#he just shows it differently and can (by necessity) hide it a tiny bit better

[akaiikowrites]

over the hiatus there's been a lot about buck spiraling over losing eddie. which. fair. boy is gonna spiral. but also. have we not contemplated:

✨ the inevitable eddie spiral ✨

the last couple of times eddie was Properly Separated™️ from buck for more than like 3 days consecutively, he

decided to join a fucking fight club before

having a full PTSD meltdown only buck was able to properly help him / chris thru

nuance note: yes i'm simplifying a bit. obviously there was a lot more going on with eddie than just buck not being around. esp in s5. but also. it's curious he was still able to hold together somewhat until he didn't when buck was gone. you see. i connected the dots.

[slytherinsnekxvii]

hi, remember that murder snily au i'm always talking abt but never have anything to show for? yeah, i've scrapped it like six times now and i finally have a version of it i'm marginally satisfied with. so, here you go, this is the first part of maybe three or four, i think? have fun:

anger

/ˈaŋɡə/

noun

noun: anger; plural noun: angers

1. Normal anger does not split open one's ribcage and wind itself around their heart. Normal anger does not coat itself in venom and sit behind one's teeth and hide under their tongue and lie patiently in wait. Normal anger is not cold and slow and remorseless. Lily thinks that what she calls anger is normal. Lily does not realise that she is extraordinary.

Lily's brand of anger is decidedly... different. What, exactly, makes it so different isn't exactly obvious to her, but she knows that it's not like anyone else's. At least, not as far as she's aware. Hers is a cold sort of anger, an all-encompassing thing that bites and burns and hurts. It's patient, too, winding in and around her ribcage and clawing its way upwards to settle behind her teeth, waiting for a reason to show itself. It's protective, aiming to eliminate a threat before it has a chance to do further damage.

She's... aware of her anger. Not very much so, but it's seen the light of day often enough to be familiar to her. She doesn't know it, though, hasn't made herself properly acquainted with the more... unfortunate spectrum of her emotions, and that is what makes it truly dangerous.

When she feels something scratching at her insides and festering beneath a vindictive sort of justice at seeing Black and Potter and Lupin and Pettigrew suffer the displeasure of the Slytherins, she thinks it's anger. She finds herself in a dusty, unused classroom in the dungeons, helping to refine a brutal spell designed to rend the flesh of anyone unlucky enough to be on the wrong end of it and she thinks it's anger that curls around her and whispers into her ear, "Make sure it hurts."

It isn't. She calls it anger, claims it a necessity, insists that she's protecting her best friend, but she doesn't realise she's mistaken.

The story of the "Prank" gets out—doctored, of course, to keep Black out of Azkaban, and Lupin away from execution—and Lily titters into the back of her hand when she hears it told in bits and pieces throughout the corridors.

"Did you hear?"

"Who would've thought—"

"—bloody idiots went into the Forest! At night! What kind of—"

"—ll five of them, yeah. Can't figure out for the life of me how they managed to get Snape to go—"

"—must've dragged 'im kicking an' screamin', I'm telling y—"

"—Gryffindors, my left tit! Damn cowards just ran off and left Lupin and Snape to deal with—"

"—no clue what happened, but have you seen the scars?"

"—out of the Hospital Wing, already? How—"

"—down fifty points! All because that lot wanted to play jokes aga—"

She smiles, a tiny, smug thing that she doesn't notice, and moves on. The Slytherins are properly riled up now, Rosier and Mulciber and Wilkes and Avery hovering around her and Severus with expressions she can't describe as anything but sadistic. At some point, she realises that their presence makes her feel much less uncomfortable than it did a week ago. She doesn't dwell on it, ignoring the small part of her that worries and shivers in favour of leaning over Severus's shoulder to read about the sort of magic that appears in nightmares.

She grips her wand, idly twirling the twelve-and-a-half inches of willow and dragon heartstring as she skims over detailings of ancient, arcane magic. It's always about blood, she thinks, staring a diagram of a pricked finger dripping red into a cauldron. Potion for Transferring Magic from One Wizard to Another, the heading proclaims. She shakes her head, accidentally knocking into Severus's in the process. "Ow."

He winces a little, and then tells her, "I'm turning the page."

She hums, eyes glued to a book she wouldn't dare look at not even a week ago, and says, "Okay."

It's fascinating, Lily has to admit. Gruesome in some cases and horrific in others, yes, but there's something... mesmerising about it, something hideously captivating in the way that the diagrams seem to eagerly demonstrate their attached spells. On the page, a young wizard is neatly flayed alive, the entire process precise. Her stomach rolls, but Lily can't seem to tear her gaze away for even a second. She doesn't think about it.

She doesn't think about a lot of things, actually, staunchly refusing to acknowledge the way she finds herself drawn away from her Housemates and friends, instead choosing to orbit around her best friend and the seemingly endless rotation of Dark Arts tomes he's somehow gotten his hands on.

Mary's sick of her excuses, she knows, responding to every one with a nod and an, "Oh, alright, then," in that tone that lands somewhere in the middle of disappointment, exasperation and concern.

Marlene has given up entirely, the whole of their interactions reduced to simple greetings in the hall and nods when they pass each other between classes.

Dorcas is nice about it, still catching her arm on the way to breakfast, still offering to study with her when they're all together in the Common and she doesn't want anyone to feel left out. It's undeniable, though, that her smile isn't near as warm as it used to be and it's tinged with worry at the corners.

No one makes it a secret of what they think about her recent activities. And as for the company she's keeping? Well, they'd always been particularly vocal about that.

Things must come to a head eventually, and they do, not even ten minutes after Professor Sprout has dismissed them from the classroom on Wednesday afternoon. She hears the whispers first, half of them from students she doesn't even know, has never said a word to.

"—conspiring with snakes—"

"—think it's the first time I've heard of a Gryff going Dark—"

"—ck was right about her, she's got no—"

Something ugly twists in her chest, and she forces her feet to turn and move, one step after the other. She can make it to the Common Room reasonably quickly, she thinks, and then she catches the self-proclaimed Marauders outside the Great Hall. Or rather, they catch her.

"You can do better than a bunch of slimy snakes, Evans," Potter crows, and she stops dead in her tracks. "Why bother with them when you've got a fine piece of Gryffindor right here?"

"Get lost," she says, the words ground flat between grit teeth.

Potter does not get lost. "Come on, Evans," he continues. "You're not acting like a proper Gryffindor. Where's your House loyalty? I can guarantee that chivalry and bravery are much better than whatever they're offering." It sounds... like a taunt, and this is when Lily realises that what she's been feeling isn't anger.

"Chivalry? Bravery? What would you know about any of that? It's not very chivalrous to corner students four-to-one, now, is it?" She hisses her words, each one more scathing than the last, and as she spits them out, every last one dripping venom, she realises that she wants it to hurt. "And it certainly doesn't seem brave to leave behind someone who needs help because you got cold feet! I'm not a proper Gryffindor? No, I think you've got it wrong, James. If you want to see an improper Gryffindor, the whole lot of you can go right ahead and look in a bloody mirror! I will not be talked down to by the likes of spiteful little cowards like you! I'm more Gryffindor than all four of you put together, but if you're what our House is supposed to look like, then I want nothing to do with it!"

Her ears are ringing when she's done, the whole world narrowed down to one singular focal point, the group of boys headed by the one who'd been desperate to get her attention and regrets it now that he has it. She looks at each of them in turn, summoning a contempt she didn't know she possessed until now. "Save your breath," she snaps, when Black's jaw unlocks, and she turns around and walks away.

Something slots into the place at the back of her mind, and she thinks, oh, her fingers itching to wrap themselves around her wand and whisper the words that will turn them inside out, call the blood from their pores and make it sing. Something clicks, when she thinks about she felt just then, and she can tell the difference quite clearly, very easily, between pure, white-hot, blinding rage and what she's been calling anger. She doesn't know what it really is, and she doesn't want to. She doesn't think about it, either, simply pushes the entire realisation to the back of her head and thinks, oh.

It changes... very little. Something inside of her has changed, and she finds herself growing steadily more unbothered by the voice in her that tells her about old, forbidden magicks of the body and the mind and the blood. It's always about blood.

She doesn't bother reading over Severus's shoulder anymore, the two of them scribbling notes as the pages flip on their own once they've both finished reading.

What does change things is when Rosier corners her after Defence one day, a sealed envelope held in his hand.

"What's this?" Lily asks, eyeing the pristine letter suspiciously. She might get along with the Slytherins much better now—especially after the incident with the Marauders that Rosier had found particularly amusing—but she can't say she truly trusts them.

"An invitation," he says, and before she can speak, he continues. "Every rule has its exceptions. We'd thought there was only room for one Mudblood prodigy, but it looks like there's space for two."

"Don't call me that," she bites, and he waves the envelope at her.

"Think about it. As it stands now, men like Potter and Dumbledore are holding too many of the cards. Men who would let people die and then cover it up to save their own hides. Don't you want to see them get what's coming to them?"

"There's no difference between you and them," she says.

"Isn't there? We've never claimed to be good."

She stares at him, silent.

"It's a new age, Evans. Don't you want to change the world?" he asks.

She takes the envelope.

anyways, i hope you enjoyed that! thanks for reading :)

[lliblo]

MV23 Do You Like Snakes?

Prompt:

After the Battle of New York and Loki escaped with the tesseract the god of mischief decided hiding in plain sight was the best course of action as he debated about what to do next. Now that he was snapped out of Thano’s manipulation caused by the mind stone he started to feel remorse for his deeds. He never wanted thing to go this far, never wanted to attack Midgard, he only wanted to show his father he was just as worthy as Thor, though considering his actions maybe everyone was right to think he was never fit for the throne. 

Loki found himself in a tiny pet shop in the back end of Queens. It was owned by an old man who he didn’t bother to learn the names of and didn’t even seem to notice the addition of a black snake to his collection of reptiles. Loki has some reservations about how effective this hiding place was, seeing as it was a pet store after all, but after two years of disgusted looks and general uninterest from the patrons, Loki settled into his self exile sure that no one would ever purchase a snake like himself. 

Or so he thought. 

One day a boy walks in with his aunt. He seems down. Loki can almost see the gray cloud following the boy around. 

“I know you’ve always wanted a dog but our apartment won’t let us have anything outside a tank, but there are all sorts of other animals? What do you think of a hamsters?”

The boy just shrugged. Loki suspected it was the lack of a canine that brought the boy’s mood down, but he couldn’t find the will to care. Being a reptile he was a slave to some of the desires, one being curled up on his rock enjoying the heat lamp. 

The boy wanders around the shop and eventually find himself in front of the green eyed serpent. The aunt suggested a turtle or a frog seeming to have the same distaste for snakes as the rest of humanity. 

Loki scoffed at the notion that he was only worth $50 of the mortal money, still the boy walked out with Loki, god of mischief and being responsible for so many deaths, in a 12’ by 8’ cardboard pet carrier that was a little too small for him to be comfortable.  

Luckily the ride wasn’t too bumpy, the boy seemed to be taking general care not to cause to much movement to the box in transit. And after laying curled up for nearly an hour as another box was opened and something was assembled. He was gently poured out of the pet carrier and into a comfortable sized tank that was bigger than the one he had at the pet shop. Decorated with a fake stick with leaves that was designed to climb and a large comfortable looking heating rock (technically not safe for snakes but whateves) all layered with wood shavings to hide under as well as many other places of his choosing. 

The boy just watched him. The air of sadness still surrounded him but he did smile at Loki occasionally as he watched the god explore his new confinements. 

Loki found himself curling up on the rock and facing the boy as he looking him over. 

“Hello,” the boy greeted, he gave a small smile at the snake and Loki, “my name is Peter, and this is my room,” Peter motioned to the small room behind him, it was big enough for a bed, desk, and a dresser with a comfortable walking space but that was about it. “I hope you like it here, sorry if you liked the pet shop better, but I promise to take good care of you!” The boy brightened up slightly, “you didn’t have a name at the shop so it’s probably good to give you one now, what do you say?”

Loki froze after the boy spoke, he wasn’t aware that snakes had the ability to communicate on Midgard, maybe that’s why people disliked them so much? Too human speech but to different in body. In all honesty it made sense to Loki, so he spoke. 

“I’m pretty sure the old fool at the pet shop wasn’t sure I was there, so he never bothered with a name. I wouldn’t mind a new one,” his mouth didn’t move and a snake didn’t have the proper vocals for words so he used a bit of magic to project his voice to Peter. He assumed the other snakes had this ability, not an uncommon one in the universe…

So his mistake was understandable. 

“Y-... did you just talk?” Peters she’s we’re wide now, his face nearly pressed against the glass. 

Loki mentally cursed himself for being so foolish, but as the god of mischief he was good with rolling with things. “I’m a special breed.” He provided lamely. 

-

A story in which Peter accidentally adopted Loki as his pet snake. 

Takes place before he become Spider-Man and because the avengers messed with time, Peter’s parents were never killed when he was young, instead they died later in life a few years after the battle at New York. Moving in with his aunt and uncle they try to cheer him up by getting him a pet for his first birthday after his parent’s death. 

Loki unintentionally helps Peter through his grief and even his struggles with becoming Spider-Man (Kinda intentional)

They become secret bff’s. Peter doesn’t tell anyone about his talking snake but he does have a habit of taking him to all sorts of places. Gets in trouble with sneaking him into school. 

Names him Skywalker, (or Anakin?) but uses Sky for short. It’s not until Peter almost gets himself killed that Loki reveals himself out of necessity.

When Stark shows up Loki distrust him and says that the man is only using Peter to fight a battle he has no right being in. 

Peter doesn’t listen so Loki sneaks his ways into Peter’s luggage and has to reveal his presence to the Avengers during civil war after Peter is almost killed by the fight. Thing end differently then they would have in real civil war. Steve and Buck get away, but the rest are stunned and left to think they just killed a child in their battle, only to have Loki use his magic to protect the kid until Peter can be dug out. 

Thor is called and Peter fights for Loki to be released trying to help him not be sent to prison.

I mean this one basicly spells out the plot so not so much of a prompt but still. Fun idea! Also it goes to note this was created before the Loki series sooo yeah. Loki is a snake and its a classic found family.

My Fic

Link: AO3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/27988506/chapters/68553960

Summery:

Time travel is a fickle thing. The Avengers accidently let Loki escape in one of the timelines though they leave that for the native Avengers to deal with. With the tesseract in hand, Loki makes and impulse request and finds himself in front of a Pet Shop. Having no where else to go, he hides among the Midgardian creatures. He never expected this path to end with him learning what he had been missing about the word 'Family.'

Peter Parker was allowed to pick one animal to take home as a new friend. Out of all the animals, it was the pitch black, green eyed snake that caught his eye. Imagine his amazement when he got home to find out it could talk.

Rules for Use:

Feel free to expand or alter if this inspires you!

Repost a link to your fic on this post (I wanna read it!!)

Give proper credit and link this post in the fic itself (Pretty please?)

Return To: LlibLo’s Fan Fiction Prompt Index

[scaredyships]

Renegades (Din Djarin x gn!Reader) | pt. II

summary: You attempt to get settled into their new life as best as they can, and are mildly appalled at how bare-bones Mando is living.

word count: 6.5k (I guess I just don’t know how to write short things)

author’s notes: More setting the stage before progressing on to following the plot of the show. Sorgan is next chapter, I promise. But for now it's the two idiots and the tiny green gremlin getting accustomed to one another. ngl, as I got to the last little bit I just wanted to get it DONE, so apologies about any awkward writing there.

I spent so much time looking up food and kitchen-equivalents on Wookieepedia for this chapter.

Part 1 / Part 2 (you are here) // ao3 link

---

It wasn’t clear just how little you had to work with until you started to go about trying to figure out your new place as crewmate on the Razor Crest.

You’d think a full-time bounty hunter, even one that worked solo, would have a little more in storage other than the vast amount of weapons, like an extra bed roll or blankets or something. But no, not this one. He seemed more concerned with having extra firepower than additional living necessities.

You sighed, putting the lid back on the storage crate you'd opened up. You had hoped to find something other than weaponry inside, and while it wasn't exactly weapons, it sure looked like it contained canisters like the ones you saw attached to the mobile carbon-freezing unit he had on board. There were no other places to look.

Standing up straight, you turned to face the length of the hold. If you'd really wanted to, you could have tried to get Mando to let you have the space he normally reserved for housing captive bounty as a space for you to claim. But between you not having the courage, and certainly not wanting to deal with the possibility of a carbonite-frozen bounty being stored there to stare endlessly at you, it was off the table. The hold it was. It was narrow and not exactly intended as a living space, but you could make it work. There was already a dip in the wall where you stood, and with some rearranging of the crates, you could create more of a "wall" to provide some semblance of privacy - and to provide a barrier so you didn't have to deal with seeing the entire refresher unit every time you turned your head.  

Unfortunately, that's where your resources ended. The closest thing Mando had to extra bedding was the rough, heavy-duty netting he kept to tie cargo down with. Hardly suitable for what you were needing. You also had no additional change of clothes. You were already starting to feel self-conscious about it, hoping you didn't start to smell funky too quickly. A shower would only go so far when your clothes hadn't been washed.

A trip to some kind of market was needed. It was a good thing Mando was already intending to stop somewhere to refuel.

You flipped open one of the pouches on your belt, pulling out its contents. Several loose credits, and a couple credit chips. Thank Maker you still had those. With your usual living expenses having significantly downsized now that you were out of a home and all the associated bills that came with it, your budget gave you much more to work with. You had more than enough to get you what you might need. You tucked your credits back into your belt.

There was one more thing you needed to check, but didn't know where it was. The pantry. There was no doubt that Mando's current stock was meant for a single adult individual, and not two adults and a small alien child, so it would need to be supplemented anyways. But what did he already have? Had he recently stocked up, or was he nearing the last of his rations?

You made your way over to the ladder that led up to the helm, where Mando was piloting to wherever he was going to stop for fuel. The kid must've heard you coming, because his head suddenly popped over the edge of the hatch to watch you, twittering curiously. You half-heartedly waved at him, hoping he didn't try to come down by himself.

"Hey, Mando!"

The heavy sound of boots hitting the floor reverberated through the ceiling and came closer to the hatch, until the reflective helmet of the bounty hunter stared down at you.

"Where's your pantry hold at?"

He stood still for just a moment, fingers twitching at his side - a nervous tic? - and then reaching for the kid, began to climb down the ladder. You stepped back and allowed him ample space to get down, and for him to set the kid down. The little green child looked around and waited to see what the two of you were up to. Mando trudged towards a panel near the armory just across from the ladder, and pushed a switch.

"Here."

A panel on the wall swished aside and a conservator was revealed, along with a small set of shelves containing tins, ration packs, and an extremely modest set of dish ware that itself looked like it had come from a military ration pack.

It was difficult to stop your eyebrows from raising to the top of your forehead. There was so little here. And what was here, was so incredibly basic that you couldn't imagine trying to live off of it for every single meal. A few packs of basic rations, a dwindling container of mealgrain. You cautiously pulled open the conservator, and it was what you expected. More basic ration packs, a single almost-empty package of some kind of sausage links, and a couple small jars of paste that could be added to water to make a basic soup. You closed the door, and leafed through the shelves' contents. There was an old heating plate in there and a small pot, and maybe enough utensils that you could count them all on one hand. Pulling out a packet of vacuum-sealed veg-meat, watching it glisten sickeningly in the light, you turned and gave the Mandalorian a pointed look as if you were waiting for an explanation.

He was trying so hard not to come off as sheepish. But the hands-on-the-hips stance and his visor turned away from you said otherwise. He'd never had anyone come on board and inspect his pantry hold before, and while he didn't think at the time it would bother him, it was completely different now that you were down on one knee, thinly-veiled disgust on your face at the food options, looking up at him with an intense expression that could surely bore a hole through his armor. Not even the kid staring at the shelves like he had an enormous buffet in front of him softened any of the situation.

"I don't know how you live like this." You lightly tossed the veg-meat back onto the shelf, standing up and righting your clothing. Mando flipped the switch to close the panel back up, the child drooping disappointedly now that everything was shut away. He crossed his arms defensively just as you rested a fist on your hip, looking down at the child and exhaling through your nose.

"Looks like I've got my work cut out for me, huh, kid."

He tilted his head questioningly at you.

"Your 'work'?" You could hear the edge of offense in his tone.

You turned that piercing gaze back to him for a moment.

"Besides being unable to find something to make myself a bed from, and needing some kind of change of clothes, your pantry is appalling and barely suitable for one adult. Let alone two plus a small child. You told me to help out, so I'm going to help out. When we stop for fuel, I'm going to go find a market." You tapped the pouch on your belt that contained your credits forcefully enough to make the loose pieces jingle, emphasizing that you had your own means of payment.

Mando sighed. He was the one that suggested you stay, so it was nobody's fault but his own that things were unfolding like this. He might as well resign himself to it.

You knew Mando would go for a backwater world of some sort, so you didn't get your hopes up for your options at any markets. Mando let you empty out a rucksack he had sitting in the hold and use it to carry what you might find. He watched as you briskly walked away with determination, as he stood at the ship dock preparing to get the Razor Crest hooked up and refueled. The Child wanted very badly to go with you, but he forbade it and made him stay in his pod, only an arm's length away and hopefully high enough off the ground that he wouldn't try to climb out and toddle off. The small green child pouted in his blankets, staring out in the direction he had last seen you.

Mando was mystified as to why the kid took such a liking to you. Sure, he seemed friendly enough towards anyone he was allowed to interact with (not that there were many, considering his status as a bounty target), but the way he was drawn to you was different. It was almost like he recognized you from somewhere, though you both knew that wasn't possible. In all honesty, he may have been more reluctant to offer you a place on board if the kid hadn't acted the way he did, and just kept his end of helping you after losing your entire livelihood to dropping you off at a nearby planet of your choosing.

It wasn't that he didn't like you, quite the opposite. In the few times he'd gone to you for information for hunting down certain quarry, you were nothing but helpful. You asked just the right questions, made sure he knew about the societies on the planets he was going to be investigating, and also gave him what you had about lesser-known places that would make for good hiding spots. You didn't ever seem afraid of him, like others could be when a fully-armored Mandalorian carrying who knows what kind of firepower came looking for something. You treated him like any other person, maybe one you'd come to consider a friend, based on how with each further visit you'd remember what kind of things he liked to know, or just useful things in general, and tailor your information packets to it. He didn't really need to know things like which fueling stations were more suited for a ship like his and had better overall service, or which markets had more selection on weaponry for restocking purchases, or which food places were better and which to avoid at all costs. But they were there when he'd plug the data stick into his navigation computer. He got the impression you didn't do that for just any client, without an extra charge at least.

You said it yourself, you didn't know much about taking care of kids. Mando didn't, either. But two people trying to figure it out was better than one stumbling around blindly. It helped to have someone the kid liked, too. And even if it didn't directly involve watching out for him, he knew you'd make yourself useful with upkeep of the Razor Crest and any other odd jobs that might need tending to.

The ship refueling took some time, but you still weren't back by the time it was finished. Mando went to the nearest food stand at the dock to buy something for the kid to eat in the meantime - a simple bowl of Mando and the kid went inside, keeping the hold ramp down and simply waiting inside, him using that time to maintain some of his more neglected firearms in the armory. He got lost in the muscle memory of taking apart each weapon, cleaning its individual pieces, and slotting everything back together to move on to the next one.

The child chirping and standing up to clutch the edge of his pram signaled your return. Mando looked up from where he was cleaning one of his blasters, probably the fourth or fifth since he started, and there you were, walking up the ramp with the borrowed rucksack stuffed full and a few bundles under your arm. You gave him a small nod of acknowledgement and made a beeline for what he could only assume was the spot you'd chosen to be "yours", dumping the bundles unceremoniously onto the floor - except one, which you held almost gingerly - and swinging the rucksack down on top of them with a huff. You plunked down beside the pile, pulling your legs up at an angle and resting your head against the hull, exhaling dramatically.

"Can we get out of here now?"

Mando had to smirk under his helmet at how comically tired you seemed. He couldn't blame you, he felt the same way after he had to deal with purchase-related errands. Standing, he put away the gun he'd been working on and shut away the armory, and issued the command for the ramp to close.

The child clambered out of his pram onto a nearby storage crate, slipping to the ground and toddling over to you and your pile of spoils. You lifted your head to watch what he was doing. Mando watched him, too, to be sure he didn't get into anything he shouldn't. Of everything he could easily try to pick through, the kid of course went straight for the bundle you still held in your lap, reaching out but not quite touching the fabric. It was oddly puffy at the top, and tied around the bottom with some sort of twine.

"Wait, wait. I'll show you, but no touching."

You undid the twine, and in doing so Mando got a glimpse of an earthenware material underneath the fabric. You shook the fabric loose, and swept it off by gripping the corner. There, balanced in the palm of your hand, was a tiny engraved pot. Inside the pot sat an equally-tiny, gnarled tree, capped with sprays of delicately bristling greenery.

You tilted the plant towards the child, wide eyes taking in the sight. A tiny claw reached up, but halted and slowly lowered at the last moment. The corner of your mouth lifted at the kid remembering to behave.

You glanced up at the Mandalorian, who you realized had been watching the interaction the whole time. You looked quickly down at the plant and picked slightly at the gravel in the pot, almost bashfully, like you were mildly ashamed of what you'd bought.

"It's not real, but I can pretend it is." Your voice was quiet. Mando remembered the sizable collection of plants that took up an entire corner of your living quarters he had broken into hardly a day or two ago. He felt a pang of something in his chest, slightly different than the sense of guilt he felt towards your situation. Sympathy, maybe?

The synthetic plant was carefully placed on top of a storage container, far from the edges so it wouldn't fall. Your quiet demeanor suddenly shifted, and a new focus appeared as you stood, grabbing the rucksack by its handle, and made your way over to open up the pantry hold and begin unpacking its contents.

"I mostly picked up things that can be indefinitely stored, so no worries about anything spoiling." You began to pull out your purchases and put them away, careful to make sure the kid didn't scoop anything up. He was too busy being enamored with watching your hand disappear into the rucksack and pull out new item after item, like you were a magician. You said the name of each thing as you put it away on either the shelves or in the conservator: Anoat oats, shroomchips, kukuia nuts, dehydrated nuna egg, jhen honey, Kodari rice, jarred garlic, Corellian buckwheat noodles... and then some vacuum-packed fresh items; redsprouts, cuts of dewback, some kind of flatbread you weren't able to immediately identify but thought looked good, and-

"- I don't know if this is the same as what you had before, but I got more of these, too." You said as you set down a package of sausages.

