed his rebreather and gingerly placed it over Shepard’s mouth without interrupting his cutting. A moment later, he removed the chest plate as one large piece. Jonathan knelt and tore through the ripped undersuit to expose Shepard’s chest.

“This is Col Vedirus,” said the salarian into his comms. “Medical evac to zone 234 ASAP. Find me a hospital that still has power close to my position and tell them to expect a critical patient.” He put his comms down and squatted across from Jonathan. “By the time evac arrived, must have Shepard’s face covered.”

“Okay okay, just let me work! I’m losing him—“

The rest of the CFR teams were already tasked with clearing enough debris to allow for an ambulance to land inside the complex. It took Jonathan right until the moment the ambulance arrived to stabilize Shepard, but he was still in critical shape. There was only so much stims and medi-gel could do.The EMTs emerged from the back of the ambulance, looking as frazzled to be there as Jonathan had been. They lifted Shepard’s body onto a cot and hustled him into the back of the ambulance, began hooking him up to life-support.

“We’re going with,” the spectre pronounced, and the stunned EMT moved to the side to allow for the lanky salarian to step into the back of the ambulance. “You. You’re coming.” He pointed at Jonathan.

“But… but…”

“Must move quickly.”

Jonathan gave one last look back at his fellow, baffled looking CFRs, then jumped into the back of the ambulance. Something to tell his grandkids about, indeed.

#n7 month #n7 month 2019 #fanfic #mass effect #commander shepard #post-war #citadel #jonathan

[samsonet]

Silver Dreaming (2/6)

That night, Raihan has a dream.

He’s on a rocky mountain, the highest point in Alola. The sun shines down on him, warm on his skin. His heart is racing. There’s a grin on his face.

He’s battling someone — he doesn’t know who — and it’s exhilarating. Flygon rushes across the battlefield like a shooting star. Whatever his opponent does, Raihan is one step ahead. He is winning and it is glorious.

On the other side of the battlefield, his opponent smiles.

*

At nine exactly, Professor Kukui walks through the door.

He’s grinning, buzzing with the kind of excitement people usually get at their first time in a stadium. Raihan doesn’t get to witness that kind of emotion often; by the time challengers get to him, they’re usually used to the spotlights.

“I’m glad you asked me here,” Kukui says. “Z-Moves need a lot of space, so it’s hard to find places to really show ‘em off, you know?”

Raihan doesn’t know, but he nods anyway.

They stand at the center of the pitch, side by side.

“Now, Z-Moves have a long history in Alola and are critical to our culture… but I can give you the full report later. You’ve got the Dragonium-Z on your Z-Ring, yeah, so if you send out a Pokemon with a damaging dragon-type move, you can use the ultimate dragon move!”

“Really? I’ve never been fond of Draco Meteor, myself.” But he sends out Flygon all the same.

“No, not Draco Meteor. Devastating Drake. It’s even stronger — trust me, I measured it. Now! Watch me!”

Kukui proceeds to… make the strangest poses Raihan has ever seen, and that’s counting the Charizard pose and dabbing.

“Can you copy that, cha— Raihan?”

With a shrug, he does. Let it never be said that the great Raihan does not have a good memory.

“Perfect! You got that like a Smart Strike! I knew you’d be a natural at this!” Kukui steps back, gesturing for Raihan to face the opposite end of the pitch. “Now, act like you’re in a regular battle. Do the pose, and channel the energy through you. And when you’re ready, command Flygon to use Devastating Drake!”

Either this is going to be the most humiliating experience ever, or it will be epic.

Raihan closes his eyes.

He crosses his arms and flings them out.

Are his fingers really tingling, or is he just imagining it?

Hands forward, palms facing together, fingers curled. A dragon’s mouth. Dragons guard treasure. Dragons are wise and terrifying. Dragons get slain and the fairytale still ends happily ever after.

If he opened his eyes now, they’d be sharp, glaring. That happens when he’s worked up. He’s still not entirely sure how he does it.

His heart is racing. His arms feel hot, almost burning, like he’s holding the sun in his hands.

Alola is paradise. Alola is full of friendly people and strong Pokémon. Alola has a desert where there’s a sandstorm always raging, and a guardian deity lives there.

He opens his arms, the dragon’s maw. Flygon cries out.

Maybe Raihan is imagining it, but at that moment, he’s certain that he and Flygon are completely in sync. He feels his partner’s excitement, feels the sun on his scales, feels the power coursing through every atom of his body —

Flygon roars.

Raihan roars, too.

“DEVASTATING DRAKE!”

The power courses through him like nothing he’s ever felt before. He stumbles back at the force of it, almost falling over before being caught by Kukui. He tears his eyes open just in time to watch Flygon unleashing the most awesome move he has ever seen.

A gigantic purple light in the form of an amphipthere flies across the pitch. It spirals up, then plummets to earth at the spot where an opponent would have been.