Truth be told, Mando wasn't at all a picky eater, and had been content with the rations he lived off of. But watching the array of ingredients fill the shelves had him feeling like he hadn't eaten right in a very long time. And he was oddly looking forward to what you might have planned.

You put away the last of the contents, mostly flavor additives, and a clear container of nuctrose crystals for the kid, given he behaved. Shutting the panel to the pantry hold, you stood back up and took the last contents from the rucksack - an odd bound stack of something, and a few styluses. They were placed next to the little tree on the crate. You shook out the rucksack so it was flat, and handed it back to the Mandalorian with a small thanks. He took it from you without a word and hung it on a hook nearby. You went back to your other bundles and began unpacking them, shaking out the bedroll and beginning to situate it.

"Once I'm done with all this, I'm going to make something to eat. Any requests?"

Mando could only shrug vaguely. You looked off to the side, eyes darting as you no doubt mentally ran through your various options now that nothing was off the table.

"Okay, then. I'll try not to make anything too awful."

The kid was at your side the moment you'd mentioned food, and was looking up at you with wide, excited eyes. You looked down at him awkwardly, movements slowing. He stared back, audibly swallowing.

"...he's not going to leave me alone, is he."

The Mandalorian shook his head, crossing his arms and leaning against the hull, amused expression hidden beneath his helmet. You suddenly felt extremely self-conscious about simply existing in that spot and Mando standing there like he was, watching your every move. He wasn't even doing anything malicious, he was just... looking. Maker, you couldn't do anything other than glance up at him for a half-second before you had to rip your gaze back to what you'd been doing before, hoping he didn't notice. This wasn’t even your standard inability to maintain a shared gaze, this was something else. It was the armor, you told yourself. You'd always thought the Mandalorian style of armor was beautifully crafted, but there was something so different about admiring it from an image and having a flesh-and-blood being inside a suit of it, standing like that just a few feet away, staring you down.

Mando, however, didn't read any of your behavior as being flustered - just uncomfortable that you were being stared at. He could appreciate that, more than you might think. As much as he might find it interesting to watch whatever else you were going to do, he knew it was more important to allow you some space. He righted himself and strode over to the ladder.

"Let the kid help you out."

He said it so matter-of-factly over his shoulder before he began to ascend that there was no doubt it wasn't a request.

You blinked, and looked down at the child. Mando needed to concentrate on piloting. So it fell to you to be on kid-watching duty. The kid blinked back up at you, ears pricked and head tilted. You moved to unwrap the next bundle.

”Alright, kiddo. Let me finish getting all this set up, then we’ll start on dinner.”

The excited squeal as the kid toddled over to the pantry hold panel to wait for you made you chuckle.

If it wasn't the aroma of cooking that got his attention, it was definitely the sound of you urgently scolding the kid with what almost sounded like terror in your voice. Mando quickly set the controls to autopilot and rushed over to the ladder, not even using the rungs to get down to the hold. The sudden sight and sound of an entire Mandalorian slamming to the floor from above startled you so badly you nearly knocked over your little makeshift kitchen area.

His gaze landed on the child, who was staring back at him with unblinking eyes as he smacked his lips like he had just been eating something. Just out of the kid's reach, was a piece of a food wrapper, covered in teeth marks and saliva, pinched between your fingers. You had a makeshift waste bin in the other hand, into which you flung the offending piece of trash. The look on your face was nothing short of disgust.

"Does he... often... try to eat garbage?"

Mando sighed deeply, swearing to himself under his breath. He should have warned you before he just left like he did to go man the controls.

"It's not the worst thing he's tried to eat." The child’s ears flicked, a hint of smugness on his face.

You chuckled nervously, setting the waste bin out of reach of the child. You wiped your hands on a nearby rag, as Mando approached to pick the child up and move him a little bit away.

The set-up you had was fairly impressive, considering what was available. You'd taken the old heating plate out and set it on top of a storage container, and repurposed a larger rations tin intended to be heated up anyways into an extra pan, so you had more to work with besides the old pot. You'd pulled out all the utensils he had and had them laid out on top of a loose scrap of fabric, and a cluster of ingredients on another. The cutting board looked new, you must've bought that earlier. The pot had something boiling in it, and the pan, while it looked empty, had something browning in the bottom that smelled delicious.  

"Do you have any knives I can use?" You started to inspect one of the packages of meat you'd purchased earlier. "I need to dice some things."

The question wasn't did he have knives, the question was which ones was he willing to part with for kitchen use?

He paused, wandering over to the armory and peering pensively inside. You leaned over to try and watch what he was doing. The kid in turn watched you, no doubt hoping you might drop what you had so he could scarf it down.

Mando leaned into the armory to pick something out from its depths, and when he returned he displayed several small blades. They weren't all that tiny, but his broad hands made them look even smaller than they should be. You ignored that as best as you could. Your eyes flashed amongst the different blades, and you carefully pointed at two - a butterfly knife, and a small hunting knife. You didn’t dare just reach out and grab them yourself. With great dexterity Mando maneuvered them into one hand and the rest into the other, offering them to you with the blades flat in his hand and the handles presented. You carefully took them and set them beside your other utensils. Wordlessly he went to put the rest of the knives away.

You expected him to return to the cockpit, but he didn't. Instead, he moved to sit in the opening of the hole in the wall that was his bunk. You raised your eyebrows at him questioningly.

"Making sure you don't completely ruin my knives. Or let the kid eat more trash."

You huffed at that. Well, back to work.

The kid had wandered closer again and was intently watching as you prepared the food, cubing the meat, tossing it into the makeshift pan with a satisfying sizzle.

Mando never really cooked much for himself besides prepping a basic bowl of mealgrain with whatever ration packs he had on hand. Sometimes he'd build a fire whenever he was camped out on a planet's surface and roast skewers of food over the fire, he knew how to hunt and gather and field-dress, but nothing extravagant. Watching you work was something else. It was mesmerizing, the way you maneuvered between the "pan" and the pot you'd removed from the heat, adding whatever seasoning or extra ingredients with no hesitation, completely focused on what you were doing.

At some point, you picked a piece of the cooked meat out of the "pan" with a fork, blowing on it a few times before picking a corner off to taste-test it. You looked deep in thought as you mulled over what else it might need. With a shrug it seemed you decided it was alright as it was. You lowered the fork towards the child.

"Here, try."

The speed at which he snatched the morsel off the fork and downed it was incredible, you didn't even think he had time to taste it. The shine in his eyes and his ears perking up told you, however, that he absolutely wanted more. You gave him a pointed look.

"No, no more handouts. It's almost done, anyways."

The kid turned his head to look back at Mando, his face begging him to tell you that he needed more. He shook his head slowly, biting back a chuckle at how the kid pouted.

"Okay, I think it's done."

Somehow, in the time he had taken his eyes off of you to simply tell the kid "no", you had combined the contents of the pot and "pan" and were separating it out into portions - two of the larger bowls, and one of the smaller bowls that may have been a mug for the child. He could see better what it was - looked to be some sort of hearty stir-fry, the rice and meat you'd bought earlier being the most obvious part of the dish. Mando had already forgotten what you'd purchased in the way of vegetables and other seasonings, but the finished product was colorful and looked very appetizing, especially with the way the steam trailed slowly into the air from its surface.

The kid was visibly excited, bouncing on his little feet, and though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, Mando was looking forward to trying it too. What he wasn't looking forward to, though, was having to explain to you that he couldn't take his helmet off to eat, that he'd have to take his helping and go somewhere else where you couldn't see him. You'd never seen him with his helmet off, even in his own ship, so it only made sense that you'd ask about it eventually. He didn't know how much of the Mandalorian Creed you were familiar with. He expected more than most, considering your former occupation and being fairly savvy to various cultural practices, but he couldn't be sure.

"So, uh.. this might be weird..."

He braced himself internally, anticipating something being said about his helmet.

"Would you mind if I ate, uh... over there?" You jabbed a thumb towards the semi-walled off area you'd set up since he was last down there.

...he wasn't expecting that.

His confused stare probably only came off as a cold one through his helmet.

"It sounds stupid, but I have a hard time eating if I feel like I'm being watched. So that's where I'll be."

He nodded slowly. Well, that wasn't what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn't a bad thing. It made things a little easier, at least, with him not having to give the Talk just yet.

You took your helping in one hand, used your free hand to maneuver the smaller bowl into the child's grabbing hands, and sheepishly left to your secluded area, ducking down to sit in your newly-arranged space.

The bedroll was laid out, a pile of folded clothes sitting near the foot of it. You'd located some smaller crates, one acting as a makeshift stool, another as a low table, where you sat your bowl down for a moment to get situated. In addition to the larger crates and the dip in the hull acting as a wall, you'd also tacked up a sheet on each "side" of the hull to act as a curtain - not wide enough to completely block off the hall, but enough that there was at least more of a definitive barrier that made you feel enclosed from the rest of it. The tiny synthetic tree sat perched on the low crate-table beside some of the other odds and ends you'd procured at the market. It wasn't much, but you felt less like a temporary stowaway like this.

Once you settled down, you picked your bowl back up and were about to take a bite when a familiar green head poked around the curtain. Once he spotted you, he turned back as if he was looking to Mando for permission, and then he trundled over, his own bowl carefully clutched between his hands.

Try as you might to form words to tell the kid to please go sit with Mando, or anywhere else, every sentence dried up in your throat before you could finish it. It didn't seem like he was listening, anyways, the way he didn't even so much as glance at you while you tried to speak. He was too busy getting himself settled down on the floor, and then lifting the bowl to his face to continue eating, sticky eating sounds filling the air as he shoveled spoonfuls into his mouth. That alone was enough to make you stop trying to tell him to go. It was almost shocking how noisy the kid could be with his food. You watched with something between fascination and the slightest bit of revulsion, slowly taking bites of your own food. He finished faster than you'd anticipated, greedily trying to lick the inside of the bowl to get the last morsels stuck to the sides, his eating utensil forgotten. Considering what you saw Mando's food supply was before you came on board, you didn't blame the kid for downing it like he did.

You, however, couldn't quite finish your meal. You had done your best with what you could, but something about the finished product left something to be desired in your opinion. You always had been critical of your own cooking, and knew what you were going for versus the actual outcome. With a brief glance towards the opening of your space, almost as if you expected Mando to appear, you took the kid's bowl and scraped what remained of your meal into it. He was almost vibrating with excitement when you handed it back to him, and you grimaced slightly as he started to scarf it down. Did his species get the equivalent of heartburn?

“That good, huh?”

He peered at you over the edge of his dish, tiny mouth working. He’d made fast work of it, putting the now-clean bowl on the ground. His bright eyes now lingered on your own bowl, like somehow he might find more food in it even though he just watched you empty its contents moments ago. Your morbid curiosity got the better of you and you held it out for him to take. The kid quickly took it from you, and with no hesitation, began to lick the inside to get the most out of it. You could feel a grimace trying to creep its way onto your face. The kid was cute, no doubt about that, but this was still a little gross to be watching.

A light rap on the side of the hull caught the attention of both of you, and there stood the Mandalorian in the gap between the hull wall and the curtain, empty dish held almost forgotten by his side. The kid greeted his caregiver with a small, yet surprisingly big for his size, burp. You swear you heard a quiet snort from Mando’s direction.

“You’d think he hasn’t eaten in days.” You nodded at the child, who was inspecting the bowl for anything else he may have missed. Mando shrugged lightly.

“He’s always excited for food.” He semi-consciously began turning his own bowl in his hands, still watching the little green one’s antics.

“Well, at least he liked it. It didn’t turn out quite like I wanted it to. Hopefully it was still okay.” While Mando had clearly finished his helping, with what he had apparently been living off of before, it was a fair assumption on your part that he didn’t care much for how things tasted - as long as they were edible. You really did try to go out of your way to make things palatable and not just edible, generally, so when you felt like you slipped up, you also felt the need to apologize.

“I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it.”

Truth be told, whatever you had done, it was one of the better meals Mando had had in a good while. Unfortunately for Mando, words were not at all his strong suit.

“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment.” You said with a brief smile. With a groan you got to your feet, stooping to gather the dish-ware and utensils you and the child had used. “These can be washed in the same place I got water from behind the refresher, right--?”

“I’ll do it.” You froze in your tracks when Mando stopped you and took the things from your hands. “I’ll get the other things you used, too.” He motioned vaguely back towards where your kitchen set-up had been.

“You sure? I made the mess, I’d be okay with cleaning it up.”

The prolonged stare from the unreadable visor told you that this was not up for debate.

“...okay, if you insist.” You let yourself sink back to where you’d been sitting. The Mandalorian disappeared from your field of view beyond the curtain, and the sound of him gathering up the rest of the kitchenware and making his way to the washing area made its way to your ears. There was a quick-cleaning rack back there for exactly this kind of thing, and you could hear him loading it.

Never in your life had you expected to picture someone as stoic as this bounty hunter, doing something as domestic as washing dishes. You bit the inside of your lip to suppress snickering to yourself about it. The kid looked questioningly at you, head tilted. That alone was enough for you to crack a smile and snort.

That snort morphed into a yawn, and you realized just how tired you were. It had been a long day, dealing with people at the market, setting up your new “room”, and cooking a meal from scratch. Not to mention, the turmoil of losing your home was still a raw wound. You noticed the heavy feeling beneath your eyes that told you it was well past time for a good rest.

“Well, kid, I think I’m going to lie down for a bit.” You nonchalantly began taking your boots off, other items that would undoubtedly be uncomfortable following - your belt, your wrist pieces, some of your outerwear that would get too warm too quickly once you dozed off. The child curiously watched as you placed these things in a small pile by the crate acting as a table.

With a sigh that almost sounded like you were deflating, you laid down on the bedroll and turned onto your side. It wasn’t anything like your old bed. You hadn’t expected it to be, but the difference between your old broken-in bed and this imitation of a cot laid out on a hard, metal floor, really drove home that things were different now, with no going back. You closed your eyes, exhaling softly through your nose, the melancholy settling in now that you were more or less alone with your thoughts.

You felt a light touch on your temple, and opened your eyes to have your field of vision filled with a big pair of dark eyes staring back. The child had wandered closer and had touched his tiny clawed hand to your face, and was looking at you with concern, as if he could sense those emotions that were starting to roll around your head. You gave him a thin-lipped smile, reaching out to pat him on the head.

“I’m okay, kid, just tired.”

He made a small noise that sounded almost sad, and you didn’t miss the slight droop in his ears as he gave you a pat in return. Your smile turned a little more genuine at that.

You closed your eyes again, and quicker than you’d ever managed to before, you drifted off.

Mando took his time putting things away. When it was just himself, and the kid, there was a lot less clean-up involved. With the quality of what you’d made, though, extra clean-up was a reasonable trade-off.

Clattering noises from your corner caught his attention. It didn’t sound like organized rummaging, more like the noise made when a womp rat was going through things looking for food. He sighed. It must be the kid up to something. Why you weren’t stopping him, he didn’t know.

He put extra weight into his footsteps to make sure the kid could hear him coming, and hoped that would be enough to get him to stop. As he pushed the curtain out of the way, he was met with the sight of the child quickly turning to make eye contact - the pouches of your belt clutched in his hands with the rest of the strap tossed over his arm, and what must have once been a more organized pile of your other accessories messily pushed around. And then there was you, laid out on your bedroll, eyes closed as you slept.

Even in sleep you managed to look exhausted, but at peace. Your form was curled in loosely on itself, somewhere between defensive and haphazard, like you had fallen in that position. The crease between your eyebrows had smoothed out and was nearly invisible. You breathed deeply through your nose, almost snoring. You had a hand wedged between your face and pillow, squishing your cheek up and distorting your features.

Mando had seen plenty of people asleep. It was usually a restless sleep, followed by waking in a state of terror when they realized there was a blaster pointed at them and he was there to take them in for a bounty.

Seeing you in a genuine state of relaxation, completely vulnerable, was jarring. He wasn’t used to it. He didn’t even let himself get to that point when he rested.

With everything you’d dealt with lately, though, you deserved to have a good, deep sleep. You were safe here on the Razor Crest with him.

The Mandalorian shook himself mentally from watching your sleeping form. It was strange to be staring like he was. He bent down on one knee to untangle the child from your belt and lift him carefully. The little one cooed, looking up at the armored man questioningly.

“Come on, kid. Let’s give them some space.” He stood back up, shifting the child into one arm and leaving as quietly as he could. The little one peeked over Mando’s shoulder at you until you were out of his line of sight, and then swiveled around to watch where he and the bounty hunter were headed.

Very carefully, the child was maneuvered into his sling so Mando could climb up the ladder to the cockpit with both hands. Once on his feet again, the child was deposited into his pram, and Mando took his place in the pilot’s seat.

Now that there was fuel in the tank and supplies on board for everyone, it was time to get back to finding somewhere to hide out.

[emerald-amidst-gold]

oc and their partner asks: ❣️, 💘, 💋 & 💜 for fane and solas <3

You know, I like rambling about Fane and Solas just about as much as I love rambling about solely Fane! *rubs hands together* Ehehe, time to be fluffyyyyy!

Thank you for the ask! <3 <3 <3

❣️ When did your OC first realise they were in love? How did they react to the realisation?

I could be super sappy and make up something utterly dramatic, but it was really kind of..sudden for Fane? He first had feelings for Solas as a dragon, but they were so confusing and disorienting that they were shoved aside. And even if Fane could have understood what he was feeling, he wouldn't have been able to say anything. Solas always led the conversations, and Fane just watched and listened. They built a relationship through respect and a mutual agenda to free their respective people.

Now, as an elf? OH, BOY. Fane, I kid you not, was literally just speaking with Solas one day, which isn't abnormal, of course, but for some reason, he started to feel all those century old feelings again. The grief, the longing, the quiet desire, the affection, the warmth. It all came back in a tidal wave as he just stood there, no longer talking, and just...listening. It was the way Solas spoke, even, calm, soothing. It brought everything back, and Fane was able to decipher what all those emotions boiled down to.

And literally, all he thought, as flowing words morphed with stormy orbs was, 'I love him. I...have always loved him, and now, I can tell him. I don't have to be silent anymore..'

💘 What do they love most about their partner(s)? What do their partner(s) love most about them?

Fane really enjoys watching Solas interact with spirits. It reminds him of Arlathan, of their time before the schism. The sky gets softer, more open with familiarity of a land lost to time and necessity, and the easy smile that will bloom upon a normally impassive or sorrowful face makes it even better.

Now, Solas. This is a bit spoilery for my fic, so I'll try not to give too much away, however, Solas really adores how focused and driven Fane can get when he's neck deep in research. It just fascinates him how one moment Fane can be curt, terse, and purely physical, and then in the next have such an intense passion that's expressed with written words, complex diagrams, and a mind like a scholar's. He loves how Fane has...grown, so to speak. Solas is always looking for new things about his dragon, and he absolutely adores it when another seemingly lost emotion is restored through odd triggers.

💋 Who is the best kisser? (if you’d like write a short smooch scene!)

Fane and Solas are pretty evenly matched when it comes to kissing. They usually start off tame, but...they quickly shift. However, they do have different styles that are personalized.

Fane is unsure at first, the sensations strange and the emotions connected overwhelming. He'll ease into it, putting their foreheads together to lock gazes, searching for reciprocation before he actually initiates. Then, it's timid, like it's a first kiss every time. He'll nudge at Solas' cheek with his nose, laying a chaste kiss here and there before their lips brush together, softly, barely noticeable, but enough to make his head foggy and his cheeks flush. There's a lot of quiet looks, silent requests until Fane will tilt his head just so, and lean in, connecting them the way he always wished to. The movements are languid, tender, seemingly synchronized. Another tilt of his head and he's going deeper, mind blurring at the edges, oxygen leaving his lungs steadily even as he breathes out contented sighs through his nose. Sometimes, he'll cup Solas' face or just wrap his arms around him to keep him close, connected. Then it ends just as slowly as it began, and his whole face is no longer white as Solas gives a knowing, pleased smirk, and his eyes sharpen like the night sky.

Solas, if initiating, is more straightforward, but gentle with Fane, since he knows that a sudden influx of emotion can disorient him and have him receding into the depths of his mind. He'll do things to relax Fane before they kiss. Stroking his cheeks, kneading the point of his ear, combing through his hair with his fingers; he wants Fane to relax, to take in each emotion slowly. After that, it's pretty similiar to how Fane engages, but Solas starts out more deeply, no shy brushes, but there is sometimes sorrow and guilt laced into the kisses, which Fane will pick up on. But instead of discouraging, it encourages them both to delve in more, and Solas will take the reins, tangling a hand into snowy hair, and utterly losing himself in the sensations of never wanting to lose each other again. Solas will push, pull, guide until the two of them have to separate for air, and there's no sorrow, no guilt, no shame as they part. There's only uncommon smiles and feeling of home.

Soooo...yeah. Even! :D

💜 Give a random fact about their daily life together!

There's a lot of trusting intimacy between the two of them. After Fane divulges the circumstances surrounding his abuse, and shows Solas his body, his scars, it becomes a daily routine for the mage to help him undo the bindings. It's a ritual, every morning and every evening, and if need be, after battles. There's no heat, no passion behind it. It's sometimes somber, sometimes calming. Fane takes comfort in knowing someone knows and that he doesn't need to hide all the time, and Solas also feels comfort in the fact that Fane trusted him enough to allow privy to the horrific secret as even his sister doesn't know.

Bonus fact!: Fane and Solas also tend to traverse outside of Skyhold on their own. They don't go far, but they both know the mountains and they like to get away from the weight bearing down on their shoulders, if only for a moment. They'll explore tiny caverns, passages, and paths that they can remember, and it's also a way to continue piecing back together Fane's fragmented memories due to the mountain being somewhat similiar to the one he lived on as a dragon. They make sure to bring back something worthwhile so as not to raise too much suspicion, but if they can't, Fane just says, "We needed some air." Cassandra doesn't always buy it, but what can she do? Nothing, and Fane knows it. Solas usually just sighs before coming up with a more eloquent excuse.

[dnfisgay]

Mr. Loverman - Chapter 1

a/n: hey! welcome to my first fic on here! i kinda feel like i’m back in freshman year writing youtube rpf but hey! we’re all regressing anyway aren’t we? this is a dreamnotfound fic based on the online personas of georgenotfound and dream. this is in no way meant to pressure them or their relationship, and if either of them say they’re uncomfortable with fanfiction i’ll take this down! but anyway at the beginning of every chapter there will be a content warning section and a summary if needed, or if any plot altering events happen during the possibly triggering sections. i hope y’all enjoy Mr. Loverman, a fic based on the song by Ricky Montgomery. 

THIS IS MY OWN WORK. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST ON ANY OTHER BLOGS/SITES WITHOUT PERMISSION. DO NOT REPOST AS YOUR OWN. 

Prologue 

Sometimes, a simple decision is what changes your life the most. Sometimes, a tragedy is a blessing in disguise. Not always, but enough of the time for a few lucky people to benefit. We were some of those people. A simple decision changed... everything. Everyone. Changed me, changed him. Sometimes, we regret those decisions. Other times, they’re the best thing that’s ever happened. We made history together. We made our own history. We changed ourselves for the better. Part of it was born of tragedy, of pain and suffering, of wrong-place-wrong-time. But after, we were born anew. A butterfly emerging from fog. 

The rainbow after a storm. A soft mist at the edge of a violent fall. Our own little refuge within the storm. We made history together, you and me. 

“I've shattered now, I'm spilling out Upon this linoleum ground  I'm reeling in my brain again Before it can get back to you  Oh, what am I supposed to do without you?”

Content Warnings: none 

Word count: 1,520

Chapter One - A New Chapter Of Us

“What if we moved in together?”

George laughed. 

‘What? You’re joking.”

“No! I’m totally serious!” Dream said, laying on his bed. “Think about it. You could get a work visa, come live with me, and we can make videos together! Like vlogs and stuff! You can get away from your family, and I… well I get you! It’s obviously a win-win situation.”

“Vlogs? You don’t even show your face.”

“Oh… yeah. Well, whatever! I’ll do a face reveal. Please, George!”

George’s hesitance showed, making Dream bounce on his knees on the bed, literally begging him.

“Please George! Please!” he laughed, waiting for him to agree. George stayed silent, trying to hide his smile.

“I guess you don’t love me then… oh bother,” Dream fake pouted at him, pretending to cry, rubbing his eyes to make them red. He couldn’t hide the smile in his voice.

“Okay, alright, you wore me down,” George said. “Looks like I’m going to Florida!” 

---

It’d been three months since Dream asked George to move in with him, and every day he’d sent him pictures of their place. Their place. He doesn’t know why that made him so happy to hear, especially coming from Dream. When he showed George the lounge and texted him “our living room :D,”  he felt like his whole entire body was lit ablaze. Like a firework on the Fourth of July -- how American of you already, George, he could hear Dream’s voice saying. It felt like when his first girlfriend told him I love you for the first time. Except... not that. Obviously not that. 

And the day was finally here, after waiting for the visa to get approved, and video chats, and seeing only pictures, it was finally going to be their place. Dream and George’s place. There would be no more lagging video or Discord crashing on them. If the internet went out, he’d still be in the next room over. He’d still be his.

Well, not his. But he’d be there. George felt the need to explain himself even in his own head.

The sound of Dream’s Discord ringer cut through his thoughts, too loud for his own good. He stretched over to his desk and answered, turning his camera on too. 

“Georgie!” Dream said, bouncing with excitement. “Guess what tomorrow is, Georgie.” He leaned forward on his desk, wiggling his eyebrows at George. 

George feigned confusion. “I don’t know, Dream. What’s tomorrow?”

Dream pouted. “Are you being serious right now? Do you really not remember?”

“Dream! I’m literally packing right now!”

“I’m litch-rally packing right now!” Dream mocked, impersonating George’s British accent. George stared him down while Dream was folded over laughing. 

“It’s not too late for me to change my mind, you know.”

“Actually, it is. Work visas have to be used or you’ll get a fine,” Dream said, chewing loudly on what looked like — popcorn? God, Americans were weird. 

“Is that actually true or did you just make that up so I have no choice but to come?” 

Dream looked like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “...Maybe.” George laughed silently, smiling to himself. He would never say it out loud, but he loved Dream. He didn’t know what made him keep it to himself when Dream all but shouted it from the rooftops, but something inside of him felt it was too real to be said. Dream knew it was true, and that was good enough, right? 

“Did you want to watch me pack?” George said, folding another one of his shirts and placing it in the box. Dream wasn’t paying attention. He was messing with something on his desk, his tongue sticking out and his eyebrows furrowed so tightly you could barely see his eyes. George loved his eyes, they were a warm pale green color that fit him perfectly. George snapped his fingers at Dream and asked if he was listening. 

“Huh? Oh. No. I’m sorry,” Dream looked sheepish, worried. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to, I just zone out sometimes, I’m really sorr—“ 

“Dream, Dream, calm down. It’s okay,” George smiled. “I’m not mad. Did you want me to ask the question again?”

“Please.”

“I asked if you wanted to watch me pack,” he asked, knowing which answer he hoped for. 

“Ooh, can I stay on?” Dream looked giddy as he asked. “I wanna tell you about my new bedwars record.”

“Sounds perfect, Dream.” 

---

It took him two more hours to finish packing up his clothes, bathroom necessities, and shoes, spare for the ones he needed on the plane. Dream had talked on and on for the whole two hours, about bedwars and what he was going to make for dinner, and how his mom sent him over homemade banana bread the other day. And even Patches made an appearance after a while. 

“Oh my God, Patches! I get to meet Patches! You know Dream, I’m kind of more excited to meet her than I am you.”

“Haha, very funny,” Dream cooed. “Not like Patches will make you dinner or comfort you when you have nightmares. 

“Nightmares? I do not have nightmares!” George defended, despite the fact he did definitely have nightmares. And he knew Dream knew that, he’d been the one called at 4 in the morning and the one who talked George back to sleep. It was all part of the game, though, the cat and mouse they had going on. He wondered who was the cat and who was the mouse

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Georgie. Oh, wait,” Dream smirked, laughing his ass off. George gasped and tossed his dirty shirt at his webcam, not minding the fact that it was still on his body and that he was now shirtless in his cold room. 

“Hey! I wanna see the view! You look sexy with your hair messed up like that.”

“Haha, very funny,” George fake laughed, though Dream didn’t. He usually laughed after jokes like that. What made this one different? “If I wasn’t so bloody cold right now I’d leave it on there. Make you suffer all alone under there.” He heard Dream whimper, and he didn’t know what it was, but it made his stomach churn. “But, I am very, very freezing right now.”

He pulled the shirt off the webcam, covering his chest with the fabric. “There. You have been freed,” he said, slipping his shirt back on. He swore he saw Dream’s eyes linger on the strip of skin still exposed on his stomach before he pulled it down. 

“I’m gonna go make some dinner,” George said, checking the time on his phone. “What, it’s already 9? Jesus. I’ll be right back, I’m gonna go make some cereal real quick, stay on the call.”

George put Dream’s volume loud enough that he could hear it decently from across the flat. Meaning, Dream could also hear him burning himself. 

“Did you just burn yourself? Aren’t you making cereal?” 

“Um…maybe?” he said, shouting over the cold running water. “I may have accidentally left the oven on from when I made salmon last night.”

“Last night?” Dream screamed in horror. “Genuinely, how are you not dead yet?” 

“I don’t know!” he said, wincing and drying off his hand before grabbing his bowl of cereal. Well, it wasn’t a bowl, but a large Tupperware container. 

“Is that Tupperware?” Dream asked as he sat down at his desk. 

“It was the easiest thing to unpack.” 

George ate his cereal in silence for a few minutes, drinking down the last bit of the sugary milk before asking “What were you staring at earlier? When you got distracted.” 

It took Dream a few seconds, but he finally remembered. “Oh! This!” He pulled out a tiny crossbow made of pencils and shot a rubber band at his camera. 

“That’s actually so sick,” George said, staring more intently at his screen to get a closer look. Dream went off on a tangent about it, showing him the mechanics and everything it could shoot. He swore he’d have another one for George by the time he got home. Home. He liked that word coming out of Dream’s mouth. He liked hearing it about himself. 

Eventually, it got too late for George to be up anymore. His flight left in 7 hours and he still needed to pack his PC. Dream pouted when he told him he had to go, but perked back up when he remembered the next time he’d see George, he’d be able to hug him! He was all but forcing his body to get tired after that. 

“Wake me up if you need me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you, Georgie,” Dream smiled. This time, he didn't sound teasing. He sounded genuine, more genuine than he’d heard in a long time. 

“I… admire you too, Dream.” George’s face went flush and hot, his cheeks blotchy with pink and peach. 

“Psh! When are you ever gonna say it back?” 

“Never, I thought we’d been over this.”

“Mark my words, Georgie. I will get you to say it back sooner or later.”

Yeah, right.

---

a/n: so! that was the first chapter of Mr. Loverman! i’d love any feedback and opinions y’all have! the next chapter should be up in a few days, and i even have art from one of my lovely twitter mutuals coming! i hope everyone enjoyed! :D feel free to reblog<3

Chapter 2 - Linoleum Ground (date TBD)

[jacksgreysays]

Fake Fic Summaries 28/?, the How Did I Stumble Onto This Ship edition (2021-03-18)

Like Sand and Snow and Paint

The thing between Scoot and Destiel is less a question of will or won’t and more a matter of when—not that Derek wants to know even that much about his little brother’s love life.

His relationship with Aoi is somehow both more and less straightforward.

(Or, a dumbass wraith warrior and a runaway healer princess only really work with the addition of a giant demon more interested in naps than battle)

A/N: Truly this will make no sense if you don’t partake in @dilfosaur’s neopets adventure party ‘verse and this will still make very little sense even if you do.

And don’t get me wrong: of course I appreciate the Destiel x Scoot content... I just for some reason think it’d be funny if the “obvious het ship” of Derek and Aoi were a little less obvious and a little less het. And by funny I mean charmingly endearing.

If I could destroy the writer’s block that has plagued me, the fic would probably go something like this:

~

They are roaming adventurers of Neopia who help down on their luck villages out of the goodness of their hearts—which actually means they’re homeless, near broke, and always stumbling into world changing conspiracies when they’re just looking for a paycheck.

It’s a pattern that started back when it was just Derek and Scoot, two orphan brothers trying to look out for each other. Then came Aoi, runaway princess from the Kingdom of Maraqua. While they definitely couldn’t afford a third mouth to feed, it wasn’t the sheer heartbroken impossibility of trying to avenge her family, so their pack of two expanded into a party of three.

After that came Uchiura who hadn’t joined the party so much as she rescued their asses from wandering the desert and decided to continue hanging around. Then finally Destiel crashed into their lives, an accidental harbinger of an interplanar war and Scoot’s decreasing amounts of chill.

Bwalthazar didn’t need to be added because Bwalthazar had, in a way, been there since the beginning; breathing a second chance and wraith powers into Derek after an early quest gone horribly wrong.

And thus began the adventures of Neopia’s least prepared, most disastrous band of heroes.

—

Of course the adventures are not the important part of the story. The wars thwarted, the conspiracies revealed, they don’t matter, not really. Neopia is a world in flux with strange lands, stranger timelines, and even stranger beings. What matters is how strangers stop being such and how they build their bonds.

Or don’t, as the case may be.

Destiel and Scoot is the more compelling tale, perhaps, a fallen angel and a reckless mercenary; reluctant allies slowly—so slowly!—transforming into something more.

In comparison Derek and Aoi seems so obvious: a rough but well-meaning warrior with a poised and faithful healer. Commoner with royalty. Etc, etc. Certainly there’s no denying how well they work together nor their fondness and affection for each other. Even without verbally acknowledging it, it’s as if they both know the next steps to their dance, it’s just…

“Why don’t they kiss already?” Uchiura asks, small feet swiftly and surely scaling Bwalthazar’s rocky hide to perch safely on their shoulder.

Bwalthazar rumbles, literally, un-loafing with the sounds of grinding stone on stone. Their hellfire bright eyes lazily peeling open to spot their guest, so tiny is she in comparison.

Bwalthazar rumbles once more, an inquisitive hum that causes its own localized earthquake. One ear flicks in curiosity, the point swiveling to better hear the Uchiura.

“I asked why don’t they kiss already,” Uchiura repeats, a childish whine of impatience as punctuation.

“These things take time,” Bwalthazar responds slowly, as they do most activities, thorough and considering kinder words for lazy. “Scoot is unused to standing outside his brother’s shadow, and Destiel is young for an angel.”

“Not them!” Uchiura protests, soft feet pitter pattering ineffectively against a rocky scale, “Derek and Aoi!”

“Ah,” Bwalthazar says, then goes quiet. Or as quiet as deep bellowing breaths can be for a being their size. Their eyelids lower, either pondering or readying to return to sleep.

It’s not a bad idea, Uchiura thinks, curling up herself, hellfire warmed demon skin almost as nice as sun heated stone. She deserves a nap anyway.

Dropping into slumber, she forgets the question.

Bwalthazar does not.

—

There is no contract between Bwalthazar and Derek.

Yes, Bwalthazar breathed life and magic into him. They bestowed wraith powers unto Derek’s extremely mortal form, changing the ending of a commonplace cautionary tale into another: Overconfident and desperate sellsword accepts a quest beyond his ability; he nearly dies, nearly leaves his younger brother truly alone in the world. Of course, this does not happen.

But there is no contract between Bwalthazar and Derek. Derek did not reach out, desperately, for a twisted miracle in his dying breaths. Bwalthazar did not spot a bleeding, broken mortal and consider it their chance to expand their influence.

Derek was in their third favorite napping spot, that was all. So Bwalthazar huffed, hellfire and brimstone, and imbued him with life.

His wraith powers aren’t even dependent on Bwalthazar, not really, a manifestation of Derek’s own magic just metamorphed from what it once was. And if he uses too much of it, he just reverts into his normal form, not some shambling corpse. It’s a different color of hellfire, even—though only Bwalthazar and maybe Destiel would know what that may denote, if it does anything.

Derek is not beholden to Bwalthazar, and even less so vice versa.

But Derek goes out of his way to assure villagers that the breathing mini mountain in nearby empty field will not harm them, and Bwalthazar has decided that this adventuring lark is as good an excuse as any to find new favorite napping spots.

That is all.

—

Aoi sits with Bwalthazar in the late nights, the moonless the better, as close to serenity as she can get nowadays.

Their hellfire reminds her a little of the bioluminescence under the seas, but the dry heat prevents her from submerging too far into sorrow.

….

~

A/N: … and then that’s as far as I got?

There was, like, a tiny bit about after late night Aoi and Bwalthazar bonding (maybe talking about revenge and healing and catharsis and the rise and fall of monarchies or something) then Aoi leaves and Bwalthazar goes back to sleep for a hot second only for Derek to show up at dawn and like, quietly bond via practicing sword forms in vicinity of Bwalthazar. And then a line about how for Bwalthazar sleep is not a necessity, something like that.

So by paintbrush, Aoi is probably from Altador and Uchiura from Maraqua (which I had to look up, but was such a punch of nostalgia to the face) but, like, I dunno. Peophins are straight up horse mermaids. Horse mermaids! And then even though Uchiura is the Maraquan paintbrush, I didn’t want their storylines to be linked before the larger group so… I dunno, I guess she’s just been traveling for funsies.

I’m sorry, Karina.

(But also, let me know if you want me to take this down? Because I totally will.)

[rosesnink]

Revealings Of The Heart (Hayley x Ernest)

A/N: A few weeks ago, I got this ask of my dear friend @missameliep​ asking about Hayley and Ernest’s first kiss. So I thought to make a whole one shot so it is better explained, because it has been in my mind for months how they could kiss and in a better, more appropiate age for both of them. 

Summary: Hayley graduated a few days ago and is about to go back to England to start her adult life, but an unexpected visit with a very shocking revelation makes her life make a spin of 365º. 

Hayley packed the last piece of cloth, hoping that she packed her necessities and has sold some things she didn’t need: uni books she didn’t enjoy to new fellow students, clothes she grew to loathe, ugly presents from former relationships and even has made some essays to lazy but rich people who had nothing to lose. Of course, Directora Nieto suspected, but found no proof because uni teachers did not pay attention to anything that were plagiarism on online essays, not even the detail of handwriting or narrating.

“Tú, Hayls, ya tienes todo listo?” Her roomie, Andrea, asked.

“Si, todo listo. Mi vuelo vendrá a la tarde-noche.” She replied.

Andrea sat on the luggage, knowing well what came next: closing off everything.

“Oh, boy, here we go again.”

She was taking her last stroll over the city when she got a call “Hol—”.

“Hayley! Remember me? I’m Lydia Sinclaire!” Mrs. Sinclaire beamed.

“I do! I do.”

“I’m in Madrid now on a business trip on my husband’s behalf. Please tell me I can see you!”.

Hayley chuckled “Sure, no problem. Let me text you an address and I’ll meet you in twenty.”

Hayley sent her the address to Gran Via and she lost no time, taking a taxi and stopped on that famous building of Madrid everyone started to go. She found her visit in the middle of the street, looking anxious. She caught her arm and the woman twisted it and she cried of pain! Then, she let go of it and gasped “Oh! Sorry, darling, I thought you were an attacker.”

She winced before laughing “Don’t worry. That was actually impressive. Shall we?”.

The woman nodded as they both walked towards the fancy building and got into the elevator, where it was just the two of them. Hayley then fished from her bag a dress and took off her shirt and pants, startling Mrs. Sinclaire! She put on the black dress and placed the clothes on her back. She fished her small make-up bag and put on red gloss and a quick and accurate eyeliner of the shape of an eye cat. She finally let her hair loose and put on some perfume from a very tiny bag. She placed it all in her bag and laughed at Mrs. Sinclaire’s shocked expression “What? Don’t tell me you never did this when my age?”.

“No! I was too much of a good girl. Good Lord, when did you learn these things?!”.

“Before renting a flat, I lived with my maternal grandfather who is very conservative, but my grandma taught me a trick or two. He never found out of our schemes.”

Lydia laughed shocked but amused at it “And why do you still do it?”.

“Because you never know when you’re invited to a drinking in the street in twenty minutes or to a clandestine party at a forbidden place?”.

“My God, and I thought English women were rebellious…”.

“Spanish people love three things: food, parties and holidays, and everything free. Drinking is their culture. There are some those who don’t like it or stay in, but some of them are known for that, especially the Southern! Partying in Andalusia and Valencia is the Spanish Vegas, and in some occasions, the European Vegas.”

The elevator dinged and they both entered when they saw Hayley’s attire and passed them to VIP.

After some chit-chat, Mrs. Sinclaire shook her head in disbelief “So you’ve graduated top of your class in Complutense but haven’t got a job yet? Need I to put you in good word with anybody?”.

“No, but thanks. I don’t want my rich family to interfere, I wanna earn it, like my friends here.”

The woman raised the glass “I’ll drink to that.”

When her pint returned to the table, she asked “How’s your family? I understand they’re all well?”.

“Hm, my husband is resisting cancer and my son is growing taller and more handsome by the day. Already 23 and showing a great promise in the family business!” She fished her phone and showed a pic of him where he wasn’t aware he was being photographed. He looked very handsome, really: his curls were now softer and he was taller than before -he couldn’t be more than 6’8 or how Spanish said, 1’90 metres- and his features had hardened and there was a hint of a beard on his chin.

“He is… taller. Last time I saw him he was 6’5 feet tall and I was, like, 5’8.”

“My dear, you were 17 by then! You’re 21 now. He won’t admit it, but he has missed you.”

Her heart accelerated, but kept a poker face “He did?”.

“Yes! Always asking if you’d be home by Christmas or the festivities. His birthdays haven’t been the same without you there.”

She chuckled bitterly “I highly doubt that…”.

She pulled her shoulder teasingly “They have been! He was always so sad he didn’t have any present of yours…”.

She shook her head in disbelief and Lydia looked at her earnestly “During years, he has awaited for your reply to his mobile message. He was a bit depressed that you didn’t answer, even though he told you he was in love with you!”.

Her head whipped to her direction “He what? W-what message?”.

“One call he made you when you first got to Madrid! Here, I’ve got a copy.”

She played it and Hayley could hardly believe it.

Hayley, I know I should feel ashamed. Our age difference is concerning, but you’re leaving now and I cannot hide it any longer. I must unburden myself before it consumes me: I am courting a woman, yes, but she is not you. Every time I look at her, she reminds me that she isn’t you. That she doesn’t have your mysterious green eyes I could get lost looking at all the time, or your lips, or the way you speak, so hypnotic… It is no secret to anyone but you that I am in love with you, and I wish to be yours in the most respectful way. Please call me back if you hear this. If your feelings aren’t the same, I will remain your most ardent, humble and loyal friend.

The message ended and Hayley was wide-eyed, in complete disbelief and speechless. She remembers the kind guy, Carlos, who turned out to be obsessed with her escorting her and left her phone there with him, when one of the reasons she went to study aboard was that the man she was in love with and had broken up a relationship with didn’t like her back, indeed liked her back all this time!

“How long?”.

“Since he was 14.”

She rested her head on her palms “Fuck.” She was stunned, very stunned and undone “I must go to England now. I have to tell him before I bury it deep again. Here, have some euros for the ride and the check, I have a flight to take.”

Mrs. Sinclaire smiled, knowing she did well in telling her, knowing that hours ago, Ernest was aware that Hayley returned his affections too. Her plan was almost complete.

Five hours ago, in England

“You’ve got it all, Mother?”

“Yes, I’m waiting for one last mail, can you grab it yourself?”

Ernest frowned “Why?”

“Because I have to go to the bathroom and I’ll tell you anyways the content of it.”

He shrugged “Fair enough.”

He snagged some letters that he passed through: bills, more bills, a letter from Hayley Parker—he stopped in short.

Yes, that was indeed Hayley Parker’s handwriting. He opened it, taking care that his mother wasn’t staring before he read it.

Dear Ernest:

I know I have no right, that I am far too young to you, but I don’t think I can ignore this any longer.

I’m in love with you, Ernest. It was never Louis, or James, or Peter. It was you, Ernest. It was you all along, it has always and will always be you. And if there’s someone else, I do not want them, I want you.

I am aware that you are with someone else, but I must know before I decide before I go. I must know what it’s in your heart.

Maybe I was afraid that you’d reject me for being too young or childish for you, but I know you’re not that kind of guy. I know it. I know you.

If there is any chance that there could be a you and I, please meet me at the gates of my flight.

Love,

Hayley.

His heart raced as he started to take it all in.

All this time, she felt the same! But then, who avoided him receiving this letter those five years ago?

He thought as he tried not to sound too interested in when would Hayley come back.

Then, his phone rang. Felicity Holloway. He answered politely “Yes?”

“Hello, Ernest! I was thinking about whether we should get a coffee and talk. Remember that my father said five years ago that I’d be a good girlfriend to you in that dinner? Well, I was thinking—.”

“Felicity, may I know when was that dinner? I’m in a bit of a hurry. Business to get done.”

Could she be cruel enough to do that?

“Oh, that was in the 12th of December, after we got rid of that scum of Parker—.”

He couldn’t even stop himself “So it was you, then?”

“I-I’m sorry?”

“You knew about the letter. The one where Hayley confessed she reciprocated my feelings for her!”

“I—.”

“We will talk soon about privacy… and boundaries.” And then, he hanged up.

His mother emerged and placed a hand on his shoulder “Go, my boy. Run to her. Do not become her father. No matter what, go to her.”

He didn’t know how, but he understood that weren’t for his mother, this couldn’t be happening.

So he ran. And ran. And ran. He didn’t stop, even though there was a small drizzle going on.

He arrived at Westminster Bridge, a bit soaked and panting. He couldn’t believe his eyes. There she was, older, a bit tanner and more beautiful than ever. They looked at each other in the eyes. She approached him slowly, and so did he. And then, they were close. Two more steps and he was all hers.

“Ernest, I—.”

He kissed her, without thinking, he just kissed her. And she kissed him back, her hands on his shoulder and hair, not noticing that some paparazzis followed them. Ernest felt like in heaven. Her lips, with the taste of mint as he dreamed many times, duplicated, now mint and a bit of coffee and cherry lipstick. And it tasted so good. He begged her closer and she obliged, biting his lip, making him shudder. They finally separated, now noticing that people were applauding and it was raining heavily, but his mind was too fuzzy, his only thought Hayley.

“Hayley… Hayls. I must know… do you truly have feelings for me?”

She kissed him again, now a bit shortly, a small smile on her lips “I do. Do you?”

“For longer than I care to admit.”

She chuckled, noticing that her makeup was now a mess all over her face and the powerful rain now sent her a chill through her body. Ernest quickly gathered his jacket and placed it on her shoulders and scolded the paparazzis for interrupting a moment.

He called a cab, paying the ride as he handed her a napkin to clean her face. Even though she was all a mess, she was still beautiful. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She smiled at him “So, what does this make us?”

The cab stopped on her townhouse and he took her hand and guarded her on the porch and looked at her “It’d make you my girlfriend, if that is what you want of me.”

She beamed at him, encircling her hands on his shoulders “I’d like nothing more.”

And with that, they kissed again, under the rain, happily knowing that somehow, this wouldn’t end.  

[zargsnake]

Leyr Burnridge and the Undead Star

Word Count: 3582

This is a story within a story. The framing device involves Star Wars characters, but if you don’t like Star Wars you can skip those parts and just read the main story. The framing device is indented.

   *   *   *

"They were older than our numbers can count, but not older than theirs could. A long time ago, they were just like us: petty, mortal, recycled, thinking from A to B, feeling from B to A, bound to an odd number of senses, and detached from answers to the biggest questions. They had found those answers -- some they figured out themselves, and some they had help from others...others who they had to leave behind. But that was a long time ago. Longer than we could count, but not longer than they could.

They knew everything, saw everything, held everything, controlled everything. They wanted nothing, guessed nothing, believed nothing, tried nothing. They boxed infinity. And for one of them, it was unbearable.”

   *   *   *

Jocasta Nu feels old herself when she looks at the name at the top of the "Year-16 [Adapted] Creative Writing Assignment." Serran's student's student's student, young Skywalker. With his light hair and quiet manner, the young man is a far reach from his great-grandteacher, that outspoken charmer who had bewitched the entire Temple. Back when the Ossus excavation was still well-funded, when the Students for Progress still held meetings with representatives from all levels of the planet, when the Jedi Exploration Corps had a full slate of planned missions -- back when things were good here, really good, because the future seemed so good, because people wanted it to be good -- Serran more than anyone.

She wishes he were still here in the Temple, with that desire and that action, because things are sadder now. The old projects were too ambitious, and people gave up. It turned out the sins of the Outer Rim were worse than anyone had thought. Now even the biggest thinkers assume controlling them is impossible. Determined capitalists can just hold important Mid Rim planets hostage now; people seem to just accept that. And what can you say against the Chancellor? It is seven years into his term, and though people are more miserable than ever, Jocasta thinks his detractors have become just as unreasonable and small-minded as his supporters. And worst of all, of course, the Sith are back. Just when the Mandalorians seemed quelled for good -- the Sith are back, lurking out there in the shadows somewhere. It is all too much. So people just don't care anymore. They just don't believe in anything.

But she knows that even if Serran were here, even if he could keep his legacy intact, so that he was not a stranger to his own direct line -- he wouldn't. Because he doesn't believe in anything anymore either. He told her so, before he left, but she knew before he told her.

   *   *   *

“Leyr Burnridge sat on her windowsill, looking out at the stars, wishing one of them would fall and die. She had an idea that the stars -- for all science says about gases and gravity -- were actually another type of people, a powerful and mysterious alien people -- and if one of them died and you saw it, then they would survive and become your slave forever. She couldn't tell you where she'd gotten this idea -- from a story, maybe, or a dream, or just a wish she'd come up with herself.

If she had an almighty starperson, the first thing she would ask for would be a ship. She did not like to stay in one place. The next thing she would want would be clothes -- she hated to look just one way. She wanted to be anywhere, looking like anything -- fitting in as well or as poorly as she pleased. If she wanted to meet the queen, the snooty courtiers would see her in her finery and let her straight in. If she wanted to plunge into a black hole, she would simply wear a strong enough spacesuit.

Leyr imagined more scenarios like that. She thought it was a very good idea. But she did not break her concentration on the stars. They were as still as her mind was wild, until -- a strike -- a fall. She saw it and smiled.

And then she felt a hand on her shoulder."

   *   *   *

Jocasta remembers the Year-16 CWAs she and Serran wrote. As with all the important or interesting projects of that time, they did them together. The assignment asks Jedi students to reach out through the Force, through all of space and time, and then try to imagine something that is perfectly and utterly impossible. Something that never has happened and never will, not even in the most obscure corners of the galaxy. The very furthest thing from reality -- to imagine that, to the best of their ability.

It is a strange assignment, but a beloved one, and quite traditional. She had asked her master, a shrewd Echani named Menoc Thebe, what the purpose of the assignment was. They told her that the assignment teaches Jedi to separate fact from fiction -- an exercise of surprising importance to their way of life. After all, between prophecies, visions, and universal compassion for every form of life from microscopic organisms to space-faring superbeasts, a Jedi's sense of reality must be bigger and more flexible than that of an ordinary person. Master Menoc had clarified that this heightened awareness has been known, historically, to take a toll on the mental well-being of Jedi knights.

She remembers recounting this exchange to Serran, and his response; he had laughed and said, "The things they do to keep us from going mad."

   *   *   *

"Leyr looked over her shoulder, expecting to see her roommate, but instead she saw a strange man. He was tall, with long silver hair and a young, sad face. His eyes were dark against his shimmering skin, and they seemed more real than the rest of him. Tiny bits and pieces of him disappeared or flickered around, and he faded away altogether half a foot before he reached the floor. Despite all this, he was quite fashionably dressed. Like a prince. Or a devil.

Leyr was not easily scared, and though he must have meant to startle her, she did not let it show. She pushed his hand off her shoulder and shifted her position on the windowsill to face him.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Your star," he replied, "The one you saw die... You have me now."

His voice was a chorus of sounds -- different winds blowing through different tubes, none of them quite like a throat -- more like flutes and low whistles -- and soft percussion, like rain, or static.

"Do -- do you have a name?"

"... No... I am your undead star."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Yes," he said, after a pause.

"Prove it."

"Look outside. Look down this time."

Leyr didn't like to take her eyes off the alien, but she could not resist. Outside, on top of her roommate's garden, was a sleek and beautiful spaceship -- almost exactly like the one she had been admiring in last week's catalogue, but with the improvements she had imagined in her head.