It leaves a smoking crater in its wake.

Oh, Arceus. Arceus. Arceus.

Raihan’s shaking.

He’s gradually aware of Kukui’s voice. “Deep breaths, cousin. Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Deep breaths.

Deep breaths.

In and out.

It takes him a while, but Raihan recovers. When he comes back to his senses, he realizes that he did not, in fact, faint or even fall over. Somehow Kukui has kept him upright. There’s nearly thirty-six centimeters’ height difference between them. How strong is this man?

“That was…” Raihan rubs his face. “I… man.”

“Intense, yeah? You did good. A Z-Move is powered by a trainer sharing their light with their Pokémon, so for yours to be so powerful on your first try… You’re amazing, Raihan! Exceptional!”

“Is it always this… draining?”

“Well, it’s like any other move, really. If you practice, it gets easier. You will practice, right?”

The Z-Ring glitters.

“...yeah. I’ll practice.”

“Great! If you want, I can call Kahuna Olivia later. She’s the one who made your Z-Ring. You’ll be working with her at the league.”

“If I become champion. If.”

Kukui’s smile falls, just the tiniest bit. “Still thinking about it, then?”

“Yeah. I am.” He’s not thinking clearly. This is a runner’s high, he knows that, and that means he’ll probably crash later, but… “Damn. That felt amazing. Thank you, Professor.”

“Anytime. Er… is there a place where you can lie down for a bit? You still look a bit unwell.”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. If you can just help me back into the main building, Sebastian can help me from there. I don’t want to keep you from your other plans.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

Kukui walks him back inside, and the gym trainers take him from there. Raihan lets himself be guided to a back room. He drinks water and lets himself rest.

Today had been put aside to train for his battle with Nessa, but he’s not sure if he can handle his usual routine right now. Instead, he lets himself replay the Z-Move in his mind. The dragon, the light, the raw power from a Pokemon who couldn’t even Gigantamax…

He imagines his next match against Melony. Maybe he’d switch things up a bit, send out Duraludon first and save Flygon for last. She would be confused, of course. The whole stadium would be. The commentators would wonder what in the world he was thinking. Melony would Gigantamax her Lapras and wait for him to do the same with Flygon, but then he’d reveal his Z-Ring and unleash a Devastating Drake, and maybe he’d finally beat her for once.

He’ll have a match against her sometime next year. It’s more than enough time to get used to the move, to get accustomed to battling with it.

Next year —

No. Wait.

If he takes the offer, he won’t be part of Galar’s league by next year. He might never get the chance to battle Melony or Nessa or Piers or Milo again.

It’s… a shame.

But that’s what happens when you grow, right? Sometimes you have to part ways with people you used to know. He hasn’t battled Sonia in years, after all, and he doesn’t miss her.

Most of the time, at least.

*

A couple hours later, he’s recovered enough to head back out. His trainers seem relieved to see him. Raihan helps them finish repairing the pitch, then goes over their training.

At the end of the day, he goes home.

Sonia and Nessa are waiting at his door. Sonia’s holding a six-pack of soda in one hand and a bag of takeaway in the other. The food smells delicious.

“Glad you two could make it,” Raihan says, letting them in.

He doesn’t have to tell them to make themselves at home. They do it themselves, getting the fluffy blankets out of his closet and pulling out the folding table for the food. Nessa turns on the telly and sets it on mute. Raihan grabs the Leon Jar from the top of the fridge. It still has a few coins in it from last time.

They settle in, lounging on the floor. Sonia brought their favorites, as she always does: potato curry for herself, coconut curry for Nessa, bone curry for Raihan.

Sonia’s always been good at remembering things like that.

They meet up like this once a month, alternating who brings the refreshments and whose house they go to. They never really planned for it to become a thing. It just did.

There are rules, though.

Well, just one. Don’t mention Galar’s champion.

Usually, that’s not too hard. But if Raihan tells them about the offer…

He keeps quiet, at first.

Nessa’s talking about the maintenance plans for the lighthouse. Sonia’s concerned about how it’s weathering the summer storms.

“I don’t remember them being that harsh last year.”

Nessa shrugs. “Climate change. But the lighthouse will be okay. It’s been here for a hundred years, it’ll last a hundred more.”

“I hope so. I love that place.”

“Same. Hey, Raihan, you control the weather, right? Make it sunny around Hulbury for me, okay?”

Make it sunny. Like he holds the sun in his arms.

“Sonia,” he says. “Your gran is meeting with some guy from Alola, right?”

“Yeah, Professor Kukui. How’d you know?”

He takes a bite. “Mm… I might’ve spoken to him. Did he mention anything about the Alola league?”

She furrows her eyebrows. “I don’t think Alola has a league, Rai. They’re pretty traditional.”

“Yeah.”