"You'll find the walk-in closet full, to your liking," he said.

She looked back at him, unable to hide her awe.

"Infinitely full, in fact."

   *   *   *

Jocasta finds great joy in reading the short stories. Over her many years as leader of the Year-16 CWA Committee, she has read thousands of them. While she does not have as much experience with the creative writing abilities of non-Jedi children, she can't imagine that they could possibly compare. Jedi reach out to the rest of the universe every day; their imaginations are, by necessity, extremely advanced. At the annual ceremony in which Jocasta explains the assignment, she always says, "Reach out into the Force, as far as you can. And then look even further, to the preposterous beyond."

She is still, even now, proud of the story she wrote herself. It was about a book which had no writer nor publisher; it simply appeared one day, on the desk of an unassuming clerk. The clerk, curious, opened it up and saw his own name there. He hesitated but kept going, and read his fictional self gamble on a fathier race and win. He looked up the next race on Canto Bight's channel, and saw every animal's name, just as it was in the book. He gambled and won, just as he was told.

He used the book as a guide to make the perfect life, and it even told him how to win the love of the man of his dreams. When they were married, he finally told his husband his secret. But when his husband read the book himself, his fictional self became sick and died. This fiction came to pass in reality, too: the young man did not last a week.

Jocasta thought it was a rather scary story, and quite clever, because it was about a story. And it was certainly impossible. Books cannot come from nowhere -- neither can fortune, nor harm. In reality, everything has a source. And it is foolish to put too much trust in a source that you do not understand.

   *   *   *

"For Leyr it was a year; for the undead star, it was barely a moment. He remembered every detail, far better than she did. He even felt it all, which he had not expected. He felt the cold of space and the brilliant sparks of her feelings -- anger, joy, drunkenness, sadness, longing. He could smell the filth of her garbage as he vanished it from existence; he could taste her lips when she kissed him. He could even burn his hand on the ship's stove or exhaust port, though it healed instantaneously. He still felt it. He could almost care.

Anything Leyr could imagine came true, even before she could finish thinking it. Her undead star knew her perfectly, better than anyone ever had, even her own family. Her silliest dreams, her darkest thoughts, her solemnest ideas.

She went around and around on accepting his gifts. Of course, it wasn't fair. She was not the worst-off person; she did not need so much help. And she was not the best person, either -- she didn't deserve it. Not like other people did, surely. But he would always say that she was the one who saw him die, and so he belonged to her.

She would ask what he wanted in return, and his answers would change, and she realized that he was only ever saying what she wanted to hear. He would say "nothing;" but when she grew uneasy with that, he would say "your company;" then after she told him she loved him, he would say "your love." Over time, she realized he didn't mean that. That realization hurt worse than anything ever had. And so she stopped asking him, but she did not stop loving him.

He felt like a breathing lightning storm, always flickering, every part of him a different heartbeat. He weighed as much or as little as she remembered he did. He arranged for her any lover she could think of -- even imaginary ones. But after a while, she stopped caring for others. All she wanted was him.

She felt they were like an electrical circuit. He was the current, and she was the ground. She realized, slowly -- slowly for her -- that he was nothing more than voltages. He had no will of his own, no direction. But she would still absorb the shocks -- if no one else was going to!"

   *   *   *

Jocasta remembers Serran's story, too. He wrote about utopia. In his perfect world, there were no rules; people did not need them. People were good all on their own. It was a world of constant change, without any loyalties at all. It was a world of absolute freedom.

The story was flimsy, something about a family escaping tyranny in their rickety ship only to crash land on his perfect world. Most of the text was the family getting shown around the planet in a grand, beautiful tour. It was inspiring. Even thinking of it now brings tears to Jocasta's eyes. The peace and happiness, the tenderness and trust.

But it will always break her heart to think that, when tasked to create something impossible, Serran created something happy.

   *   *   *

"One day she brought it up again -- that he was lying about wanting her love. He said all the right things, but she was beginning to get too smart for that. So he kissed her and held her, and though she knew she should see through that, too -- she didn't, not as well.

They lay in silence in the night, deep into nowhere. She felt alone. He felt alone, too.

"There is something I want," her undead star said, avoiding her gaze.

"Oh, really?" replied Leyr, not believing.

"Sort of," he responded. "The truth is, my people do not want anything. We evolved past that long ago, before your people existed."

"Oh." She thought about that for a while. "Do you remember when that happened?"

"Yes."

"What do you remember?"

He thought for a few minutes -- not about his answer, but how to explain it to her.

"My creator. We used to have beginnings and ends, like you do. I remember the other being, the one who created me."

"So, like your mother."

"Not really."

They were silent again.

"Did she die before you evolved?" Leyr asked.

"No," he replied. "But after we evolved, we were not related to each other like that anymore... We were unrecognizable."

"That's rough," she said. "I'm sorry."

"I appreciate that," he said, and he meant it, though she didn't think he did. He had said too many lies in the past.

"So what do you 'want,' then? As much as you can want anything."

He was silent. She felt him breathing, louder than before. It sounded like distress. It sure seemed real. She held his hand, and the feeling calmed him. She prayed that it was real.

"Do you want to die?" she asked, sadly.

"No," he said. "I don't want to end myself... I want to begin something else."

He turned to look at her.

"I came to you because you, of all people, had so many wishes. I tried to give them to you."

"You have," she said, stroking his hair. "...But they all seem so trivial, now."

"Perhaps."

He held her face and kissed her again.

"Will you have a child with me?" he asked her.

Leyr had dark eyes, too, and the alien gazed into them. He knew every thought and feeling behind those eyes; he saw her secrets plainly, churning around in chaos at his strange, abrupt question.

He thought her eyes were beautiful. He wouldn't have thought that a year ago.

"Is that possible?" was the question she prioritized. A silly question, but necessary for her linear, agitated mind.

"Anything is possible," he answered, smiling. She played the endless game, guessing if his expression was real or not. This smile seemed different than any other -- perhaps a clue to its authenticity. Certainly this conversation was different than any other. He had never asked for anything before.

"What would our child be like? Like me, or like you?"

"Definitely like you…Partially like me."

"What do you mean? How much of a part?"

"I don't know," he said, after a pause.

"What do you mean, you don't know? You know everything."

"Not this. This is the one thing I don't know."

"How?"

"Because none of my people have done it before." He had never held her hand so tightly. "Because we decided to be through with beginnings and ends, risks, love, all of it. It is forbidden. And I'm the only one of us who can't stand it anymore."

"But what if something terrible happens?" She freed her hand from his grip and held him more gently. "What if such a baby can't make it? What if its life is miserable? What if your people find it and take it away, and make it unrecognizable, anyway?"

"Then, perhaps, I would want to die."

She cradled his head.

"...You have to tell me what would happen," he continued. "I do not know. And what I don't know, I don't know. I can't guess. Only you can guess."

She supposed that made sense, though it felt very unusual.

"Was this your plan all along?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, his breath warm on her skin. "Just as you wished for me, I wished for you."

Leyr gazed up at the stars through the spaceship's great window above their bed. What kind of a choice was this? He held every advantage. He could make the whole ship vanish in a blink. But she wasn't afraid of him. She never had been. She trusted him. She loved him. He was asking to move forward in their relationship -- it was the least alien thing he had ever done.

He could not imagine, but she could. She imagined their child, its every wish granted, its every moment perfect -- just as her life had been perfect this past year. Had it only been a year?

And the alternative? To go on like this, knowing what she knows now of his great misery -- though he wouldn't call it that. Now that she finally knows the truth -- she can't just ignore it. She can't just keep wishing and adventuring, chasing whims and fantasies forever. It's one thing to have an unfair advantage over everyone else in the world -- but to have one over the person she loves most?

"Yes, I'll have a child with you," she said, after this short mental exercise. "I love you."

It was the one of the last things she ever said to him. She woke up in a small apartment in a large city. The sparse, clean rooms had no trace of her lover or anyone else. The son she had shortly after did not look alien. He didn't behave especially strangely, either -- at least, not as strangely as his father.

For a creature who knew all the answers, the undead star had left Leyr with only questions. Perhaps these are the sorts of questions we need to ask, in order to evolve beyond mortality ourselves. Perhaps this is their way to guide us along, to bring us closer to themselves. Or perhaps they will only ever leave us behind.

Leyr Burnridge sat on her windowsill and looked at the stars, wishing one of them would fall and die -- though she knew now that that whole scenario was entirely made-up to seduce her. A godlike alien read her mind and took advantage of her silly idea, all for some great, elaborate ploy to burden her with his little parasite.

Why did he bother? She wished that was the question that kept her up at night. But it was not.

The only question she really cared about was this: Did he leave her, or did they take him away?

In her nightmares, they punished him. They demagnetized the fragile bonds holding the gossamer particles of his body together. They washed the clarity out of his eyes, and ground his soul into wires and glue. They killed him, or assimilated him into whatever horrible, unfathomable thing they are.

It would be simpler to say that she was angry, but that's not the kind of person she was. It would be good to say that she was hopeful, that she believed, that she waited -- and that is a little closer to the truth. But I can't say either of those things. She was afraid -- afraid for her lover and afraid for her son, afraid of impossible creatures who she couldn't explain.

That fear sunk deep under her skin. Deeper than they could feel, but not deeper than we can.

The son of Leyr Burnridge and the undead star could fear just as deeply as his mother could...and he could count for as long as his father could.

His father was lost and his mother was forsaken. But he was born to find the answers, and, this time, to leave no one behind."

   *   *   *

Anakin wonders what to do with the second half of the story. He only sent in the first half, of course, ending at the electric circuit metaphor. It is a bit of an abrupt ending, and makes the story rather short, but he knew the old lady wouldn't mark it as incomplete since it was already getting way too inappropriate. That was a trick Aayla taught him to get away with sending in shorter projects: just make them kind of sexy. It works on most of the teachers here, though you have to be careful not to use it too much because they will tell your master.

He hadn't meant to keep writing, really, after that. He'd meant to keep it all in his head. But it just spilled out so easily and now he's got it, right here, on his stupid computer and Obi Wan -- or worse -- could access it anytime, because Padawan security locks are worthless.

Would that be so bad? ... Yeah. It would.

He wants to just delete it. The only problem is he likes it.

He downloads it onto a datarod, deletes the source document, throws the datarod under his bed and forgets about it until he gets knighted years later and has to thoroughly clean his room so he can move to a bigger one. When he rediscovers it then, at twenty, and remembers what it's about, and how it ends, he tells Artoo to blow it up. Artoo happily obeys.

[bebychangbean]

Strangers Ch.1

Demon! Han Jisung x Reader

First chapter of a 3 part series. This story isn’t gonna be lighthearted and fun btw. It’s based on a nightmare I had a few days ago,,, that should tell you enough. 

Warnings: minor character death, violence, heavy themes.

Next

Word count: 5k

Jisung had always known he was different. There was a voice in his head that had been there since he was a child. The voice told him to do horrible things: hurt his friends, run into a busy street, jump out the window. He had complained to his mom about it for the first time when he was four, but she had already known what was wrong with him.

Jisung had started showing signs of possession when he was five years old. It started with a flash of darkness in his eyes and his tiny hands scratching into his mother’s arm, leaving small red marks on her pale skin. It escalated quickly, Jisung’s body starting to float when he slept, whispering to himself unintelligibly, a different voice coming out of his own mouth.

His mother recognized the second voice and she knew that his condition was her fault.

He shouldn’t have been born.

Jisung became severely violent by 2nd grade, fighting with other kids and getting into trouble. Teachers thought he was just a troubled kid, but Jisung’s mom knew better. Jisung had explained to her the feeling he would get before a fight: blurry vision, involuntary movements and a foggy feeling in his head.

When Jisung was 8, the two of them moved to Malaysia where Jisung could learn to control himself as he got older. He went to school there, causing mayhem until he was eventually pulled out and homeschooled after beating a kid so mercilessly that they had to be taken to the hospital.

By the time Jisung was 14, he could control his impulses fairly well. The voice was still there, and he still talked to it in his dreams, but he was no longer in danger of hurting anyone.

He and his mother moved back to Korea, allowing Jisung to go to highschool and live as normally as possible. He graduated without a hitch, making tons of great friends that stuck with him into his first year of college.

~

School had just ended and Jisung was heading to a nearby convenience store to grab a snack with some friends. His head had been hurting all day, the voice inside just a little louder than usual, his fingers twitching, arms moving with a mind of their own.

Something was wrong.

He pushed those feelings to the side as he approached the counter, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket to pay for the orange juice and the bag of M&M’s he was holding.

His eye twitched, his vision blurring heavily, the edges tinted red. The girl behind the counter said something, but the ringing in his ears drowned her out almost completely. His head was spinning as something in his mind activated his fight-or-flight responses against his will. He staggered as his heart rate jumped.

Jisung’s arms reached out before he could stop them, one hand securing itself around her throat and the other on the side of her face. Hyunjin looked over just in time to see the commotion, letting out a shout of alarm and running toward his friend.

He was too late, the girl’s eyes rolled back in her head, a scream caught in her throat as Jisung snapped her head violently to the side, his own head mimicking the action mockingly. A disgusting crack resounded throughout the shop.

Hyunjin grabbed Jisung’s arms, pulling them away from the poor cashier who fell promptly to the ground.

The tall boy’s shouts alerted the rest of their friends who were scattered around the small convenience store and Chan ran over to see what was wrong. He dashed immediately behind the counter to check on the girl, alarmed at the awkward angle her head was at and the stillness of her pale figure. He lifted her by the arms into a sitting position, looking into her vacant eyes as he checked for a pulse and watching for even the faintest rise and fall of her chest. Finding nothing, he looked frantically up at Hyunjin.

“She’s not breathing!” he yelled, panic taking over.

Hyunjin was still holding Jisung by the shoulders, shaking him and trying to get him to respond.

“What did you do?” he screamed, eyes bulging, tears streaming down his face at his best friend’s actions, “Jisung what the fuck did you just do?”

Jisung’s vision was still cloudy, intrusive thoughts echoing in his mind. Everything was going too fast, Hyunjin’s shouts, the vicious movement of his already dizzy body.

Within seconds the rest of the boys were crowded around the counter to see what was wrong. Chan shouted for someone to call an ambulance as he continued trying to wake up the girl who was clearly long gone. Jisung covered his ears with his hands to block out the voices of his friends, but it only amplified the shrieks in his head.

“Run!” the voice said. “Get as far from here as you can!”

And Jisung listened. Ripping Hyunjin’s hands off his shoulders and shoving past Seungmin and Minho. He sprinted out the door and down the street, shoving pedestrians, running faster than he ever had, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Jisung didn’t even bother to look where he was going, his feet taking him wherever they pleased, whipping around corners and across streets. Cars honked furiously at him as he dodged through traffic, trying to get away from the police he knew would soon arrive.

Jisung was so in his head that he didn’t hear the heavy padding of the feet that followed him. Chan had jumped the counter to run after him as soon as Jisung left the convenience store, Hyunjin and Minho close behind.

Chan’s chest was heaving from the effort of chasing his friend–was Jisung always this fast?–he heard the sirens ringing out from the convenience store a few blocks away.

Hyunjin was having a hard time keeping up, but Minho grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along, the three of them not letting Jisung get away.

The four of them ran for at least 30 minutes, Jisung trying to get out of the city before the cops found him. He was sure that his face would be on the news within hours. He wondered what his sentence would be if he was caught. He thought briefly about his friends who had stayed behind in the store, selling him out to the police. He thought of the girl he killed. He didn’t even know her name, his eyes skipping over the nametag that was clipped to her shirt.

Jisung shook his head as he stopped to catch his breath, leaning against the side of a building on the outskirts of Seoul. The other three caught up to him there, Chan grabbing his arm to stop him from escaping again.

“What the fuck, Jisung,” he said, gasping. “Where are you going?”

Jisung looked up at him and Chan noticed the tears in his eyes and the scared expression on his face. He realized that Jisung’s life could never be the same after this. He also realized that he didn’t want his best friend of four years to go to prison and never be seen again.

“I didn’t mean to,” Jisung whispered, burying his head in Chan’s chest.

Chan wanted to push him away, still scared and disgusted with the younger boys actions. He would never be able to forget the feeling of holding the limp body of the girl who looked like she couldn’t have been much older than himself.

“I couldn’t control myself,” Jisung continued, “It’s like something took over. I couldn’t stop it in time.” He looked down, clutching onto Chan and attempting to steady his breathing and stop the panic from rising inside himself.

“We can’t stay here,” Minho said. “The police will find us if we’re out in the open like this.”

Hyunjin’s eyes widened at Minho’s words. Was he implying that they keep running and hide from the police?

Jisung wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, Minho locking eyes with him reassuringly. “I’m not leaving you, Jisung,” he said, taking his hand and pulling him away from the wall.

The two boys had known each other since they were children. They grew up on the same street, keeping in contact even during the six years that Jisung was in Malaysia. Minho was the only person Jisung had ever told about the voice in his head and the older boy was sure Jisung wouldn’t have acted this way on his own. He knew it wasn’t his fault.

Minho started to run again, a little bit slower this time, pulling Jisung behind him. Chan kicked off the wall next to them, getting ready to run after the two.

“You two better explain this later,” Hyunjin muttered, taking off as well.

They continued to run until they were just out of Seoul, then walking along a dirt road on the edge of Suwon. They didn’t forget to toss their phones in a nearby puddle, effectively killing them. They stomped on them, just to be safe, and buried them a few feet off the dirt road they were walking on. They weren’t taking any chances of getting caught. If they were gonna run away, they were gonna do it right.

The houses in Suwon were few and far between, farmland taking up a majority of the wide landscape. It was unlikely that they would be found here, so they decided they needed a place to stay for the time being.

“That patch of trees looks pretty nice,” Minho said, pointing out a relatively hidden spot a few yards off the road.

“We don’t have blankets,” Chan pointed out.

“Or food,” Hyunjin added.

“Well damn, I didn’t realize y’all wanted to be picky,” Minho shot back, rolling his eyes.

“I wouldn’t call basic necessities ‘being picky’,” Hyunjin argued, the two quarrelling like usual.

Jisung quietly kept walking along the road, clearly not content with sleeping outside in the middle of autumn. Chan caught up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. Jisung didn’t say anything–he’d been eerily quiet since they’d left the city–and lifted his hand to point at a cozy looking house about half a mile away.

“You wanna stay there? What if someone lives there?” Chan asked, wary of showing their faces to strangers. The boys had pulled facemasks from their backpacks to hide their identities once they got out of Seoul, Hyunjin and Chan pulling up the hoods of their jackets to shield themselves from oncoming cars.

“I don’t care,” Jisung responded, his voice hollow and devoid of emotion.

Chan simply nodded and kept walking with him, Minho and Hyunjin still bickering quietly in the back.

~

The knock on the door startled you. You nearly burned yourself on the edge of the pan you were cooking with as you turned to look at the window next to the door, the sheer curtains showing the silhouettes of two boys holding hands nervously. You turned the fire down and wiped your hands on your apron, walking toward the door. Sure, as a young girl living on your own it was probably not wise to open the door for strangers, but the crime rates were low here and you were willing to take your chances.

Upon opening the door, you were greeted with four nervous faces, two smiling and the other two with shifty eyes.

“Can I help you?” you asked politely. You figured they were neighbors who had just moved in nearby.

“Um…” the boy with curly hair trailed off, trying to figure out how to word his next sentence. “We need a place to stay for the night and we were wondering if we could maybe stay here?” Chan asked, wringing his hands in front of him.

Your eyebrows raised, unsure of what to do in this situation. Obviously you shouldn’t let them stay. They hadn’t even told you their names. Then again, the sun was starting to set and it would soon be quite cold outside. You’d feel horrible if they froze to death.

You wordlessly stepped aside, letting the four boys into your home, slapping yourself mentally as you realized that you were such a stereotypical horror movie character. But they looked so tired, the least you could do was feed them and get to know them a little. They seemed relatively harmless.

You led them back to your kitchen, the space now a little more crowded than before. “Please, sit,” you said, gesturing to the dining table on the other side of the room.

The boys moved cautiously from the doorway as if they were worried about scaring you if they went too fast. You simply resumed your cooking, adding a bit more rice to the pan to accommodate for your newcomers.

“So what’s up with you guys? How’d you get out here?” You asked, thinking for a second before adding, “And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me your names.”

“I’m Chan,” the boy with the curly hair from before spoke up.

“Minho,” added another boy from his seat at the table. He nudged the boy next to him, silently telling him to go next.

“I’m Hyunjin,” he said. He turned to the final boy whose eyes were cast down at his hands as he played with his fingers. “That’s Jisung.”

You nodded and introduced yourself, “I’m Y/n.” You waited for them to continue talking as you turned back to your fried rice, still not knowing what the boys were doing showing up at your house at 7 pm.

Chan spoke up, “We’re on vacation,” he lied, “We came from Seoul to spend a week–”

“We’re on the run,” Jisung spoke up, cutting off Chan’s next words. You spun around and looked blankly at him. Those were the first words Jisung had said to you, and they weren’t reassuring your decision to let them into your house. “We’re wanted,” Jisung looked dead at you. “I’m wanted.”

You sighed and ran a hand through your hair. Of course your life couldn’t be like some fairytale movie and you had to meet a band of criminals. You had half a mind to just tell them to leave and chase them out with a knife, but they’d been otherwise nice and harmless so you almost couldn’t believe Jisung’s statement.

“I don’t even want to know what for, do I?” you asked rhetorically. “Anyways, I hope you guys like fried rice.”

They did, apparently, the four of them ravenous after running for almost four hours. There wasn’t much talking during the meal, but Chan made sure to thank you for your hospitality, the other boys following suit. They expected you to kick them out once dinner was over and to be honest, you probably should. You already knew that they were criminals and you knew nothing else but their names, but it was still unlikely that they’d survive the night outside.

You had two spare rooms anyway and the couch was pretty comfortable. It was fortunate that the boys had come when you were the only one home, your parents living in Seoul for work and your older brother travelling overseas for school. You were taking a year off of college to focus on getting a job and making money so that your tuition didn’t put you in debt for life.

Chan stood up from his seat, bowing respectfully to you and thanking you again for the meal, Hyunjin standing up shortly after. The boys shuffled towards the door, Jisung the last one to move.

“Wait,” you called out. “You guys can stay the night.”

Minho turned around, shock riddling his features. You were actually going to let them stay? Even after Jisung blew their cover? He was almost going to question your decision before Chan cut in. He wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip away, thanking you profusely and bowing.

You led the boys to your brothers room and upstairs to your parents room. You watched, amused, as the boys played rock-paper-scissors to determine who would be staying on the couch. The five of you didn’t talk much after that, the boys throwing their backpacks near the foot of the beds and passing out rather quickly. Chan had told you that they’d come on foot all the way from Seoul so their sleepiness made sense. He didn’t explain why they were hiding from the police, but you figured you’d have an easier time sleeping if you didn’t know. Ignorance is bliss.

You made sure they all had water and that Chan, who was taking the couch, was comfortable before slipping upstairs into your room.

You locked the door behind you, still not fully trusting the strangers, and you tossed and turned a little before finally falling asleep.

~

Jisung had never shared a bed with anyone before, so tucking up next to Minho in your parents’ bed worried him. Minho was his best friend and the only one who truly knew Jisung’s secret, but he was still wary of his sleeping habits. He prayed silently that Minho would sleep all the way through the night as he drifted off to sleep.

His prayers were apparently unanswered as he woke Minho up around 2:00 am.

The older boy fought for the blanket he was sharing with Jisung while they slept, rolling over to face him when he felt the blanket shift further off of his body, exposing him to the chilly air in the room. Minho slowly peeked one eye open to look at the small boy, confused for a second as to why Jisung was not there. Rather, the blanket was dragged upwards into the air and Minho’s eyes followed it to his friend’s levitating body.

Jisung was floating almost three feet above the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, blanket still covering the lower half of him. The boy was whispering quietly to himself, two distinctly different voices coming out of his mouth.

Minho listened, stunned, as they conversed. He realized that the second voice, the deep one that certainly did not belong to Jisung, was speaking a different language. It wasn’t one he recognized, but Jisung responded in Korean. Minho only understood bits of the conversation, but it seemed like Jisung was accepting praise from the other voice.

Minho slowly came to his knees on the bed, arms reaching out to hold Jisung and gently pull him back to the bed. He was worried that Jisung might wake and fall suddenly, so he was as gentle as possible. It didn’t take much effort to lower the boy back down, but as soon as he removed his hands, Jisung’s body would start to float back up.

Minho threw an arm and a leg over the sleeping boy to hold him down. Jisung’s whispering hadn’t stopped, but the voices were a little quieter than before. Minho didn’t know why he was so calm when faced with his levitating best friend, but he simply shut his eyes and tried to fall back asleep.

~

You woke to the quiet sound of your phone alarm going off at 6:00 am. You had set it early to make sure that you would be the first one up, not wanting to give the boys the time to wander around your house. You stayed in bed for a bit, scrolling through your phone, killing time until you heard quiet voices in the room next door. Jisung and Minho were awake, it seemed.

You kicked your feet off the side of your bed, pulling the hood of your soft sweater over your ratty hair and giving yourself a once-over in the mirror. You walked out the door and down the stairs, finding Chan wide awake on the couch. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all (he hadn��t), but he still greeted you with a charming smile before getting up from the couch.

He followed you into the kitchen, sitting down at the table and watching you pull out ingredients for a large breakfast. You didn’t know what the boys liked, but you decided omelets couldn’t be too bad.

Chan helped you grate cheese as you sliced up some ham and mushrooms for filling.

“Hyunjin doesn’t like mushrooms, by the way,” Chan said, breaking the silence in the room.

You snickered quietly at how well he knew his friends and continued on to cut up some green onions.

“Hyunjin doesn’t like onions either,” Chan added with a laugh.

“God damnit, he’s getting eggs then,” you said, exasperated.

The tall boy walked into the kitchen behind you, groaning and dragging his feet. He also looked like he hadn’t slept much despite how tired he was last night. He collapsed into a chair at the table, closing his eyes as if trying to get just another minute of sleep.

“Hey, picky,” you called out to him. He opened his eyes slowly, raising his eyebrows at the nickname. “How do you like your eggs?” you asked.

“Just the whites,” he responded, sinking back into his chair comfortably.

“What the fuck,” you whispered to Chan. He rolled his eyes and pulled a frying pan off the rack on the wall while you opened a cupboard to get the oil.

You made Hyunjin’s awful food first, sprinkling some salt on his dish and handing him the steaming plate of scrambled egg whites. It looked disgusting, but he didn’t look phased as he thanked you and started eating.

You and Chan then got to work making edible food, pulling out extra plates for the other two boys who came down the stairs together, holding hands. You almost made a joke before you remembered Jisung’s words from last night, the sudden realization of who they were hitting you in the face.

You had seen an article on your phone about a murder in Seoul. Police said that a young boy had killed a girl in a convenience store, but there wasn’t much more information about the case. You wondered briefly if those were the boys in your house before turning yourself back to the eggs at hand.

Once you had served the boys, you took your plate and sat on the couch in the living room as the table in your kitchen only seated four. You turned on the TV, scrolling to the news channel. You needed to confirm your suspicions before you decided whether you’d be kicking the boys out of the house today or not.

The boys heard the news anchor before they could stop you, their ears perking up at the familiar story, Chan shooting up from the table, eyes widening.

“Han Jisung’s whereabouts remain under investigation after his murder of Kim Eunjung in a 7/11 in Dongdaemun-Gu yesterday,” the announcer said.

You stared, horrified at the picture of Jisung on the TV. Chan’s head peeked out of the doorway to look at the TV, eyes fixed on his friend’s face.

You glanced toward Chan, your eyes meeting Jisung’s who stood behind him as the announcer continued talking.

“His three friends have also gone missing after Han ran from the scene,” pictures of Chan, Hyunjin, and Minho flashed across the screen. “If you have any information on the location of these people please call 119.”

You pulled your feet up onto the couch, wrapping your arms around your knees and hiding your face. This couldn’t be happening. Jisung had already told you he was wanted, but seeing the police report had solidified the truth.

“Y/n,” Chan started. He didn’t know what he was going to say. They couldn’t get out of this one. “I promise we’re not dangerous,” he said.

“Oh really?” you asked rhetorically, your brain falling back on sarcasm to hide how scared you truly were. “Then what the fuck did I just watch?”

Chan couldn’t answer. Truthfully, he didn’t even know what was wrong with Jisung. The boy was usually so sweet and innocent, he didn’t understand why he’d lashed out so suddenly.

Jisung stepped into the living room and turned off the TV, his eyes not missing the way you flinched away from him. It hurt him a little bit, but he understood your actions.

He sat down on the floor in front of you, sighing to himself as he realized that he would have to come clean to everyone.

“I’m not fully human,” Jisung said clearly.

All eyes shot toward him except Minho, who had heard this story before.

“My father is a demon,” he clarified. “Minho is the only one I told, but I have my pieces of my father inside of me, feeding off my energy. He always speaks to me, but I can usually control his impulses and ignore his thoughts…” Jisung trailed off. “I don’t know what happened yesterday, but he took over. I couldn’t stop it in time.”

‘This kid is fucking insane,’ you thought to yourself, eyes blinking incredulously at the ridiculous story Jisung had just told. Chan and Hyunjin looked just as skeptical and Jisung started to sweat under their doubtful gazes. Perhaps he didn’t expect you to understand, but he hoped for a little bit of sympathy from his closest friends.

Minho spoke up to defend him, “He’s not lying,” he said. “He floats in his sleep. I saw it last night. And there were two different voices coming out of his mouth when he talked.”

“So you’re both crazy,” Hyunjin said accusingly, backing against the wall of the kitchen, shaking his head at his friends. Your eyes darted around the room, studying the boys' expressions.

“I don’t think he’s lying,” Chan said. You could almost see the gears turning in his head, things clicking into place as he remembered little moments with Jisung that hinted to his confession. “He talks in his sleep. Two different voices. I remember it,” he admitted. “I don’t know about the floating shit though.”

“How do you know?” Jisung asked, his question not helping his claims, but he was always careful not to fall asleep around anyone. He was curious when he’d slipped up.

“You fell asleep in my car one time,” Chan answered. “I remembered thinking it was weird, but I didn’t ask any questions,” he explained.

“Your seatbelt,” Minho interjected. “It must have held you down.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Hyunjin said. You could tell he was starting to panic, his voice a bit shaky, breathing unstable. Chan moved toward him, but Hyunjin pushed him away. The younger boy continued speaking, his voice getting louder with every word, “You’re telling me I was tossing and turning in bed last night trying to figure out why the fuck my best friend had just murdered someone right before my eyes when the whole fucking time you had a demon inside you?”

“I couldn’t have just told you though, could I?” Jisung asked. “You’d think I’m crazy. You already do.”

You were silent this whole time, watching the boys try to understand Jisung’s predicament. Trying to think of what to do next. You had never heard of demons being real before, only ever hearing about them in books or on TV, maybe remembering the faintest story of them in church when you were a child. There’s no way that was real. There was no evidence online or anything.

“Are there more of you?” you asked, the boys suddenly remembering that you were there. “I’ve never heard of any real demons before.”

Jisung was relieved that you were finally believing him. “If there are then they certainly haven’t said anything. I guess it’s the same as me never telling you guys,” he said, gesturing to Chan and Hyunjin.

You didn’t know what to believe. If he was telling the truth, then you should certainly kick him out of your house right this instant. And if he was lying then you should still kick him out. You didn’t know what was more dangerous: a boy with a demon in his head, or a lying psychopath.

You stood abruptly from the couch. “I think it’s time for you guys to go,” you said, ushering them toward the door. Sure it was rude of you, but all formalities were out the window the second demon boy had revealed himself.

“Wait,” Jisung said, suddenly terrified at the prospect of being caught by the police. “They’ll find us outside. I can’t go to jail, please,” he cried. “It’s not my fault. The police wouldn’t believe me. I’d have to plead insanity and–”

Jisung was getting worked up rather quickly, fighting against your gentle push toward the exit. His feet were planted and he clearly wasn’t going anywhere, his strength not matching up to his small frame.

“I’m not housing murderers any longer,” you said firmly, “I’ve already done too much. What was I thinking? Feeding you all and letting you stay the night,” you let out a sigh, disappointed in your foolish self as you continued to push against Jisung. “You guys could kill me any second now,” you added, making sure they knew how uncomfortable you were with their presences now that you knew the truth.

“Wait. Please,” Minho said, looking at you with his big round eyes. “He’s not dangerous. He’s controlled the impulses for 19 years. Yesterday was the first slip-up. It won’t happen again,” he assured. He didn’t even know if that was true. Maybe the first murder would open the flood gates and Jisung would go on a rampage. He had kept so much pent up inside of him for so long.

Jisung nodded furiously, willing to do anything to prevent you from turning him out into the street. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in prison, especially for a crime he didn’t commit on purpose, but he knew the CCTV footage from the 7/11 would be impossible to fight in court. He and his father had talked about it all last night.

You shook your head. How the fuck were you supposed to just let them stay here in your house? But even you had to admit that it wasn’t fair for Jisung to be thrown in jail for something he couldn’t control. Besides, he was only 19. He would spend at least half of his life in prison if he got caught, worst-case-scenario being the death penalty. How could you do that to him? You would never wish that on anybody.

You dropped to the floor and gave up entirely. “What am I supposed to do?” you asked yourself.

“Please just let us stay a little bit longer,” Jisung begged. You looked up to see his big, brown eyes fill with tears, “Just until we find somewhere else to go.”

You nodded, not trusting your words. You knew it was a mistake. You knew it was illegal to hide criminals in your house. If they were found here, you’d all be in trouble.

You were in some deep shit.

[nahte123456]

Marinette Bio-Dad idea, White Collar:Neal

Alright I was doing that stupid fanfic-writer thing where I saw two characters in a short time frame and went “I bet I can think of a story for this”. Those two being Marinette and Neal. I like the whole Bio-dad thing and they do both have blue eyes so I went with it when I found something out, Neal is meant to be around 33 in Season 3 as far as I can figure(it’s said the character is meant to be around the actors age and that kinda works with what Ellen says iirc) and Marinette is meant to be 13.

Neal’s age is an approximate and we know that when he was 18 and ran away from home he did some stupid stuff until Mozzie picked him up. So is it so hard to believe that Neal, fresh from running away and just starting to con see’s a vacationing Tom and Sabine, thinks to try and con/steal some money from them, and starts buying them drinks under an assumed(and older) name. He then learns that they are nice people that seem to just care about him because they are good people and can’t go through with the con, but at that point they are all drunk and attractive young adults and nature takes it’s course and an accident with a condom makes a Marinette that Neal doesn’t know about.

Until a few years later that is. We know Neal was in Paris at one point so in between con’s he remember this nice couple that helped him out for a night and decides he’ll look them up, pop into there restaurant and buy something, maybe they won’t even recognize him. Only to see tiny Mari who 100% has his eyes. And Sabine walks in and she’s not dumb, she recognizes Neal and realizes what he see’s and so he’s invited in and they all have a talk about there daughter.

So Neal starts to give an abridged version of his side of the story when Babynette walks over with a surprisingly good colored pencil sketch of what was, if only by the colors, clearly him. And Neal has a bit of a breakdown at this point, not like a sobbing wreck or anything but he has a host of family issues, pressure from being on the run, and the surprise of a daughter all get to him so instead of some made up story he tells them the truth about the whole witness protection childhood and once he starts he can’t stop until he’s told them everything about being a con, and they were originally his marks and now he’s a master forger and con artist.

Tom and Sabine are...accepting. They don’t really understand either Neal’s need to do these things or the reasons he started but they get that his life was different from theirs, and despite being a criminal he’s been nothing but a good guy to them. So they invite Neal to stay the night and he agrees, eating dinner with the family and bonding with the 3, before sleeping in the guest room.

The next day the adults work out a deal. Neal doesn’t want to be some absentee father Marinette only learns about when she’s an adult and wonders about him forever like he had to, but obviously he can’t just stay for a number of reasons, not the least of which is ‘Burke The Jerk’ getting closer and closer every day. So instead they set up communications, he can call, send gifts, letters, whatever, as long as no big trouble is tracked back to them and no gift or money he sends is illegal. He agrees.

So this goes on and flows into the show until just before Sarah finds out about the U-Boat treasure Mozzie has. White Collar is mostly the same as Neal is still keeping Marinette away from things, and he’s more then sneaky enough to get into contact without being caught, Neal is slightly better off as he was more cautious and he kept more resources to send/liquidate for Marinette.

As for Miraculous, again largely the same overall, Marinette is slightly more confident and knowledgeable about art, she does forgeries as a type of destressing although she always signs them to not get in trouble. The only large change is her having more money for her designing, and that she tells Neal about the Miraculous as he’s far enough away to be safe and he knows better then anyone about secrets and needing to do things.

The change comes after Lila shows up again, I don’t imagine this as a salt-fic(I like salt-fics fine but I don’t think that tone would work great with White Collar) but that is a lot of stress for a teen. Her designing, being bullied, being a superhero, school, just everything. So Neal offers Tom and Sabine a deal, he can take her in for like a month, where she only has to worry about designing and keeping up with school(and Superhero work but with Horse and Rabbit Miraculous that’s also easier without so many people watching). Then Neal and Mari talk and she agrees, she’ll take Tikki, the Rabbit and Horse, some design stuff, and school necessities and that’s it. Just destressing in New York with her father.

Of course Neal being a little shit Neal picks an airport just outside of his range and then at the Burke’s one day he tells Peter “Hey I need your help to get to ____Airport tomorrow, my daughter is coming in and I want to pick her up.” After the freak out from both Burke’s and Neal’s taunting he give a (mostly) complete explanation about his stupid years then finding out about his daughter. To which Peter correctly figures out where some money had vanished in the past and why Neal sometimes went above board to get jewelry and such, to give it to his daughter without any heat being attached.

So Peter agrees to go with him, but El decides she’s going to and rather then trying to both bunk at Neal’s place Marinette can stay in there guest bedroom(Peter’s not thrilled with this sudden information but rolls with it for now). The next day they go to pick up Marinette, who’s cuteness and happiness wins over El immediately although Peter is more suspicious.

After that is a lot of bonding, Marinette shows her signed-forgeries which both worries Peter(she is already far to good at that for his comfort), but also comforts him(even when not selling Neal never so blatantly made sure his work was distinguishable from the real thing), although Marinette does kind of ruin that by stealing his wallet as a “I am Neal’s daughter” thing, same smile to. Neal loves it, El thinks she’s adorable, Peter just knows this’ll mean more work for him somehow.

Over the next week Marinette works on some dresses and meets the rest of the crew. She and Diana get along good, Diana likes her spunk, she and Jones bonds surprisingly well(I want Jones to have a bigger role then normal), and June loves her as much as El does. Mozzie freaks out more then a little at first, but after he gets over it he becomes convinced Marinette will be great and really tries to corrupt her and Marinette does like him in his own zany way.

As for her and Sarah, they grind at first, Marinette doesn’t want to ruin anything for Neal and Sarah doesn’t know how to deal with a child so they kind of both try to pull back without hurting anyone and it all goes wrong but eventually they bond and Marinette asks to make her a dress that looks good and hides her baton and Sarah agrees. Neal’s happy about this but also more then slightly worried about getting teamed up on(it’s bad enough when Moz and Peter gang up on him much less them).

I’ll be honest I don’t have a real ‘plot’ in mind mostly just a bunch of character interaction I think would be great fun. Marinette and El talking fashion, Neal and Peter having a talk on how to deal with a child, and so on so forth.

[slusheeduck]

Shades

Just a little conversation between friends, roughly 15ish years before the end of the world.

~

               “You know, Crowley, I’ve always meant to ask. What are the glasses…for, exactly?”

               They’re in a tiny dim sum place in Soho, Crowley’s treat after Aziraphale took on a particularly boring temptation for him. Which…well, it was a little one. More of a test, really, because taking loans out wasn’t illegal and it really wasn’t his fault if the Labour Party actually went through with it. All the better to redeem them later on. Probably.

               Sitting across from him, Crowley’s nursing a tiny cup of baijiu that never seems to run out. He raises his eyebrows at the question, adjusting the items in question.

               “Well, they’re supposed to keep the sun out of y—”

               “No, I know what they’re for. But…” Aziraphale hesitates. The restaurant is crowded and noisy—which, along with their positively scrummy turnip cakes, is why he loves it so much. But even with all the noise, he takes care to lower his voice. “But you’ve had them for the better part of four millennia. In fact, you’re the first person I recall ever seeing wear sunglasses.”

               “Ah, well, that’s my own fault.” Crowley drains his glass; by the time Aziraphale blinks, it’s full again. (Which was…fine, except that it took away from the experience of serving baijiu properly.) “Got a little too chummy with Nero, and—”

               “So you set Rome on fire?”

               Crowley looks personally offended. “Six thousand years and you still think humans can’t be awful on their own? No, I was just getting him ready to take a little bribe and six months later, boom, everything’s on fire while he’s sawing away at ‘Chaconne’.” He sinks down in his seat. “Well, anyway, he saw my glasses, thought they were utterly brilliant and got his own pair before putting the world’s only sunglass-crafter to death.” He shakes his head disgustedly. “Complete waste of effort on my part. Could only get away with a trick like that once before word got downstairs, so I had to wait nearly a thousand years for the next pair.”

               Aziraphale tilts his head ever so slightly. “Trick? As in…” Crowley grimaces, but Aziraphale does not stop. “As in you miracled them into existence?”

               Crowley waves his hand with a sharp tch-tch-tch! sound. “It’s hardly a miracle. Not my fault if humans can’t tell the difference between divine and infernal inspiration.”

               Too late. Aziraphale is already grinning at him, even as Crowley obviously grows more uncomfortable. “But that’s wonderful. I mean, sunglasses never seem like a big thing, but they’ve helped so many people. Why, just think of all the go—”

               “I didn’t do it for other people, angel, I did it for my job!” Crowley snaps, slapping a hand on the table loud enough to draw a few glances their way.  They both clear their throats, and Crowley slumps back in his seat, arms crossed. “And anyway, how could it be a help? I’ve heard plenty of people complain in-earshot about people who wear sunglasses even when the sun isn’t out, and if they get mad about that, then they’ve paved their own way to us.” He smirks a bit. “After all, the road to hell is paved with…”

               “Good intentions?”

               “Constant annoyances.”

               Aziraphale is not convinced—but then, he hasn’t been convinced that Crowley’s wholly demon-y in at least a millennium. What he does know is that trying to push this point will launch Crowley into a tremendous strop, and that would ruin a nice afternoon. So he lets it drop, and returns to his original question.

               “Well, that still doesn’t say why you wear them.”

               Crowley sinks back in his seat, relaxing again and clearly relieved that the talk of his potential goodness was done. “It’s camouflage.”

               “…camouflage.”

               “It’s a necessity! These—” For the quickest half-second, Crowley raised his shades. “—don’t lend themselves to subtlety, do they?”

               “Well, can’t you just…?” Aziraphale waves his hand vaguely. “Hide them?” When Crowley taps on his glasses, he clarifies, “With your powers.”

               “Nope.” Once again, Crowley drains his glass. “Some things stick, no matter how corporeal you are.” The glass is full again; Aziraphale considers asking him to just use the bottle next time. “You’ve got some folklore books, yeah? So I’m sure you’ve seen all the stuff humans think about us, ways to tell we’re demons, right?”

               “Well, certainly, but it’s not true.” Crowley raises his eyebrows, and Aziraphale leans forward. “It is? But it’s ridiculous! Things like hollowed out backs and chicken’s feet?” He glances down. “Have you got—?”

               “No, I don’t have chicken’s feet. But no matter how smart of a demon you are—and, honestly, most of them aren’t that smart—something’s gonna be off.” He nods his head upward. “I think someone wanted to make sure humans got a fighting chance against us. Not that they need help getting into trouble.”

               Aziraphale frowns. “So…well, I’m sorry, but your lot doesn’t seem to put much effort into presentation. Don’t people…notice?”

               “Some do. But humans have a surprising tolerance for weirdness.” Crowley shrugs. “They see festering wounds and blacked out eyes and think ‘Aw, poor thing, that’s unfortunate.’ But someone walks up to you with snake eyes and even the stupidest human’s going to know that’s bad news.” He smirks at Aziraphale. “And anyway, even the laziest of us manage better than your lot. Don’t see us showing up covered in eyes or as a big flaming wheel…”

               “I haven’t,” Aziraphale replies sharply, setting his chopsticks down in indignation.

               “Well, no, you haven’t. But when your standard greeting is ‘Be not afraid,’ I think your general strategy around talking to humans needs to be tweaked.”

               Aziraphale sighs, looking upward for a moment before he says, “I tried. Can’t tell you how many notices I sent to them before they finally read one. Must’ve been around 350 before they caught on that humans like us to be human-shaped.”

               “BC or AD?”

               “AD.”

               “Oh, dear.”

               “Precisely.” Aziraphale picks up his chopsticks again, but only taps them against his plate in mild irritation. He glances around, then once again lowers his voice to keep anyone—in the restaurant or beyond—from hearing. “Sometimes…sometimes I think they’re so concerned with keeping the divine plan moving that they’re just…going through the motions until the end.”

               “Well, why wouldn’t they? It’s ineffable, isn’t it?” Despite the mocking in his voice, Crowley sighs, elbow on the table and chin in hand. “No, it’s the same with my side. It’s like they’re still stuck in the early hundreds—carnal sins and all that. Did you know no one’s said anything about the M25?”

               “What?”

               “Not a word.”

               “But it’s horrible!”

               “I know!”

               “And you even made it a sigil.”

               Crowley waves his hands toward Aziraphale in silent but emphatic agreement. “That’s it, that’s the thing! Neither of our sides appreciates craftsmanship.” Aziraphale can tell Crowley’s rolling his eyes behind his shades before he plops both elbows on the table. “But then, I guess that makes sense, doesn’t it? We are technically the same.”

               Once again, the chopsticks are down. “I beg your pardon?”

               “Oh, come on, you’re not that thick.” Crowley’s cheek pulls up in a half-smile. “All of us were angels once. And really, we’ve still got the same skill set, haven’t we? I mean, both of us can do miracles and temptations…”

               “Well, yes, but it’s really more like a test on my side and…”

               “Don’t circle-talk me, angel, I’m the one who came up with what we say in our memos.”

               Aziraphale is silent for a moment. He knows, of course, that Crowley was an angel once. And that, on a technical level, a fallen angel is still an angel. But he’d never really thought of it before. Well, not quite. The truth was, he’d never let himself think of it before now. It was one thing to sneakily befriend a demon; it was another thing altogether to befriend someone who was like you until they made a bad choice.

               “Do you remember what it was like?” he asks softly. At Crowley’s look, he clarifies, “Heaven, I mean.”

               Crowley is obviously caught off-guard by the question, but to his credit, he tries his best to look like he isn’t. He sniffs and looks to the side, very coolly. “Of course. Can’t be eternal torment if you don’t remember what you lost, can it?”

               That statement alone makes something deep in Aziraphale curl up tightly in discomfort, but now that he’s on this trail, he needs to know more. “Do you remember where you were, in the rankings? Or what your name was?” He smiles a bit. “The Almighty has a sense of humor, but even She wouldn’t name an angel Crawly.”

               Crowley’s lips thin, and Aziraphale wonders if he’s gone too far. For someone who’s quick to say he ‘sauntered vaguely downward’ and relishes in his work, Crowley’s always been surprisingly reticent about the actual rebellion bit. Just as Aziraphale’s about to apologize, Crowley drains his glass. This time, it doesn’t refill.

               “Everything gets a bit fuzzy,” he says, voice carefully kept even. “You remember bits and pieces of what you did before, but really you just know that you can’t go back to somewhere splendid. If I had a name, I’ve lost it, and if I had any sort of ranking, I’ve lost that, too.”

               Crowley, Aziraphale knows, has a habit of lying. It’s how he’s kept himself out of trouble for so long. But this time, he’s not sure what the sadder option is: Crowley lying, or Crowley telling the truth.

               Aziraphale takes the small ceramic bottle, pouring miraculously warm baijiu into Crowley’s glass and one that’s very conveniently shown up beside it. They take the cups. Neither drink. Crowley’s attention seems to have drifted to the large family beside them. They aren’t doing anything of note, really; just the usual family bickering and talking over each other. But beneath the carefully neutral expression, Aziraphale thinks he can pick up a hint of wistfulness.

               “They don’t know how lucky they are, do they?” Crowley asks quietly. “They can ask all sorts of questions, or believe in flying spaghetti monsters, or even outright say God isn’t real. All without punishment. They can do whatever they want, cosmic plan be damned.”

               Aziraphale knows he should say that the good ones don’t do that. But he’s thought about this for far too long to even consider giving a heaven-approved response. Instead, he looks to the family as well, taking a moment to note just how human they are.

               “That’s their gift, isn’t it?” he says after a moment, voice very soft. “They can make choices, for better or worse. That’s why She made them. And, I think, why She loves them.” He swallows, looking back at his drink as if it were suddenly very interesting. “Have you ever wished…”

He stops himself. Going into that territory would be dangerous, for the both of them. But the little twitch in Crowley’s face says that he knew what Aziraphale was going to ask. And, likely, that he agrees.

               They sit in silence. The room, Aziraphale notices, feels strangely full and loud. He wonders if he’s noticing it more because of the lull in conversation, or if he’s suddenly aware of all the potential choices—good and bad and somewhere in-between, but all wonderfully human—in the room. A part of him wants to be bitter over the fact that he has to stay where he was put, that even a small deviation like lunch with Crowley comes with immeasurable risk. But a much larger part of him never wants to leave the dim sum restaurant, to rest in a moment of being surrounded so fully by humanity and sitting across from the best friend—the only friend, really—that he’s ever had for the rest of eternity.

               Honestly, it feels more like heaven than Heaven ever could.

               “We might have been friends,” he says, trying to keep from sounding breathless as he looks back at Crowley. “Before the rebellion. We likely wouldn’t remember.”

               To his surprise, Crowley smiles—one of his real ones, which are few and far-between outside of when he makes mischief. “Oh, yeah? And what would that be, commenting on how perfectly temperate it is? Gossiping about the way a seraphim said ‘Holy, holy, holy’ that day?” He leans forward, gaze hard enough that Aziraphale can feel it through the shaded lenses. “We wouldn’t have been friends then. Not like we are now. You know why?”

               Aziraphale can feel the edge of an answer tickling his brain, but rather than thinking, he simply asks, “Why?”

               Crowley smiles—a nice wide one, those were very rare—as he pulls down his glasses, low enough that Aziraphale can see the slitted eyes beneath. “Because, that one moment when we talked at the Garden and every moment we’ve talked since, angel, we were like them.” His head tilts to the family beside them. “And we chose who we became friends with, cosmic plan be damned.”

               Aziraphale’s eyes widen, and a smile of his own curls at his lips. “Yes…yes, I suppose you’re right.”

               He’s still very desperate not to leave just yet, but he knows an end when he sees one. And…well, it was a good thing to know, wasn’t it? That, if nothing else, he could choose to keep meeting with Crowley. Still secretly, still at a great risk. It wasn’t much, really, but it was his.

               Well, his and Crowley’s. And, truth be told, having a friend rebelling with him suddenly shed some light on the whole falling business. Maybe…there was more to falling than being evil. After all, choosing a name, making decisions, having freedom even in just one moment…

               Oh, no, he couldn’t, not ever. But he could…see how someone could.

               He chases away those thoughts by returning to the heady joy that fills him as he remembers his choice, and he holds up his glass. “Well, then, my dear boy, to choices.”

               Crowley, shades long-since back in place, smiles as he clinks the tiny glasses together. “To freedom.” He raises his cup to his lips, adding quietly, “And maybe one day, we’ll get a little bit more.”

               The thought alone is ludicrous, they both know. It’s not like they can just turn their backs on their respective groups. But if it came to it…

               Well, it’s much easier to make a choice together, isn’t it?              

[cruelangelstheses]

safe and sound

fandom: avatar: the last airbender rating: T characters: sokka/zuko, jet words: 5.8k additional tags: alternate universe (no bending), first meeting, swordfighting, sharing a bed, light angst with a happy ending, jetko that turns into zukka description: zuko has been searching for a home for a long time. a/n: sup i posted this a While back as an ao3 link for @zukka-week 2018, day 1: swords, but i’m reposting my fics as tumblr posts. this setting is technically an au but basically it’s just like the avatar universe without the four nations/elements, bending, or spirits, and thus the characters’ backstories are somewhat different, and i imagine the city as being pretty much ba sing se

read it on ao3

—

Zuko is not above stealing. He’ll steal an apple or two from a distracted merchant. He’ll steal money from people that he knows have more than enough. He once stole some bandages and medicine after being injured in a fight—the shopkeeper had seen how little money he had and turned him away, and he thought it ridiculous to have to pay to stay alive. No, Zuko does not necessarily object to stealing on principle, not if it’s for survival, not if it won’t hurt the person being stolen from. But something about Jet’s suggestion—to go out on a “spree of liberation,” as he so eloquently (and suspiciously) called it—makes Zuko’s skin crawl.