Nessa sips her soda, looking him in the eyes. “Got something you want to share with the class, Raihan?”

“...if I tell you, you have to keep this a secret.”

“I can do that. Sunny?”

“My lips are sealed.”

Raihan leans forward. “Alola doesn’t have a league right now, but they’re setting one up. And Professor Kukui asked me to be the champion.”

As soon as he says it, he realizes how silly it must sound. He can’t take the title in Galar, and then all of a sudden someone from another region walks in and offers it, no strings attached? Ridiculous.

The girls don’t seem skeptical, though. They just look at him curiously.

Nessa asks, “But what about Leon?”

“Hey! You said his name!”

Nessa snorts, but puts a pound coin in the jar. Then, staring Sonia in the eyes, she puts in another. “Seriously, what about Leon? His rivalry with you is like half of the reason people come to watch his matches. Is Rose really going to let you off so easily?”

“I don’t know. Rose seemed pretty excited about it.” Raihan leans back. “Oleana said, too, that if I go, you would be that guy’s greatest rival.”

Nessa looks down. He knows that expression on her face: she’s imagining it. She usually loses to Raihan on the second round of the finals; with him gone, she’ll likely be the one facing He Who Must Not Be Named for the champion title. She’ll lose, of course, but as his new Greatest Rival she’ll be lifted from mere second gym leader to something higher. She’ll get the adoration, the respect, the sponsorships…

She deserves it all, honestly. He couldn’t pick a better person.

“Are you…” Her voice is hesitant. “Are you going to accept, then?”

“I’m still thinking about it. But honestly? The idea is kinda growing on me.”

“You’ll let us know before you leave, right? We have to throw you a party, and Gran will probably have things to ask you...”

“Sure, sure. Anything for Sunny’s granny, right? I haven’t accepted yet, though, so let’s not talk about what-ifs. Ness’ and I have a match to prepare for. There’s no way I’m going to lose!”

“Oh, just you wait!”

*

A couple hours later, they’re ready to call it a night. Nessa and Sonia share the guest room, as usual, and Raihan goes to his bedroom.

He turns on his phone and checks his notifications.

His last selfie, from yesterday morning outside Rose Tower, has six thousand likes. The comments section is full of questions about what he was doing there.

Nessa’s official account has some pictures from her latest shoot. He gives the post a like.

He scrolls through a while longer, but nothing else catches his interest. Still, he’s not quite ready to unplug yet.

He texts Piers. U up?

Dark specialist, mate. I’m practically a Noctowl.

Then, before Raihan can type a reply, Piers sends another message: Is this about the Alola championship?

How the fuck do u know about that?

Don’t ask and I won’t lie. Okay, it’s like this: You were at Rose Tower. So was that professor. He’s been talking about looking for a champion. It’s not hard to put two and two together.

He doesn’t like that. Piers is a good guy, but he’s from Spikemuth, and Spikemuth isn’t known for being quiet. And that’s not even mentioning how the rumor ended up reaching him in the first place…

It was supposed to be a secret.

I won’t tell anyone. Cross my heart. The rumor is going to spread, though. You know how the tabloids are. Promise you’ll let me know before you leave?

There’s yet another person acting like he’s definitely leaving. Is there something in the way Raihan talks that makes them think he’s pretty much accepted the position?

I havent decided that I’m going yet. but I’ll tell you if I do

Three dots appear, a signal of Piers typing.

He continues typing for five minutes.

It makes Raihan anxious.

At last, the message appears: Have you thought about who’s going to take care of Sandaconda and Duraludon?

What?

Alola has a pretty limited dex, mate. I don’t know if you’ll be allowed to take them out of Galar.

Really?

He’d known Turtonator was native to Alola. He’d sort of assumed all the rest of his team would be allowed there, too.

Raihan fact checks this in this quickest way he knows how: googling it.

Turtonator, check. Goodra and Flygon lines, usually found on Ula’ula. Turkoal, also found on Ula’ula.

Sandaconda and Duraludon…

Not part of the dex. Not found in the region naturally. In other words: not allowed.

As the champion, Raihan could be an exception, right? Didn’t champions usually have exotic Pokémon on their teams? If he makes it a strict condition, there’s no way Kukui would refuse to let him bring his partners, right?

But that’s wishful thinking. Raihan knows his Pokémon well. He knows the Sandaconda line, in particular, could cause trouble if one somehow made its way into the wild.

So if he leaves, he’s going to play by the rules.

It probably rains a lot in Alola, he thinks. They won’t be happy there anyway.

He texts Piers: I’ll probably ask Aria to take care of em.

He doesn’t want to think about how Piers is likely judging him on the other side. Raihan is selling out, and he knows it.

Going to bed now. Talk to u tmrw.

Raihan sets his phone to Do Not Disturb, and tries to sleep.

#pokemon swsh fanfic #raihan pokemon #professor kukui #silver dreaming