Jet has “liberated” a lot of things in his life, but Zuko has never actually seen him do it. He’s never really allowed himself to think about it too deeply, nor has he ever asked; it’s one of those things that he’s been content to leave as a mystery. Now, though, he’s about to find out what exactly happens on one of Jet’s “expeditions,” how he gets those expensive-looking weapons and perfectly cured meats.

The night has just begun, the sun having set less than an hour ago, the sky fading from purple to dark blue to black as Zuko quietly closes the door to Jet’s apartment and steps out onto the dimly-lit street. Jet is standing a few paces to the left with his arms folded pensively, and though they both have their faces covered up to the eyes, Zuko can still see the wheels turning as Jet seems to run through an invisible list of potential victims. Finally, he turns to Zuko and beckons with one hand to follow him.

Zuko and Jet have been dating for almost a month now, but the only people who know about it are Jet’s friends. They met at a shitty tavern near the edge of the city, Zuko alone and Jet with those same friends. As it turned out, they were all in similar situations: they were all kids without families, just trying to get by. They understood each other, and that was something precious, something Zuko couldn’t pass up, even against his better judgment.

Zuko has been alone for a few years now, ever since his family died in a devastating explosion. Zuko was the only one to survive, but not without a permanent reminder on his face. He’s been living on the streets ever since then, working odd jobs and sleeping outside or in cheap little inns. Now, of course, he sleeps in Jet’s apartment, which isn’t fancy by any means but serves as the nicest place Zuko has lived in since his family’s demise.

Jet leads him down various side streets into one of the poorer, darker, more run-down areas of the city, the sort of area where one of the biggest concerns is being caught in the wrong place after dark. It’s an area Zuko has spent quite a bit of time in these past few years. In fact, it was while he was living in one of these areas that he decided to buy his dual swords (any weapons that his family had had were lost in the explosion). As Jet slows down and starts to more closely observe the area, slinking against buildings and hiding in dark spots, Zuko’s stomach drops.

“What do you expect to find here?” he whispers, trying to mask his dread. “There won’t be very many valuables.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jet replies smoothly. “And this place isn’t very heavily guarded. You can get a lot more with a lot less risk. I usually start here and work my way up.”

Zuko opens his mouth to say something else, maybe even to try talking him out of it, but before he can actually form words, Jet’s eyes lock on a target: a young woman carrying two bags of food. Zuko thinks he sees bread in one and fruit in the other—basic necessities. Her clothes are plain, and she looks tired from a long day. She is exactly the type of person Zuko would make sure not to steal from.

Reluctantly, Zuko follows Jet’s lead as the woman turns down a lonely alley with few lights and no other people around. Jet darts around the corner after her and uses the end of one of his hook swords to catch her foot and trip her, a trick Zuko has seen him use a few times. The woman falls to the ground, the bags’ contents spilling everywhere. Accompanying the food are a few articles of clothing; it looks as though she just finished buying these things from a nearby market.

The woman gasps and glances up at them, terrified. She seems like she wants to say something, anything, but she’s frozen in fear. Jet swipes one of the pieces of clothing and briefly examines it, as if to determine whether or not it would fit him or any of his friends. Then he turns to Zuko, his eyes narrowed with expectation, silently saying, You gonna help me or what?

At that, Zuko breaks out of his horrified trance—he’s been watching Jet in shock, trying to process everything; he hasn’t even unsheathed his swords. Pulling down his mouth covering, he blurts, “Jet, what the hell?”

Jet stops what he’s doing and tosses the clothing to the ground. Without looking at the woman, he points one of his hook swords at her threateningly, a wordless demand for her to stay put. “Thought you said you didn’t have a problem with stealing,” he hisses to Zuko.

“I do if it’s from people who are just as poor as we are,” Zuko snaps, “if not poorer!”

“Zuko, you of all people should know that it’s every man for himself,” Jet snaps back. He doesn’t waste any time; he’s going straight for the jugular. “You and I, we’re outcasts, remember? We don’t have any allies. We don’t have any family. We had to do everything we could to stay alive. And we still do. You know that.”

Zuko scowls at him and clenches his fists, making his anger clear. Jet’s right, and he’s persuasive, and they both know that Zuko is far from a saint, but none of that stops the feeling in his gut that this is wrong, that he’ll beat himself up for it years down the road if he doesn’t say something now.

“No,” he says firmly, narrowing his eyes at Jet, feeling something akin to disgust rise in his chest, in his throat. “Look at this woman. She can’t be much better off than we are. This isn’t harmless petty theft. You’re practically mugging her. You’re not just doing what you need to do to stay alive; you’re hurting people. People who don’t deserve it—people who didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jet stares back at Zuko, long and hard, his expression unreadable. Then he sighs and lowers his hook sword. To the woman, who is still trembling on the ground, he says, “Grab your things and get out of here. Before I change my mind.”

The woman scrambles to her feet, hastily grabbing the bags and stuffing her goods back into them haphazardly. Within ten seconds, she’s already rounded the corner, running home as fast as her legs can carry her. Zuko silently hopes that nobody else decides to prey on her tonight.

Once the woman is out of sight, Zuko turns to Jet and says, his voice a bit softer now, “Jet, you know I don’t care if you steal from merchants, from the wealthy, from people who have more than enough food and all the money in the world. But I want you to promise me you won’t do something like that again.” Deep down, he knows he won’t be able to stop Jet from continuing to do it behind his back, but he wants something.

After a long pause, Jet says, “Okay. I promise.” It’s quiet but firm.

Zuko, half-expecting Jet to refuse, doesn’t really know what to say, nor does he know what their new plan for “liberation” is.

As if sensing Zuko’s confusion, Jet answers the unspoken question. “You know what?” he says, actually sounding somewhat nonchalant. “Let’s call it a night, okay? We can go all-out some other time. The full moon’s out anyway—too much light.” He raises an eyebrow. “That cool with you?”

Pleasantly surprised, Zuko just nods and says, “Uh, yeah, okay. Lead the way.”

The quick walk back to Jet’s apartment is carefree and comfortable, almost as if nothing happened between them. On the one hand, Zuko enjoys it, feeling like everything has returned to normal. But he can’t shake the tiny, nagging voice in his head that tells him to be on his guard.

They fall right back into their regular evening routine as soon as they return to the apartment: share the same bed (both shirtless), kiss a little (or a lot), fall asleep—Jet with one arm draped around Zuko’s body. In the comfort and safety of the bedroom, the world of crime and violence and immorality feels so far away, like a distant nightmare, like a memory from long ago.

The voice in the back of his mind tells him not to believe it. So when he wakes up in the middle of the night and finds himself alone in the bed, Zuko knows exactly where Jet has gone.

He doesn’t know how late it is or how long Jet’s been out. All he knows is that it’s still dark out (despite the moonlight) and that Jet and his hook swords have mysteriously disappeared. A part of him hopes that it’s not what it looks like, that he’s wrong, that Jet’s not doing anything behind his back. It’s just that, though: a feeble hope, based only on what he wishes were the case, not on what he knows is the truth.

Zuko wastes no time—who knows how many people Jet’s already harassed and mugged? He pulls a shirt over his head and slings his swords’ sheath across his shoulder. Then he heads out into the night, running down the same side streets Jet showed him earlier, searching for any sign of life. He investigates every shadow cast, every movement glimpsed out of the corner of his eye. Just when he starts to think that maybe he was wrong, that maybe Jet isn’t out stealing from the poor, he hears a voice in the distance, yelping, “H-hey!” It’s followed by the clatter of metal hitting the ground.

Zuko bolts toward the direction of the sound. Turning a corner at the end of the street into a dark alley, the first thing he notices is the oddly dark sword lying on the ground near him, a few feet away from the struggle. The next thing he notices is that, just as he suspected, the instigator is none other than Jet, his face inches from the boy he’s antagonizing. “Gimme your money,” he says, his voice low and hostile.

The boy—darker skinned, hair pulled up into a short ponytail, pretty damn attractive—holds his hands up. “Hey, hold on a minute, I don’t have any money,” he protests.

Jet shoves his knee into the guy’s stomach, and the guy gasps in pain. “You’ve got enough for that fancy sword, don’t ya?” Jet says with a slow grin. “Gotta be more somewhere.”

The boy gulps. “And what if there isn’t?”

“Well then,” Jet replies smoothly, “I’m sure that sword’ll fetch a fine price on the market by itself anyway.”

Zuko, who has yet to be noticed by either of them, unsheathes his swords, the sound making his presence known. Jet glances over at him and promptly freezes, like an animal seconds before it’s killed, only much less innocent. “Zuko—”

“Let him go,” Zuko interrupts gravely, taking a few deliberate steps forward. “I’ll fight you if I have to.”

Jet’s eyes narrow, wild with something between disappointment and anger swimming in their dark depths. “I thought you’d understand,” he says slowly, turning away from the boy and tightening his grip on his hook swords. “But I see now that I was wrong about you.”

“I could say the same to you,” Zuko retorts. “Fucking liar.”

Without much warning, Jet lunges at him, hook swords raised, and Zuko blocks them with his own dual swords, steel against steel, the clang echoing through the alley. Zuko shoves Jet back, and as he’s reaching forward to strike with one hand, Jet uses both his hook swords to grab onto the end of Zuko’s, deflecting it to the side. Zuko manages not to lose the sword and swings at him again. Jet leaps backward, but he doesn’t completely avoid the blades; Zuko can distinctly hear and feel the cutting of fabric and flesh, though not very deep.

Jet glances down at the cut on his arm and falters slightly, taking a step backward. Zuko takes advantage of the opportunity and springs on him, making a quick slash at the wrist of his right hand. Jet hisses in pain, instinctively loosening the grip on his sword, and Zuko swings at it with all his might, successfully knocking it out of Jet’s hand. The sword lands on the ground only a foot or two away from the boy Jet was harassing, who snatches it with a clever grin and points it threateningly at Jet.

Jet seems to realize now that he’s outnumbered and lowers his lone hook sword, staring daggers at Zuko. “Traitor,” he spits.

Zuko shakes his head. “I should’ve known. I should’ve known the moment I met you. In a way, I kind of feel sorry for you—the world has been so cruel to you that you think the only way you can survive is by hurting others.” He shrugs. “You’re confused like I used to be. And maybe one day you’ll learn like I had to. But until then…” He puts his swords back into their sheath—he’ll clean the bits of blood off later. “Until then, I don’t want to see you around.” He pauses to let that sink in, and then he adds, “I’ll come back to your place tomorrow to pick up my things.”

Jet scowls wordlessly; he knows he’s been beaten. He holds his hand out toward the boy, who still has Jet’s other hook sword. “Gimme that,” Jet says.

The boy turns to Zuko, as if for permission. Zuko nods at him, and he holds the sword outward. Jet swipes it out of the boy’s hands. He gives Zuko a look of betrayal, of anger, but Zuko can see the hurt that lies beneath it.

“Goodbye, Jet,” Zuko says softly, and something in his heart hurts, too. There’s a significant part of him that wishes it didn’t have to be this way. But it does. If Zuko is going to fully move on from the mistakes of his past, it does.

“Goodbye, Zuko,” Jet replies grimly. Then he turns around and runs swiftly out of the alley, seemingly unfazed as the blood from his cuts starts to run down his arm. He doesn’t look back.

The boy breathes a sigh of relief. “Wow,” he says as he processes everything that just happened. “Thanks, dude. Zuko’s your name, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Zuko says, suddenly feeling his boldness leave him as he looks this guy over more carefully. He’s probably around the same age as Zuko, but a little shorter and lankier, with deep blue eyes and a pretty face.

The boy seems to notice the way Zuko is looking at him (Zuko’s never been good at hiding his feelings), and he smirks knowingly, but not maliciously. “I’m Sokka,” he says smoothly, his eyes twinkling playfully.

“Sokka,” Zuko repeats as Sokka heads over to where his own sword has been lying on the ground. He picks it up and casually wipes the dirt off of it. As Zuko watches him, an opportunity for conversation strikes him. “Why’s your blade so dark?” he asks.

Sokka smiles proudly. “It’s made out of the rock from a meteorite that landed out in the woods recently.”

“I...wow,” Zuko says in genuine fascination, staring at the dark gray sword as Sokka returns it to its sheath.

Sokka stares at Zuko for a second or two, looking like he’s considering something. “Do you, um,” he says slowly, clearing his throat, “have a place to stay for the rest of the night?”

Zuko shrugs without saying anything. He could probably find a cheap hotel or a nice spot on the street to sleep on like he used to, but the truth is that, once again, he doesn’t have any reliable place to stay.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Sokka says firmly. “You could stay with us for the night, if you want.”

Zuko raises his eyebrow. “Who’s ‘us?’”

“My sister and our two friends and I,” Sokka replies casually. “We all share an apartment not too far from here.”

“Oh, uh,” Zuko stutters, somewhat flustered at the offer. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose…”

Sokka waves his hand nonchalantly. “Nah, you’ll be fine,” he says, already starting to walk away. He glances back over his shoulder, as if expecting Zuko to follow him. “Well? I’m sure you’d rather sleep in a warm bed than on the damn ground, and I doubt your boyfriend’ll let you back into his place.”

That catches Zuko completely off guard, and he rushes to catch up with Sokka. “H-hey, how did you—?”

Sokka shrugs, that teasing, knowing grin back on his face with no sign of disappearing anytime soon. “Call it a hunch,” he says. “That fight definitely felt like a lovers’ spat to me.” He doesn’t mention Zuko checking him out, but it hangs in the air between them, unspoken. Sokka knows that Zuko thinks he’s attractive, and Zuko knows that Sokka knows.

After a few moments of near-silence, with the only sound being the sound of their footprints as Sokka leads Zuko to his apartment, Zuko asks, “So, what made you decide to take a walk in the middle of the night, anyway?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sokka replies. “I had a weird dream where food started eating people.”

Zuko snorts; he can’t help it. “Talk about revenge.”

“I know!” Sokka says, his voice going up an octave, throwing his hands up in the air. “But anyway, usually eating helps me when I wake up in the middle of the night, but obviously I wasn’t gonna do that this time. So I thought I’d take a little night walk instead.”

“If you were just taking a walk, then why’d you bring your sword with you?”

Sokka just laughs at that, short and sharp. “In case I got attacked.”

Zuko laughs a little, too, something he doesn’t do very often—he didn’t even laugh all that much when he was with Jet, and yet Sokka’s gotten him to laugh within half an hour of knowing him. That’s impressive, to say the least. “Well,” he says, “it looks like it didn’t help you out that much anyway.”

“He caught me off guard, okay?” Sokka insists, but he’s still smiling. “The guy’s stealthy. I admit it. But if I’d had my boomerang, too, he would’ve been in for it, I’m tellin’ ya.”

When they reach the apartment, Sokka lowers his voice and warns Zuko to be quiet, since everyone else is likely still asleep. Zuko can’t make out much in the darkness, but the apartment has a similar layout to Jet’s, though it doesn’t have as many rare or expensive items obtained under suspicious circumstances. Most of the things that Zuko sees are things he’d expect to see in most people’s homes—rags to clean with, some pots and pans, a few articles of clothing strewn across the floor. So far, the most remarkable possession he’s seen of theirs has been Sokka’s “space sword,” as he calls it.

“So, uh, we’ve got two beds,” Sokka whispers, “for four people, but Toph always sleeps on the floor.” He gestures to a dark shape on the floor of the main room that must be Toph. “Aang and Katara usually share the one bed because both refuse to share one with me.” He points toward the open door that leads into a small bedroom area. The other bed, decently-sized, rests near the corner of the main room, which also consists of a small living area and a kitchen.

Zuko raises his eyebrow. “Why don’t they want to share with you?”

Sokka smiles sheepishly, looking embarrassed but trying to hide it. “I just toss and turn a lot. And sometimes I accidentally steal the blankets.” He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck. “So, um...I can, uh, sleep on the floor,” he says slowly, “if...you’d be uncomfortable...you know.” Even in the darkness, Zuko can see a blush on Sokka’s cheeks.

Zuko shrugs. He genuinely doesn’t care if he sleeps in the same bed as Sokka; at least it’s a bed, and he’s slept in much stranger places with much stranger people. (And there’s also the fact that Sokka is very attractive, and Zuko would be completely fine with sharing his warmth. But that doesn’t influence his decision at all, of course not; that would be ridiculous.) “I don’t mind,” he says out loud. “Really. It’ll be fine.”

Sokka sort of smiles at that, seeming almost relieved. “Okay,” he says, making his way over to the bed. He takes his shoes off and leans them up against the wall, then pulls the sheath of his sword off his shoulder and rests it on the floor next to the bed. He lets his hair out of its ponytail and rests the tie on the nightstand, then climbs into the bed. The covers are already somewhat messy, but only on Sokka’s side.

Zuko takes his own shoes off and rests the sheath of his swords on the floor next to the bed like Sokka did. Then he awkwardly crawls under the blanket, trying to be calm and fucking normal instead of thinking about how pretty Sokka is and how close they are. He can’t blow this.

“What’ll your friends think when they wake up and see a stranger sleeping in your bed?” he asks as the thought hits him.

“My sister might freak out a little, but other than that, it should be fine once I explain what happened. Don’t worry,” Sokka replies calmly.

Zuko rolls onto his side so that his back is facing Sokka. As he’s lying there, it finally hits him, just how much everything has changed in so little time. He broke up with Jet, and he’ll be on his own again, and he’s sleeping in the bed of some guy he just met, and everything is weird, and yet it doesn’t feel bad. He thinks he might even be okay with it.

After only a few minutes, Sokka whispers, his voice barely audible, “Zuko.”

Zuko rolls over to see Sokka sitting up, looking contemplative. “Yeah?”

“I have a question,” Sokka says quietly, “and you don’t have to answer it, but I was just wondering.”

Zuko takes a deep breath. Here it comes, the inevitable question, the question everyone asks soon enough after meeting him: the scar question.

But what comes out of Sokka’s mouth isn’t what Zuko expects. Instead, Sokka asks, “What did you mean when you said to Jet—that was his name, right?—when you said he was confused like you used to be? When you said maybe he’d learn like you had to?”

Zuko sighs in relief. Strangely enough, it feels easier to him to answer this question than it does to answer the scar question. Maybe it’s because he’s made peace with his past, with his mistakes. But he still hasn’t made peace with his family’s brutal deaths, especially his mother’s; he was closest to her. He doesn’t think he’ll ever make peace with it.

Zuko sits up on his elbows. “After I...became homeless, I did a lot of things that I regret. Things like what Jet was doing. I was angry at the world, and sometimes I think I still am. I don’t rely on it anymore, but I did then. I stole food from people who were starving because I didn’t care. I thought that I was better than them, that I deserved food more than they did. I got into fights with anyone who so much as looked at me the wrong way. A lot of them were kids or teenagers. One was probably around ten or eleven, and I think I was fourteen.” He sighs, remembering all the bloody noses, bruises, deep cuts, and broken bones he’s given people over the last few years.

“It got worse before it got better, especially after I got my swords. I mugged poor, innocent people. You would’ve wondered why I never got an apartment or anything, what with all the money I stole, not to mention the odd jobs I worked sometimes. I think it was because I didn’t want to stay in the same place. I liked running around with nowhere to be and everywhere to go, and besides, it would’ve been easier for other people to trace me if I stayed in one place, instead of committing a crime and then disappearing. I think I must’ve slept in every hotel in the city, except the really high-end ones.”

Sokka watches and listens, not judging, at least not openly. His gaze is intent and sincere. “What changed?” he says softly. “What made you stop?”

Zuko sits up more, leaning the pillow up against the wall and then resting his back against it. “It happened not too long after I turned fifteen. One evening there was this awful fire in another section of the city that destroyed several houses, and that night, across the street from where the fire had been, I saw this little kid sitting on the curb, all curled up into a ball and crying. He was maybe eight or nine. I remember not wanting to care. I remember just wanting to walk away and forget about it, because it wasn’t my problem. But I had a bad feeling about why he was crying, so I went over to him.” He closes his eyes briefly, imagining it, remembering every detail.

“He didn’t notice me at first, and I didn’t know what to say, so I just kind of sat down next to him, and that’s when he looked up at me. He asked me what I was doing, and I honestly didn’t really know, so I told him that I saw him crying and felt like I couldn’t just leave him there, which was the truth. When I looked at him closer, I realized he was partially covered in soot with a couple of small burns. He told me that his parents hadn’t made it out of the fire, that his home and his family were all gone and he didn’t know what to do. That was the first time in a long time that I’d felt sympathy for anyone. I saw myself in this kid, and I realized then that I didn’t want him to grow up hating the world and everyone in it. So I turned to him, looked him right in the eye, and told him to promise me he would never hurt someone for no reason. I remember how confused he was, because to him, it didn’t seem to have anything to do with the fire. I explained to him that when you go through something hard, sometimes it makes you bitter and angry, and I told him that I didn’t want that to happen to him. So he nodded and said that he promised, and then I gave him a bunch of money that I’d stolen the night before, and I told him to find someone that would help him, like a neighbor or an uncle or a family friend or something. He said he’d try and ran away, and then I sat down on the curb where he’d been sitting and thought about everything I’d done.

“It was hard to go through all those victims and put myself in their situations, but I did it. It was like seeing that kid had opened the floodgates and made me able to care about people again. Up until then, I think I’d locked my heart up. I never allowed myself to feel anything other than hatred and anger, because anything else made me weak.”

There’s a stretch of silence after Zuko finishes as Sokka seems to process everything. Then he says, gently, his eyes soft, “Is that what happened to you? With the fire?”

Zuko bites his lip as he remembers hearing something burning, as he remembers looking through the little window in one of the doors with his left eye just seconds before the explosion. He doesn’t look at Sokka when he says it. “Something very similar. Yeah.”

“I...I’m sorry,” Sokka says, sounding genuine. “Katara and I lost our mother six years ago.” He reaches his hand out tentatively, his gaze filled not with pity but with understanding. Normally, Zuko would shy away. Normally, the scar is off-limits. But this is far from normal.

Sokka pauses right before his hand reaches Zuko’s face, as if silently asking permission. Zuko nods. “You can touch it.”

Sokka moves closer to Zuko and rests his hand on Zuko’s cheek, his fingers feeling the burned flesh. They’re so close now, only inches away, and all Zuko has to do is lean forward and bridge the gap.

“Zuko,” Sokka says, his hand never moving, “I don’t know what exactly it is about you, but I feel...close to you for some reason. Even when I first saw you fight with Jet, I was drawn to you.”

Zuko’s heart starts to beat faster. “I, uh, I could say the same to you.”

And then they’re kissing.

It’s soft and slow, gentle and tender, Sokka’s fingers lightly brushing against Zuko’s skin. Zuko drapes his arms over Sokka’s shoulders, sighing when Sokka runs his tongue across Zuko’s bottom lip. It’s bliss, but not an energized, ecstatic bliss, like the way kissing Jet felt like. It’s more of a glowing sort of bliss, a tranquil and safe sort of bliss, warm but not scorching. Whereas kissing Jet felt like fireworks, hot and wild but short-lived, kissing Sokka feels like a hearth—like coming home.

When they break away, both of them mildly out of breath, Sokka kind of laughs and says, “Well, now I know I wasn’t misreading the signals or anything.”

He’s referring to Zuko checking him out, and Zuko’s face heats up a little. “Well, yeah, I guess I’ve never really been the best at subtlety.”

Sokka just smiles and says, “Would it be okay if I...saw you again sometime?”

Now Zuko’s definitely blushing. “I, uh, yeah,” he stutters. “Of course.”

Across the room, an annoyed voice groans, “Great performance, lovebirds; now will you please go to sleep?”

Sokka and Zuko both jump. Zuko doesn’t think he’s ever been more embarrassed in his life. One of Sokka’s friends—the one who sleeps on the floor, Toph, if he remembers correctly—is awake. He doesn’t know how much she’s heard, but apparently, she’s heard enough.

“Toph!” Sokka hisses. “Way to ruin the moment!”

“Way to ruin my sleep,” Toph retorts. “Your gross kissing noises interrupted my dream. This guy better be cute.”

“I—he is!” Sokka says, his voice cracking, also clearly embarrassed. Zuko tries not to smile (and fails miserably).

“I don’t trust your opinion,” Toph replies bluntly. “I’ll ask Katara in the morning.”

Zuko looks over at Sokka quizzically. “Can’t she just decide for herself?” he whispers.

“She’s blind,” Sokka explains. “She has no idea if you’re cute or not.”

“Guys, what’s going on?” another unfamiliar voice asks. Someone steps out from the other bedroom into the main room and turns a nearby lamp on: a girl who looks a lot like Sokka, but a little bit younger—his sister, most likely. “Sokka, who’s—?”

“Sokka’s new boyfriend,” Toph interrupts from her place on the floor.

“He’s not my—we just met!” Sokka sputters, blushing.

“Yeah, but that didn’t stop either of you from pouring your hearts out to each other. And then making out.”

“We were not making out!” Sokka insists, his voice going up an octave again; Zuko thinks it’s cute. “My tongue and Zuko’s tongue didn’t meet once!”

Another person steps out of the bedroom and into the main room, a younger boy with black hair. He rubs his eyes. “Okay, guys, you know I’d prefer it if we didn’t argue at all, but if we have to, can’t we do it after sunrise?” Then he glances over at the bed and, noticing Zuko, raises an eyebrow. “Um, Sokka, I’m not judging or anything, but why is there a random guy with a scar in your bed?”

“Can we please just discuss this in the morning?” Sokka groans. “This guy saved me from his ex-boyfriend who was trying to mug me and he needed a place to stay so I told him he could sleep here for the night. And I’m probably gonna keep hanging out with him, so be nice.”

“Katara, I want your honest opinion,” Toph says to the other girl. “Is this guy cute?”

Katara seems to think for a moment, and Zuko tries to hide his self-consciousness. Finally, she says, “Um, yeah, actually, he’s not bad-looking.”

“Great. That’s all I needed to know,” Toph says. “Now can we all please go back to sleep?”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” the boy—Aang—says, turning around and heading back into the bedroom. After giving Sokka a skeptical look, Katara turns the light back off and follows Aang.

“I’m sorry for them,” Sokka says immediately. “They’re nice, I swear, but they don’t know you and it’s the middle of the night and they’re cranky.”

“I can still hear you, you know,” Toph grumbles.

Sokka ignores her. “Anyway, um, we should...probably get some rest,” he says slowly. “It’s been a long night. I can give you a proper introduction in the morning.”

Zuko just smiles a little and lies back down; this time, though, he’s turned toward Sokka, not away from him. “You know,” he says, “you and your friends...almost feel like a family of sorts.”

Sokka shrugs, but he’s smiling, too. “We are.”

Zuko hasn’t had a family in so long.

“Maybe one day,” Sokka says, his voice soft, “you can be a part of it, too.”

That night, Zuko sleeps better than he has in a long time, probably since before his family died. He revels in the feeling of Sokka’s warm body next to his. When he was with Jet, it felt good. But when he’s with Sokka, it feels right, like finding something that he thought he’d lost forever.

Like coming home.

[keeroo92]

Crimson Tide Ch1 (V x Reader)

This is the sequel to Savior, Bloodstain, Hellfire, Shadow. It might not make sense unless you’ve reath that one first.

September 12th, 4:38 am

V

V stood utterly still as he watched your blade descend into Urizen’s chest, piercing the massive orange eye that hid the demon’s heart beneath it. He felt your cold blade slice through his own flesh as he crumpled to the ground, his body sharing every sensation that his other half was experiencing. Enormous granules of his body flitted away as he fell; his arms and legs were almost completely gone by the time he struck the ground.

His chest heaved as his panicked final breaths came and went, fearful sweat broke out on his forehead as his dilated eyes darted across the scene. His final sight was of you, illuminated in blue light as a pillar of glowing power burst forth from Urizen into the sky. You screamed in agony as the light rose, but everything faded to black before he had a chance to even call your name.

____________________________________

V bolted upright with a gasp, his heart pounding as he caught his breath. He glanced beside himself in bed to check on you, his emerald eyes finding you yawning as your bleary eyes blinked open from his cries.

“V? Was it the same nightmare again?” you asked him tiredly. He nodded, sighing as you wrapped your arms around him comfortingly the same way you did every time he woke you that way. Waking next to you always helped him calm down again, your presence able to soothe the last echoes of his tormented dreams away.

“It’s alright, love. You made it, the Qlipoth is gone,” you murmured kindly. You held him close until the sun finally broke the horizon, its radiant glow illuminating the bedroom you shared in golden light. The unpainted drywall reflected the rays brightly onto the mattress the two of you lied upon on the wooden floor. Finding a bedframe hadn’t been a focus for either of you, at least not yet. A small dresser was the only other furniture in the room, only the necessities until the rescue mission was completed.

Rebuilding Sparda manor was turning out to be a slow process, but one he enjoyed. It was rewarding to be able to sleep in a room he had constructed himself, to cook in the kitchen he had so carefully rebuilt. There was still a lot of work to be done, and though you helped when you could, you were more focused on training for the journey to rescue Dante and Nero than on construction.

“We should get up soon, little fox,” he commented softly. You hummed in agreement but didn’t move, not quite ready to release the poet. Though he didn’t say it loud, he was loathe to break the embrace too.

 So warm… there’s nowhere I’d rather be than beside her.

A knock on the door broke his thoughts as Nero announced breakfast was ready. V planted a soft kiss on your forehead as he pulled away with a smile, and you tousled his hair playfully as he stretched. Even after months of recovery, he was still caught off guard by the strength of his body. He remained lean and lanky, but his ribs could no longer be seen with the naked eye. He felt powerful, like his old self as he stood tall.

Your exaggerated wolf whistle made him smirk as he walked to the dresser. He could feel your eyes watching his newly filled out form move as he selected clothing for the day, a set of dark pinstripe pants and a black button up shirt. You had taken great pleasure in dragging him shopping a few weeks ago, spending what he deemed to be far too much money on acquiring him a new wardrobe.

He had enjoyed the experience immensely, especially the way your eyes would light up when he showed you something he particularly liked. At first, you had tried to get him to try brighter colors and more understated styles, but none of it had felt right to him. Eventually, you had surrendered to his preference for darker, more intricate pieces. You had called his style a cross of gothic and punk rock and after you showed him some examples, he’d had to agree.

You came up to join him, wrapping an arm around his waist as you leaned on his shoulder. A pair of tight jeans and a pretty blouse soon graced your skin. V loved watching you dress. There was something so delightfully intimate about the slow concealment of flesh, though he had to admit that watching you put on stockings was a different sort of enjoyable.

“What will you be working on today, V?” you asked suddenly as you held out the hairbrush. He strode over and took it from your hands, lazily stroking your hair as he replied.

“I thought another bedroom would be helpful, somewhere for Trish and Lady to stay,” he replied quietly. He handed the brush back to you and sat back down on the bed so you could reach his obsidian locks. It had become a morning routine to brush one another’s hair, another small enjoyment he never took for granted.

“Good thinking. Maybe after lunch we could go for a walk together, just the two of us?” you replied questioningly. He hummed in agreement, always happy to accompany you. You smiled in return, giving him a soft peck before opening the door and heading downstairs to the kitchen.

____________________________________

September 12th, 11:52 am

“Ha!” you cried as you spun into a low thrust targeting Trish’s unprotected belly. The blonde twirled away gracefully at the last second, dodging your skilled blow. She smirked as she beckoned you closer, attempting to goad you into another attack but you’d been training with her long enough to know better.

“Not a chance,” you informed her with a matching smirk, and she chuckled.

“Good, you’re learning,” she replied. Even with the compliment, she darted forward and tried to slash at your calves, but you blocked her blades with your own easily. Your skills had come a long way since the Qlipoth, mostly due to your constant training and practice. You were determined to be able to fight just as well as Nero when you entered the underworld to rescue your friends.

“Nice one, Y/N! Let’s take a breather,” Trish commented, already reaching for her water bottle. You sat down on the side of the practice room, taking a deep draft from your own bottle as she joined you.

“Right, what can we eat in the underworld?” she quizzed you. A long moment passes in silence as you reviewed all she’d told you about the hellish place you were heading for.

“Demon grass and bloodflower?” you answered hesitantly. Trish grinned and nodded, clearly pleased at your retention.

“We might also be able to find some less disgusting demons, they’re technically edible but do not taste good,” she reminds you with a grimace. You cringed at the thought but nodded; you’d need to know every possible food source.

“And how about water?” she inquired.

“We’ll have to bring plenty of iodine, should be able to refill from the boiling lakes periodically,” you answered easily. Trish nodded; her lessons had been effective and you were incredibly grateful to have such a reliable source of knowledge on the team.

“Good. And how are we going to find Dante and Nero?”

You sighed, still unsure how that portion of the plan was supposed to work. You knew the theory, but it still didn’t make much sense to you.

“V should be able to sense the sword of Sparda and guide us. If not that, then we’ll need to contact a spirit and ask for help,” you answered. Trish smiled approvingly at you, her confidence in you making you warm inside. In the last few months your respect for the woman had grown immeasurably, her cold demeaner hiding a sharp mind and even sharper instincts. Her teachings had helped you become much more capable both in battle and outside.

Lady had trained you a bit as well, though her style was much harder to pick up. Not to mention the fact that the poor woman was almost constantly depressed from the loss of Dante, and she didn’t often have the energy to teach… You suspected the brunette even had a little crush on the legendary devil hunter but couldn’t be sure without seeing how she acted around him.

Regardless, you felt ready. All that remained was to find a damn open portal.

That was turning out to be the hardest part of the rescue plan. The few open portals the group had found had been tiny, nowhere near large enough to fit a human through. There had been one that looked acceptable, but it had closed even as you were all racing toward it. Everyone was running out of patience; the longer it took to reach the Underworld, the less likely you were to find your friends still alive.

For all you knew, they were already dead.

 Don’t think like that, they have to be alive!

You shook the thought away and took another long gulp of water as Trish stood to put away her practice weapons. You stowed your own and joined her on the way to the kitchen for lunch, hopeful that Kyrie had made chili or her famous grilled cheese. It was nice to have another person around who could cook; you and Kyrie would generally split the task between you, none of the others even remotely capable of boiling water.

You remembered with a low chuckle the time V tried to make breakfast for everyone. He had set off the fire alarm by making toast, ruining a pan with his attempt at scrambled eggs. His sheepish smile as you had raced down to check for a fire had been adorable, but he hadn’t been allowed to cook since. You hoped that once everything was calmer you could take the time to teach him, the image of making a meal together one you desperately wanted to make into reality.

In the kitchen, you find Kyrie stirring a large pot as Lady sets the table. One look at the brunette’s face tells you everything you need to know about her mood today – she wore a glazed expression, her mouth twisted into a frown as she laid out the silverware. Kyrie didn’t look much happier, the barest glimmer of hope still visible in her eyes.

You knew that Nero’s beloved was barely holding on to hope, her bright spirit slowly dimming as time passed with no progress. She was an incredibly kind woman, her heart finding room to care about you and V with ease. The very first time you had met her, while delivering the news of Nero’s sacrifice, Kyrie had opened her arms and hugged you.

“Need any help, Kyrie?” you asked her gently. She shook her head as she served lunch, a meaty stew full of root vegetables that smelled like home. As she finished dishing out the meal, V came inside from where he’d been working on the next section of the house, his sleeves rolled up and putting his lightened tattoos on display to your eager eyes.

Griffon followed right behind him, Shadow padding behind. V leaned over to press a gentle kiss on the crown of your head before seating himself at the table beside you. Griffon landed on his customary perch over the hearth, Shadow coming to rest under the table amongst the feet of everyone waiting at the table. The two of them didn’t need to eat, but occasionally they enjoyed a morsel from your plate and had taken to hanging around during mealtimes to see if you had any leftovers.

 Not this time, guys. Kyrie’s stew is too good!

“Still nothing?” Kyrie prodded the group at large, asking the same question she did at every meal. You shook your head solemnly, eyes expressing your silent remorse that you still had no portals to try. She sighed sadly and fiddled with her spoon, taking sparing bites as if only going through the motions. It broke your heart to see her this way, knowing from what Nero had told you that she’s usually full of smiles and joy.

 We’ll bring him back to you. I promise.

The rest of the meal passed in silence, each member of the group lost in their own thoughts. You snuck a small chunk of bread to Shadow and Griffon and they happily accepted their snacks as V helped clear the table.

“We’re going into town, do you need anything?” he asked Kyrie. She caught you feeding his summoned friends with a small smile and replied.

“Bread, it seems. And some milk, please.”

The poet hums in acknowledgement and returns to your side, taking your hand and pulling Griffon and Shadow back within him as the pair of you left Sparda manor behind. Looking at the home from the outside, it looks almost completely rebuilt. The stonework has been assembled well, the roof repainted in a bright red hue. Even the tree in the front had been replanted, a swing hanging from its lower branches. The landscaping still needs some work, the grass mostly brown and dead and shrubs strewn about haphazardly. There would be no restoring the bay – the Qlipoth had skewed the elevation so that the water refused to fill the previously submerged area.

Still, the home looked better every day, thank to V’s hard work. You laced your fingers through his and smiled as you commented on his progress.

“It looks amazing, V. You’re making real progress,” you told him happily.

He squeezed your fingers tenderly, smirking at you in return. Walking into town didn’t take long, a mere ten minutes until you reached the section of the city that was your target. There are scant few people milling about, mainly clustered around neighborhood boards with all kinds of notices pinned up. Most of them were of family members who had been lost during the catastrophe, either with photos or phone numbers listed for those who were searching for their family even after all this time.

Local newspapers had an entire page dedicated to listing the names and phone numbers of the few who had escaped, while radio stations generally had a weekly call in show where people could call in and be broadcasted asking for any information about their lost loved ones. It was all too rare that someone was reunited with the person they were seeking; most of the lost had undoubtedly been transformed into the terrible husks. You had yet to find any of your old coworkers or acquaintances, though you also hadn’t tried very hard.

Regardless, life in the city was slowly returning to normal. The numerous missing persons had resulted in absurdly low rates for renting apartments, the abundance of vacancies quickly being taken advantage of. Almost every business in the city was also hiring, far too many employees gone and never to be heard from again. New residents were flocking to the city in droves, especially the fools who didn’t believe the wild stories being told about what had transpired.

The city itself has been slow to recover, massive hunks of rubble still decorating some areas. The smaller pieces had been removed quickly enough, a single pair of hands enough to clear most of the debris. Yet for anything larger, the citizens had to file a request with the city or tow it themselves to a designated rubble recycling point. It was a slow process, but certain neighborhoods looked almost back to normal already.

 Humanity is really something. Even though this city was the site of such a horrible event, people came back and are rebuilding. Amazing.

“For he saw that life lived upon death,” V intoned; apparently his thoughts mirrored your own.

“It makes me wonder if anyone has moved into my old place yet,” you commented with a sly smirk. He barked out a laugh, smiling at you as the pair of you reached the department store.

Inside, the displays were only partially full, the NOW HIRING sign in the window evidence that the store was still understaffed. You grabbed a shopping basket and followed V to the section with hardware and tools. He led you quickly to the aisle with screws and various construction implements, taking the basket from you as he deposited a fair number of items within it. You recognized a few things, but others left you mystified.

With a small smirk he added a few lengths of rope and you couldn’t help but blush at his playful expression. He was still exploring his sexual tastes, his curious nature giving him a new wild idea on a regular basis. Not that you minded; he always made sure you enjoyed his experiments and took excellent care of you if he wore you out too much with his… attention. There had only been one particularly awful moment so far when he’d instinctively tried choking you, bringing back the painful memory of Lara despite how much you wanted to enjoy it.

He’d felt terrible, of course. Apologized profusely as the fear faded away from your eyes after you’d gasped out your safe word. He had held you gently, carefully keeping his hands far from your neck as you calmed your racing heart. Oddly enough, you found no anger at his forgetfulness, no resentment that for a split second he’d forgotten about your traumatic past. Only gratitude that he’d so instantly reacted and known why you had to stop without you having to explain.

Not once had he slipped up since then, his insistence on asking permission sometimes so over the top that it broke the mood slightly. Even so, you loved his explorations. You shuddered slightly as you remembered some of your favorite moments so far. As it turned out, V was a bit voyeuristic and loved watching you dress, so only last week you’d put on a little show for the poet, much to his delight. Another of his new discoveries involved silk and wax, and you felt yourself clench at the thought.

 Oh boy, gotta think about something else before I lose it.

You looked at V again to find him smirking in amusement as his eyes dilated, small glints sparkling in his wide pupils in a signature of his lust.

 Shit.

 Too late…

“There’s something I’d like to try, if you’re willing,” he began in a low purr. The tone you couldn’t resist, the vibration oh so lovely on your eardrums. You were putty in his hands.

“Hmm? What is it?” you replied coyly. He grinned at the obvious arousal in your voice and you batted your eyelashes at him playfully. He carefully placed the shopping basket on the floor and took your wrist, pulling you along with him as he led you to the bathroom. He headed toward the men’s room until you forcefully planted your feet.

“V! The ladies’ room will be cleaner,” you whispered under your breath. He spun around and waved you forward to check for other occupants. You let out a sigh of relief as you opened every stall with no trouble, quickly beckoning V inside with an excited smile. You moved to lock the door once he entered, but he stopped you with a mischievous grin.

“Ah, but it’ll be so much more interesting this way…” he murmured, already leaning closer to plant his lips on yours with a low growl. You loved it when he got like this, when he took control. He reveled in his newfound strength and you couldn’t get enough of his dominant side. You moaned into his mouth as he pushed you against the wall, his long fingers wrapping around your waist and tugging at your jeans hungrily. You chuckled as he moved his mouth to your collarbone, sucking harshly at your flesh and marking you as his just below the hem of your shirt.

You tangled your hands in his obsidian hair with a sigh as he pushed you to the largest stall, the one meant for disabled patrons. His hands gripped your hips tightly as he spun you around, tugging your tight jeans down to your knees and forcing you to bend over, your hands at rest on the metal bar meant to help people lower themselves onto the toilet. He tugged his own pants down, his cock springing free. He stepped forward to rub his head against your wet folds, eliciting a low moan from your swollen lips as he explored your wetness.

 Yessssss….

You shifted your hips in a futile attempt to get him inside you, desperate for the delicious feeling of fullness only he could give you. His dark chortle as he stepped back again was such sweet torture, his control so aggravating even as it thrilled you.

“Now, now, little fox. You know how this works, you have to use your words,” he purred, the sound of his voice alone making you tremble. You bit your lip but knew better than to protest.

“Please, V… please take me,” you sighed breathily.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it? Here’s the hard part,” he grunted out, throwing his hips forward to slide home in a single deep thrust. The sudden intrusion made you gasp, but the second he started to move it became a long moan.

Then you heard the door open as another person entered the bathroom. You glanced at V over your shoulder, watching in dawning horror as he grinned darkly. He leaned over to whisper in your ear.

“Ah, an audience. What perfect timing. I’ll leave it up to you if they hear us, yes?”

 Oh, no…

He planted one hand on the wall, the other circling around your body to probe at your aching bundle of nerves. You had to bite your lip to keep yourself silent, his stimulation almost overpowering in its excellence. His skilled fingers circled your clit teasingly, pressing against it at the exact point he knew you loved as the bystander entered another stall with a cough.

 Don’t make a sound!

He rubbed harder, faster. You tasted blood as you bit your lip even harder, yet you refused to admit defeat by saying your safe word. And it felt so damn good…

 Ah, don’t stop!

You heard the other person start peeing as he slowly drew his hips back, inching his way forward again as they gathered toilet paper. He flexed his groin at the perfect spot, his fingers still applying the perfect amount of friction to your body as he sent you over the edge to a shattering climax as the toilet flushed. The sound barely covered your long moan of pleasure as your muscles clenched your release, your arms shaking as they held you up on the silver bar.

The other stall opened, footsteps retreating to the sinks as V began thrusting with more intensity, his cock twitching as he approached his own release. It felt so amazing you no longer cared about getting caught as you angled your hips to meet his, standing on your tiptoes to achieve the perfect slant. His panting breath got louder as the water turned on, his hand moving from your clit to push your lower back and move you the exact way he needed.

You felt his nails on your skin as he groaned deeply, a hearty surge within you signaling his pleasure as he emptied himself inside you. You clenched your inner muscles around him, milking him as he pumped through his orgasm with a heavy sigh. You could picture the look on his face with perfect clarity; his eyebrows drawn together, eyes closed and mouth open as his cheeks flushed.

 He always looks so good when he comes.

The water shut off; footsteps retreated back through the door as the pair of you settled. You couldn’t help but laugh as the high or release mixed with the high of not getting caught in your mind, and V joined in shortly, his rumbling enjoyment echoing in the warm air surrounding you as he pulled away with a soft plop.

You cleaned yourself up easily, the location of your fun turning out to be oddly fortuitous. You gave V another deep kiss before peeking out the door to make sure the coast was clear. With not a soul in sight, you and V exit the bathroom easily and go back to your shopping.

____________________________________

Just as the two of you lined up to check out, V felt his cell buzz in his pocket. He pulled it out curiously – he hadn’t given his number to anyone outside the group, and none of them had ever contacted him before now. The screen showed a new message from Lady, and with a quick scan of his fingerprint, he checked what she had said.

 Fnd portal. Get back rn.

 What…?

He held the phone out to you, unsure what the letters meant. You smiled excitedly at him, almost hopping as you restrained a shout of joy.

“They found a portal V! We gotta go!” you cried happily just as the cashier announced the total. Seeing that everything was already bagged, V quickly pulled out the card you had gotten for him and paid, seizing the bags before the cashier even stuffed the receipt inside. The two of you dashed home at full speed and V once again mentally enjoyed his newfound endurance and strength.

 A portal! Let’s hope this one’s big enough!

 Indeed! This may be the chance we’ve been waiting for.

 I hope so, tired of waiting around!

V sent back an internal chuckle as he ran, easily keeping pace with you as you reached the front door to your home. The instant the door opened, he heard Nico’s voice from within.

“What the hell took ya so long!? We gotta go, NOW!” the southern mechanic cried. V brought the shopping bags to the kitchen, depositing them on the dark marble counter and racing over to where the group stood around a huge table in the dining room. Lady sat nearby on a laptop, her techno-literacy hard at work as she typed so fast her fingers were a blur. She had taken up the role of searching the web daily for leads, checking various forums and blogs for hints of an open portal.

“It’s only an hour away!” she called out, smiling for the first time in months. Kyrie squealed from her position nearby, her small feet pounding the floor as she rushed to the kitchen to pack every possible snack she could find. You sprinted to the closet to get your already packed backpack, full of medical supplies and iodine tablets.

Trish went straight to the training room to gather everyone’s weapons while V raided the linen closet for blankets and pillows, hastily stuffing them in sleeping bags. Nico’s van already had all the spare clothing and ropes, even a few pieces of climbing gear in case your group had to ascend. Lady grabbed a spool of wire and her trapping supplies, her weapon already in hand as the printer spat out the directions.

The group assembled almost simultaneously at Nico’s van outside, all of you clambering on without a second thought as Nico took the driver’s seat. V sat next to you on the couch, holding your hand in his as the mechanic turned the key and the van reversed out of the dirt driveway onto the main road, Nico urging every last scrap of speed the old vehicle could manage as it screamed toward the portal.

[imagine-some-fandom-requests]

Ahh!! I’m so glad to hear you do all out! I never see any Imagine blogs for that anime! Would be alright to request some headcanons for how Iwashimizu, Kifune, Koichiro, Kenya, and Renpei would react to having a s/o that’s pretty short but is an adorable ball of energy? You’ll be seeing a lot of requests from me about these boys and his anime in general lol. I hope you’re doing well. Thank you!!!

You like All Out? Oh my gosh yes that’s awesome!! There is only like two or so blogs on this site that do All Out which is sad because it is such a good series!! Please do ask for more All Out requests because these boys deserve the attention they don’t get! I am doing alright, college is boring as usual haha. I also hope you are doing good yourself! ♡

🔶 Sumiaki Iwashimizu

🔹How can a person have so much energy in such a tiny body?! He was amazed when he first met them. Like, seeing them so active and all is like ‘whoah please slow down my love I can’t keep up like this!!’

🔹Because they are so full of energy and they want to do all kinds of stuff, he tries to keep up with their activities. Like for example let’s say they want to go to the beach. Well, of course he is going to pack up all the necessities like sunscreen, beach blankets, and plenty of water (gotta keep his lover healthy and hydrated under that hot sun). So they would swim in the ocean, play some volleyball, walk on the boulevard, and a whole bunch of things! At the end of the day he is pretty worn out, breathing heavily and sweat covering his face and limbs. So that is why after a long day of activities, he will pull his tiny little lover into his chest, gently hold them, and then sleep right then and there. Because nothing is better than holding your lover after a long day~.

🔹“Ah! s/o!! Wh-where are you going?! P-please don’t leave me behind!” He exclaims as he quickly catches their free hand into his, giving it a light squeeze. Looking down in embarrassment, a huge blush painted on his once pale cheeks, he stuttered “I-I know you want to do this and that, but please d-don’t leave me behind, ok?” He then he turns his golden eyes to theirs and gives them a soft smile, leaning down and placed a soft kiss to the top of their head.

🔶 Isao Kifune

🔹At first he was a bit… intimidated. Like how can someone so small be so energetic? How can they have so much energy in that tiny little body?! Well, since he is more quiet while his lover is more outgoing and sometimes deciding what to do on dates can lead to some troubles. But in the end, they would both find a compromise and all will be good.

🔹Even though he is not a fan of going to big and loud places such as malls and concerts and such, but once in a while like if it is lovers birthday or a special holiday such as Christmas, then he would swallow up that anxiety and take them out to wherever they want. But the dates he loves the most is going to parks. Because the park can either be a quiet and peaceful place or an event can happen there, such as the local festival to which he honestly enjoys and has fun with. From playing booth games (he even won them a huge plushie which is bigger then them and he just becomes a huge blushing mess awww~) to eating cotton candy, then watching the fireworks when night falls, he honestly has the time of his life with them.

🔹“Um, s/o?” He asks in a gentle tone while tapping his lover’s shoulder. “I-I know you want to go to the movies, so umm… Ahh…” He stuttered, covering his cheeks to hide his raging blush that appeared on his cute little cheeks. But he then shook his head, letting his mushroom head hair swing back and forth in the motion. He then courageously took their hand into his and squeezed it, announcing in a voice that was filled with enthusiasm (which was rare coming from the mushroom boy) “Let’s go in and have a good time!” He then looked down again, closing his eyes and started stuttering under his breath “oh my gosh I can’t believe I did that gahhhh…”

🔶 Kōichirō Kashima

🔹His significant other reminds him of Kamo; short and full of energy, so he used to this kind of behavior around him. And when them and Kamo would play pranks on him, he doesn’t mind that either. Heck he even laughs with them every now and then, because seeing his little lover all happy and hearing that snorty cute laugh; he would love to hear that everyday.

🔹Even though he is not as energetic as his significant other, he will still do whatever they want to do. From playing different kinds of games (like ping pong to wii games) to going to a whole bunch of places (from the beach to the arcade) he will pretty much do anything! Of course there has got to be a limit, he don’t have an unlimited amount of energy unlike his lover. But every weekend they would usually go out on a date and at least once a month they would both plan an outing, like going to a vacation spot away from town.

🔹“Seems like you got me again s/o.” He softly chuckled, wringing out some water from his uniform shirt. Shaking his head, his brown locks would swish back and forth, getting some water onto his lover to which they playfully exclaimed for him to stop before they get wet in the process. “Ah, my bad.” He smiled, softly brushing their hair with his fingers to get rid of the water. “Maybe one day I should play a prank on you and Kamo. Or… maybe play a prank on Kamo only. You like that?” His significant other totally agrees, so the two hand-in-hand, go to his house to figure out a plan on how to prank the little cat.

🔶 Kenya Horikawa

🔹Before they even dated he would make fun of how short they are, calling them a shrimp or a hobbit. But once he learned how full of energy they have; oh boy. Let’s just say he was very overwhelmed. Like… why did they have so much energy? Even he can’t keep up with them at times. He would let them do whatever they please, but if they try to drag him along, he would protest. But after the two have been in a relationship for some time, he began to get used to it and not be bothered by it as much. But he will still make fun of their height at any chance he gets.

🔹Since his little tiny lover is so energetic all the dang time, he has got to keep them entertained somehow. So why not let them play rugby with the Sagami team? Now when they do play, he is a bit cautious since they like to bend the rules and well… they can get pretty aggressive. And if any of the team members severely hurt his significant other, they are going to get a long talk to not do that to his lover ever again. But other than that, they play how they normally do, and even the significant other would play tricks on the team members, to which he can’t help but chuckle when one of them starts to get salty.

🔹“What do you want?” He asks in an annoyed tone, his eyes still on his book which he was studying for the upcoming test. They started to point at his notebook which featured a frog, and they started to comment about how that is super adorable. All he did was roll his eyes and pinched their nose, saying “Well thank you, I am glad to think it is cute. Just like you, my cute little energetic bunny rabbit.” He then placed a kiss on their forehead. Getting up and closing his notebook, he then announced “Let’s get some fresh air since I know you waited so patiently for me.”

🔶 Sakura Renpei

🔹These two met like it was fate. He saw them cheering the most loudly when he was playing a match with a rival school. He would see them jumping up and down, holding a sign that said something like ‘Go Tenjiku!!’ in all caps and all the letters would be in different colors. They then went up to him and started asking him a bunch of rugby questions to which he was pretty pleased and of course answered all of them with a rare genuine smile on his face. After some time discovering they were energetic, he was a bit shocked. Such a tiny body, but yet so filled with energy.

🔹Dates would usually consist rugby related since he is all about that rugby. Heck he would even let them join in a practice match every now and then, showing them the ropes and even a few tricks here and there. But when it comes to actually going out on dates, Sunao has to help him set them up because the poor boy has no clue and is scared to ask his significant other because he will think they think he is not trying but he is it’s just that he doesn’t know how to do dates. So most of the dates are simple, like going to the park for a jog or even going to the gym: lots of physical movement in these dates.

🔹“Huh? You want to join our practice match again?” He asked while putting on his protective helmet and his uniform. Sighing, he then picked up a spare helmet and tossed it to them, saying in a rather cold tone (his usual tone) “Then you better prepare yourself, because I am not holding back to anyone.” His little lover nodded, and then went to him and stood on their tip toes to try to kiss him. He rolled his eyes, seeing them struggle. So he squatted down so they would have a easier time to kiss his cheek. But after they run to the field, a faint peach-colored blush would appear on his cheeks.

[duhragonball]

[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (86/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation.   This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: About 1000 years before the events of Dragon Ball Z.

Previous chapters conveniently available here.

[23 May 234 Before Age.  Planet Saiya.]

"That's it," Zatte said.   "I'm almost positive that's where the killer originated from."

On the bridge of their star-yacht, Luffa looked at the star chart displayed on the main viewer and shrugged.  On one end was the Saiya system, represented by a small white dot.   Dozens of other star systems were marked with various symbols and notations, and many of them were connected by lines of various different colors.   Most of these lines wandered out across the map, only to curl back toward Saiya, stopping short at a solar system relatively close to it.  

"How did you work all this out?" Luffa asked.  

"There's a ship on Saiya registered to one of the killer's victims, a Saiyan named Yarrow," Zatte said.   "By the time I found out about it, the ship had already been abandoned, but the navigational logs were still in tact.   From the planet where Yarrow's body was discovered, the ship went to four other systems, and each one reported at least one dead Saiyan."

Luffa waved her finger at the map, as though tracing the route.  "That only gets you part of the way," she said.  

"Right, but I played a hunch.   I traced the same ship's itinerary before Yarrow died, and found other victims along the way.  The pattern breaks down here, where a Saiyan named Okartish was discovered dead.   Turns out he and Yarrow were partners."

"Are you saying this guy stowed away on Yarrow's ship for months without anyone noticing?"

"It seems that way," Zatte said.  "Look, we're having a hard time finding him now that he's here on Saiya, so it's no surprise that he can cover his tracks.   He must have some way to hide his presence, even while he's aboard a spaceship as small as Yarrow's."

"You think he can turn invisible like you?" Luffa asked.  

"I doubt it," Zatte said.  "I could mask my life energy and hide on this ship for a long time if I needed to.   But I'd need food and other necessities.  Plus, a ship's life support systems would detect the extra oxygen consumption from a stowaway.  I might be able to hack the ship's computer to falsify the readings, but that would mean sneaking out of my hiding place to do it.   Sooner or later I'd give myself away.  And on a smaller ship like Yarrow's, it'd be that much harder for me to move around without being noticed."

"So how's he doing it?" Luffa asked.   "We know he's a Dorlun because of the poison he's using, and each Dorlun has special abilities.  What can this guy do?"

"It could be a lot of things," Zatte said.   "Keda could shape-shift, which works a lot better for stowing away.   She hid among the Tikosi for months, right?  I don't think I could have managed that long.   She probably spent a lot of that time making her body as small as possible."

"Then maybe this guy's a shape-shifter like Keda," Luffa said.  

"Not necessarily," Zatte said.   "He might have some sort of telepathic power.  Your eyes might be able to see him, but he can prevent your mind from perceiving his presence.  Or maybe he had some way to go into a dormant state.   That way he could hide in the cargo hold without food or water."

"This is too complicated," Luffa groaned.  

"For all we know, the killer might not have hidden aboard Yarrow's ship at all," Zatte added.  "He may have paid Yarrow for passage, and made sure his name stayed off the ship's passenger records."

"But if he's been using his own victims for transportation," Luffa said, "then he's been leaving a trail all along."

"Well, nothing obvious," Zatte said.  "It's taken me days to piece together all the victims with spaceships they might have used or owned.   I know you're not a big fan of King Rehval's brand of diplomacy, but a lot of these murders took place in a lot of different jurisdictions.    If Rehval hadn't established relations with so many of them, I might not have been able to get all the data I needed."

"It doesn't matter," Luffa harrumphed.  "Once my technique is put into action, we'll find the killer no matter where he's hiding."

"Maybe," Zatte said, "but you needed Rehval to make that work too, right?"

Luffa rolled her eyes.  "He has his uses," she admitted.  Before Zatte could tease her about this, she turned her attention back to the map.  "So you backtracked the killer to this system, but what good does that do us?"

"Maybe nothing," Zatte said, "but if the trail goes back any further, I might be able to find out something about him that we can use.  I won't know until I go there and see for myself."

"You want to take the ship and leave Saiya?" Luffa asked.  

"Sure," Zatte said.  "It'll only take a day to get there."  

"But Planet Saiya would be at the killer's mercy while we're gone!" Luffa objected.  

"That's why we’re not going,” Zatte said.   “You’re staying behind.”

"You want to go alone?!" Luffa asked.  

"Luffa, it'll only be for a few days.   A week at most.   You've gone on training retreats longer than that."

"But the whole point of you investigating was so the killer would try to come after you," she said.  "If the bait leaves the planet, then there's no trap."

"Let's face it," Zatte said.  "If he was going to try to attack me he would have done it by now.  Either he doesn't see me as a threat, or he knows it's a trap.  At least if I leave the planet for a while, it might make him wonder what I'm up to.   He might get nervous enough to make a mistake."

"What the hell am I supposed to do while you're gone?" Luffa asked.  

"The same thing you've been doing, dummy," Zatte said.  "Try to catch the killer with that technique of yours.   And try to find out something about this 'Honor Guard'."

"I already did," Luffa said.  "They're just an elite squad in the Saiyan military.  They handle special missions, things like that."

"Then why would they recruit a civil servant like Finule?"  Zatte asked.  There must be hundreds of Saiyans who were stronger or more qualified, and she was willing to die before letting hem take her."

"You can always get stronger," Luffa said.  "They probably have a harsh training regimen, and she got cold feet.   She was just being cowardly, that's all.  It happens, even to Saiyans."

Zatte wasn't satisfied with this at all.  "Look, if you think that's all it is, then so be it.  Finding the killer is what matters now, but don't whine about being bored if you manage to tackle him early.   Take in a show.  Spend some time with your grandmother."

"Oh that sounds like fun," Luffa groaned.  

"You'll live," Zatte said.  "If it gets too dull, you can always conquer the planet.  Hey, what's the matter?"  

"It's just... I don’t know.  Be careful out there, Zattie.  Okay?"

"I'm always careful," Zatte said.  "But for you, I'll be even more careful.   How's that?"

*******

[24 May 234 Before Age.  Planet Saiya.]

Less than an hour after Zatte's departure from the planet, Luffa went to the capital citadel to find King Rehval.   By now, the palace staff had grown accustomed to her frequent visits.  They still stank of fear and loathing whenever she passed them in the corridors, but they no longer asked her to identify herself or make appointments.  She waited in his bedroom for five minutes, and when he appeared at the doorway he walked up and seized her in a powerful embrace--one arm around her back, the other gripping her upper thigh.  

"There you are," he said triumphantly.  He hoisted her up until they were at eye-level to one another. 

She planted her hands on either side of his head and pulled until they were close enough to give him a passionate kiss.  As their lips finally parted, she bit his lower lip, drawing a tiny trickle of blood.  He feigned outrage, and tossed her onto the bed.  

Over time, Rehval had learned to indulge Luffa like this.   At first, he had been very respectful about kissing her, almost to the point of being submissive.  This was customary among Saiyans, as she was the stronger of the two, but she had always enjoyed the way her late husband Kandai would handle her, back when she was far weaker.   It pleased her to see that Rehval could pull it off.   It wasn't about physical power, she supposed.   Rehval was far stronger than Kandai had ever been, and he was a monarch as well.   He was used to projecting authority, in a way that Kandai could have only approximated with strength.  So it was just a matter of getting him to stop being so damned polite to her.   He was putting his tongue down her throat, not negotiating a trade agreement.  

Even so, he still knew when to back off.  Their make-out sessions would end the same way every time.  Eventually, her guilt over betraying Zatte would surpass the thrill she got from him, and she would gently push him away.  He never questioned her about this, and if he understood, he never mentioned it.  He simply respected her boundaries like a true diplomat.   It made her wonder what would happen if he didn't respect this.   What if he wanted to press the issue?  Would she kill him for his insolence?   Would he try to persuade her to take things further than they already had   Would she give in to temptation and betray her wife more than she already had?

"Shall we go?" Rehval asked pleasantly.  Normally they would head to the mountains to train at this point.  

"Yeah," Luffa said.  "I think we're almost ready to try this thing out."

"You still haven't named your technique?" Rehval asked.  He rose from the bed and fetched a new shirt from his wardrobe.   Luffa had a nasty habit of shredding them during their more intimate moments.  

"What's the point?" Luffa asked.  

"The point is that you have something to call it," Rehval said.  "When you and I find this killer, I want to tell my subjects how we did it.   That'd be easier if I didn't have to keep calling it 'Luffa's New Technique, the One Where She Spreads Out Her Ki Energy Across the Whole Planet While We Sense For Any Unusual Activity."

"Fine, you name it then," Luffa said.  

"You developed it," Rehval said.  "The honor is yours."

Luffa rolled her eyes and shook her head.   After a moment of consideration, she finally said: "Golden Duster."

Rehval paused putting on his shirt as he appeared to digest the name carefully.   "We should workshop that," he said.

Luffa threw up her hands in annoyance.  

*******

Hours later, at their training ground, Luffa and Rehval watched the stars come out in the night sky.  The air was cold, but she barely noticed thanks to how closely he was holding her.  

"That's the Pflaume system," he whispered into her ear as he pointed to a faint point of light that had just become visible as dusk gave way to night.   "That's where my villa is.  I'd like to show it to you sometime."

"You already showed it to me," Luffa replied.  

"That was a hologram," Rehval said.   "I want you to experience the real thing.   The sounds, the smells..."

He might have added "touch", but instead he gently caressed the side of her neck with his lower lip, and she found this far more persuasive.  

"But we can discuss that later.  I've kept you here for too long," Rehval said.  "You probably want to get back to your ship."

"No, it's all right," Luffa said.  "Zatte took the ship into space.  I'm staying with my grandmother until she gets back."

Earlier, she had resolved not to tell him any of this.   He didn't need to know, after all.  Yet somehow, something about the way he held her and the sound of his voice caused her to forget her mistrust.  

"She left the planet?" Rehval asked.  "Why?"

"Chasing down a lead on the killer," Luffa said.  "Not that it'll matter.  You and I should have him cornered by the time she gets back.  

"Then why don't you stay at the palace until she returns?" Rehval asked.  

She took a deep breath and released it as a long sigh.  

"I take it that's a 'no'," Rehval said.

"Maybe," Luffa said.  "Let's focus on the Saiyan-killer, and then we'll worry about sleeping arrangements."

"Fair enough."  Rehval released her and rose to a standing position.    

"Where are you going?" Luffa asked.  "I told you, I can stick around a while longer."

"Yes, but unfortunately, I have some business to handle back at the citadel.   I can either put in a long night or get up early to take care of it before we meet up.    Either way, I need to get moving."

"Business?" Luffa asked.  

"It's a state secret," Rehval said.  "I'd need to arrange a security clearance for you.   Maybe if you and your wife choose to stay on Saiya for a while, we could make that happen.  You've proven to be a great help to the kingdom.  Both of you."

"One thing at a time," Luffa said.   "I'll see you at 0900 tomorrow."

"Of course,” Rehval said.   As he floated into the air, he waved good bye and made that damned wink that she found so endearing and smarmy at the same time. 

“Don’t be late!” Luffa called out to him. 

“I wouldn’t dare,” Rehval replied with a smile.   “I know how much you hate to be kept waiting.”

*******

"Where is he?!"

By 1000 hours, Citadel Time, Luffa was in General Ratijio's office, threatening to wreck his furniture.  The general was the strongest Saiyan in the royal military, and unaccustomed to dealing with such a tantrum.   Typically, he would have killed any Saiyan who dared to barge into his office and make such a racket, but Luffa was far from typical, and he knew it.  

"I don't know!" he pleaded.    

Without really meaning to, he glanced at the most valuable object in the room, the palladium medal awarded to him by King Rehval II for his fortieth year of service.  The display case hung on a wall just beyond his reach.  It was a simple tactical assessment.   His territory (office) had been occupied by a superior force (a Super Saiyan), and since he couldn't give the invader what she wanted (the king's location), she would sack his domain to vent her frustrations.  All he could do now was try to minimize the damage.  He couldn't hide his medals now, but if he could keep her attention on his desk or one of the file cabinets...

Then Luffa went straight for the display case.  He raised his hand, although he had no idea what good it would do, but before he could even move, she had torn it down from the wall and moved back to her position in front of the door.  He didn't think any Saiyan could move so quickly.  He thought that she had to use her golden-haired form to tap into that kind of ability.

"Do I have your attention now?" Luffa demanded.  She broke the case apart in her hands and let the pieces fall to the floor.  Then, she knelt down and picked up the palladium medal he had been so worried about.  

For a moment, he wondered how she knew that one was so important to him.  Then he realized that she wasn't just faster than any other Saiyan; she had actually caught the movements of his eyes, and noticed what he had been looking at.  She was a monster, and the king had welcomed her into the heart of his kingdom.   Worse, he had actually begun having some sort of an affair with her.   And now, the king, in his infinite temerity, had stood her up.  

"Luffa," Ratijio said, trying to maintain what little composure he had left.    "He's the king.  He doesn't tell me where he goes, but I can try to find out if, you'll just--!"

"I've been trying to find him for the last hour!" Luffa snarled.  I can't sense his ki, he's not in the palace, and none of his staff have seen him since yesterday."

"What about that technique you've been developing with him?" he asked.   "I thought you could find anyone."

"Oh, I'm coming to that, don't worry," Luffa said.  "The point is, he agreed to meet me at the palace this morning, and he isn't there.  Finding him isn't as important as knowing why he isn't where he said he'd be.   We're supposed to be tracking down that Saiyan-killer today!"

Ratijio swallowed hard.  "Are you saying that the king is--?"

"I showed you how Golden Duster works, General," Luffa said.  "I saturate an area with my own power, and sense for any movements within that field.  It's for finding people who might be concealing their own ki, but it won't work on a corpse!"

"He... he can't be dead!" Ratijio said.  "The Honor Guard would never--!"

Faster than he could register the movement, Luffa grabbed him by the chest of his uniform, lifted him out of his chair, over the desk, and slammed him against a wall, upside down.  The sheer speed of this action was made even more astonishing by the fact that she did it all with one hand.  

"The Honor Guard.   Let's talk about them, shall we?" Luffa said with a sneer.   "They're under your command, right?"

She was still clutching the medal in her free hand.   Ratijio found that he kept glancing at it, even as he knew that he had to focus his attention on Luffa.   He couldn't afford to make her any angrier than she already was.  

"No," he said.   "They report directly to the King!   They're his secret police--"

"Secret police?!" Luffa roared.   "What does a Saiyan king need that for?!"

In spite of his predicament, Ratijio made a knowing smirk.  "You really are a back country yokel, aren't you?"  he said.   "I thought it was just an act to fool people, but you really-- ARRGH!"

Luffa's fingers suddenly charged with ki, and he felt a surge of pain in his chest.  

"Dumb it down for me, then," she said darkly.  

"Fine, fine!" he gasped.  "You might think a Saiyan king should rule by strength alone, but Rehval isn't interested in merely ruling the Saiyans!  He wants to redefine our very culture!  The Honor Guard doesn't just suppress dissent, they enforce Rehval's vision of how the people should behave!"

"Then why would they recruit a file clerk like Finule?" Luffa asked.  "The way I hear it, she was no fan of the regime."

"Finule?" Ratijio asked.  "So they finally took her, did they?  I didn't know, but I'm not surprised.  She talked too much.   Sooner or later someone was going to shut her up."

"Then why not just kill her and be done with it?" Luffa asked.  

"To use her for--!"  But he couldn't finish the sentence.   He knew the information was classified, and that he wasn't supposed to share it with an outside like Luffa, but now he found that he literally couldn't tell.  It was as if the words had been trapped in his throat.

"Use her for what?!" Luffa demanded.  She charged her fingers with ki once more, and he convulsed with pain.  

"They probably took her to--!" he tried to say, but rephrasing his answer made no difference.  

Ratijio had never tried to betray state secrets before.  This wasn't a matter of honor or loyalty, but fear of Rehval's immense physical strength.   But Rehval was missing, and Luffa was here, and far stronger than Rehval could ever hope to be, and this alone made a very compelling case for treason.  Only he couldn't go through with it, and Luffa was rapidly losing what little patience she had left...

"You know, I could just rip the answers out of your mind," Luffa said.  

"I'm trying to tell you, but something is--!" Ratijio began to say.   This time he stopped himself from finishing his sentence.  He knew Luffa wouldn't believe him, since he hardly believed it himself.  

She flung him to the other side of the room, where he crashed to the floor.  Ratijio had the physical might to at least soften his landing, but he didn't want to risk antagonizing Luffa any more than he already had.   As soon as he was able, he glanced to her hand to find his medal was still in tact.  Even as he did so, he wondered why that should still matter to him.

"Don't bother," Luffa said.  She approached him, reaching for his face with her empty hand.  "I've wasted enough time on you already.   I should probably use both hands, so before we get started..."

She held up the medal and closed her fist, crushing it into a chunk of twisted metal.  Then she flung out her arm, launching it like a mortar bomb through the window of his office.   Ratijio was horrified to see this, although he still couldn't understand why.  

And then suddenly, he felt something snap inside him.  There was an intense pain in his head, like something was trying to smash its way out of his skull, and he clutched at his face as he curled up into a fetal position.   He heard an undignified scream, and eventually realized that it was coming from his own mouth.   It was so excruciating that he completely forgot the angry Super Saiyan standing over him.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" she asked, though her voice sounded distant to him, as though she were calling to him from across a great chasm.  

And then the pain simply stopped.  Ratijio opened his eyes and looked at the palms of his hands, unsure if it was safe to move or speak.  He gasped with relief, and slowly rose to one knee, until Luffa grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him to his feet.  

"It was the medal," he said quietly.  "Damn his eyes, he did it to me just like all the rest!"

"What are you babbling about now?" Luffa asked.  

He noticed she had raised one of her fists and he quickly held up his hands in supplication.  "Wait, don't!" he pleaded.  "I'll tell you everything!"

*******

For lack of anywhere better to go, Luffa took General Ratijio to her grandmother's house.   King Rehval III had now been missing for over four hours.   While Luffa concentrated her senses on finding any trace of his ki, Arracash served him all the steamed vegetables he could eat.

"You don't see brassicas like that anywhere else on Saiya, now do you?" Arracash bragged.  "You'd probably think they were imported, but I grew them right here in my garden."

"They are impressive," Ratijio said between bites.  

"The secret is the molybdenum powder I sprinkle into the soil," Arracash went on.   "Any idiot knows to use fertilizer in this sort of climate, but they don't know to do their homework.  Sure, they can grow some crops, but if they don't pay attention to the micronutrients, you won't have much to show for it on the dinner table."

"I see," Ratijio said absently.  

"Now, the iron levels in the soil here aren't a problem, but you still have to keep an eye on the others.  Boron, zinc.  Manganese.  A lot of people don't even know what that is."

"If you two are through talking about gardening," Luffa growled, "I'd like to go over what you told me, General."

He swallowed hard at the sound of that.  "I've told you everything I know," he insisted.  

"Yeah, and most of it was stuff I already learned from reading Rehval's mind," Luffa said.  "His father, Rehval the Second, was an alchemist.   He used witchcraft-- or whatever you want to call it-- to hold onto his throne and defeat his enemies.   He even used it on loyal officers like you, like that medal he enchanted to keep you in line in case you ever tried to turn against him."

"He kept his powers a secret," Ratijio grumbled, "but rumors began to circulate.   Some of us in the military began to suspect he had some sort of influence over people.  I didn't know for certain until you crushed that medal.  For the last five years, I've treated it like a prized possession and never knew why."

"Well, the only trouble I have with that story is that Rehval II is dead," Luffa said.  "Rehval III found out about his secret alchemy lab and killed his father in disgust.  Only it looks like he didn't bother to track down all the talismans and potions his dad left behind."

"Why should he bother?" Ratijio muttered.  "The current king may not have approved of his father's methods, but he still benefits from the results.  The spell I was under made me loyal to their whole dynasty.   It's the same with the Honor Guard.   I'm sure they're under some sort of enchantment to ensure their absolute obedience.  That's why I say the king must still be alive.   If he died, the Honor Guard would immediately install his successor."

"Who would that be?" Luffa asked.  

"Don't be an idiot, girl," Arracash said.  "Obviously one of the king's children would assume the throne."

"Obviously," Luffa replied, "except Rehval has no children."

"Of course he does," Ratijio said.  "The king is many things, but he's no fool.   To rule over Saiya without an heir would jeopardize everything his house has ever worked for."

"That's impossible!" Luffa insisted.  

"Why?" Ratijio scoffed.  "Did you really think you were the first woman he ever fancied?"

Normally, such a cutting and personal remark would have embarrassed her.   Her involvement with Rehval had been confusing enough before the General accidentally walked in on them in the middle of an embrace.  He had kept quiet about it, but now that he was finally speaking up, Luffa was too shocked to be self-conscious.  

"You and the king?!" Arracash blurted out.  

"I guess you really didn't know," Ratijio said with a snort.   "His Majesty's quite the charmer, isn't he?   Probably convinced you that you were the only one he had ever loved.   Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but it's just a line.  Once he's satisfied, he'll move on to someone else and tell her the same story."

Luffa shook her head.  "I read his mind," she said.  "I didn't find anything about children or other women or..."

"You must have skipped a few pages then," Ratijio replied.  

Luffa's eyes went wide, and she started taking quick, shallow breaths as she struggled to make sense of this.  Somehow, Rehval had thwarted her telepathic probe, and she had never even dreamed that this was possible.  In the past, others had resisted her mental powers, or fought back with psychic abilities of their own, but this was something altogether different.  

"Luffa, he's telling the truth," Arracash said.  Her grandmother had approached her and reached out with a sympathetic hand.   "The king keeps his children out of the public, but he's held ceremonies to announce their births.  I attended one once--long story--but the food was lousy..."

But Luffa wasn't listening to her.   Arracash and Ratijio probably thought she was upset over being deceived by a romantic partner, but that wasn't it at all.  Like a witless amateur, Luffa had overestimated her own power.  She had assumed that a thorough telepathic interrogation would prove once and for all whether the king was friend or foe.   Everything she and Zatte had done since then was based on this faulty premise.   There could only be one explanation: Rehval had been manipulating them from the start.  

Her thoughts turned to Zatte, who was currently headed for a whole other star system.  Was that part of Rehval's plan?  Was he luring Zatte into a trap, or was it just a way to remove Zatte from Planet Saiya while he put his true plan into effect?  

"Luffa, what are you doing?" Arracash asked.  

The old Saiyan had sensed Luffa's ki rising as she ruminated over her failure.  Without really thinking about it, Luffa raised her hand and slammed her fist into her own sternum.   Her jaw was clenched so tightly that her teeth hurt.  As usual whenever Luffa made a mistake, she could almost hear her dead mother's voice scolding her in her mind.  Complacent!  The enemy was right in front of her.  Her wife, her closest ally, had been right beside her.  And what had she done?!  She took both for granted, and now they were both gone.   She could have strangled Rehval last night and been done with this, but instead she held him in her arms, tenderly, and let him whisper sweet nothings into her ear while they looked at the stars. 

"Luffa!  Not in the house!  You hear me?!  Not in the house!"

In her rage, Luffa's ki had manifested like a miniature whirlwind.   Arracash was pleading for her to stop.  Just beneath Luffa's skin, as always, was that thing.   Aside from a private demonstration for Rehval, she had kept it contained during her visit to Planet Saiya.   Luffa wasn't entirely sure why.  Maybe it was because she wanted to at least pretend to fit in with her own species.   While she had grown accustomed to her other form and accepted it as a part of herself, she still didn't relish the idea of showing it off to her own kind, to revealing herself as this yellow-haired, green-eyed monstrosity.  

But now... Now that Rehval's lies were exposed, now that General Ratijio was rushing out of the house in fear for his life, now that Luffa felt like she couldn't make things any worse than they already were... Now, she could see no reason to hold back.  

With a sharp cry, she released her power... released herself, and came to a decision.

If Rehval wouldn't deal with her directly, then she would just take the matter up with his precious planet.

NEXT: Behind the Throne