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tiredcath · 4 years

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Zukka Fic Recs

after atla came back into pop culture i found myself falling back in love with zukka which resulted in me reading (almost) every zukka fic on ao3 and here are my favorites

Transference by The_Quatermasters (146k)

In a modern AU, Zuko has to deal with settling in a new school after expulsion, dealing with an angry ex and an abusive father. Maybe his new found friendships and growing closeness with Sokka will help him make it through.

Borderlines by The_Quatermasters (73k)

Three years after the war, the work still isn't quite done and the Gaang is scattered across the continents in their efforts to help the world recover. When Aang and Katara pay visit to the Fire Nation where Zuko is Fire Lord and Sokka acts as Ambassador for the Water Tribe, sparks fly between the siblings over Sokka's life choices.

Ashes Inside When You Finish Your Song by Muncaster (47k)

Sokka writes lyrics for his sister’s band. Zuko plays piano and is unnecessarily nice. Fellas, is it gay to write love songs about your friend and his golden eyes?

(AKA, a modern band AU featuring The Gaang, crappy software equipment, homoerotic lyrics, and the realization that maybe, if you think about a guy every night before you sleep, you just might be in love with him.)

sirens & sleepless nights by Satirrian (54k)

Life can be pretty hard living in a city under a totalitarian regime. Between adhering to the ridiculous curfew, keeping himself from being gunned down by a passing patrolman, and paying his unnecessary tolls to the state for, say, breathing, Sokka has his hands full just getting to work. Add aiding a resistance group on top of that, and Sokka should really be getting paid for this.

Then, one night, Sokka finds an injured patrolman collapsed in the street, who tells him with blood on his lips, “If the patrol finds me, I’m dead.”

Real Slow by surveycorpsjean (21k)

“I see.” Zuko closes the scroll. “Is the Water Tribe sending a replacement?”

“Uh yeah,” Sokka gestures to himself dramatically. “You’re looking at him.”

First by HoneyBadgerMole (20k)

Zuko has been nurturing a crush on the jock in his AP Psych class but he has been too scared to talk to him until they get paired up for a project.

the benefits of getting a flat tire by LesbeanLatte (64k)

Zuko makes an impromptu decision to run away from home after a disturbing conversation with Azula. Unfortunately, some plans are better when they're actually, well, planned. Zuko isn't counting on getting a flat tire almost as soon as he's far enough away from the city to really be in the middle of nowhere.

Sokka is immediately taken with the stranger he and his friends find stranded on the side of the road during an afternoon joy ride. However, he has no idea what he's getting involved with and a kind attempt to help a fellow teen in need turns into a massive coverup for a missing person who just so happens to be the son of the mayor of Ba Sing Se.

Azula was just trying to help her big brother - in her own way - by telling him things she thought he deserved to know. Now the situation has gotten wildly out of control. Did she enjoy seeing Zuko upset and afraid? Of course. Had she intended to endanger his life? Not necessarily, but of course, her idiot brother overreacted to everything and that's what happened and now she doesn't know how to stop the chain of events she's indirectly put in place like dominoes.

Operation Leverage by snowandfire (50k)

Sokka's instincts are onto something great. Zuko just wants to serve tea and brood in peace. Ironically, Toph is the only one who can see what's really going on.

The Stingray by Smediterranea (24k)

“You’re not carrying me.”

“I don’t mind,” the lifeguard says easily.

“I can just hop over.”

“On sand?”

Zuko will never admit it, but being carried feels pretty nice. The lifeguard sets him down and eyes him warily.

“Are you really all by yourself?” he asks in a worried tone. “No friends in town you can call to check on you?”

“No,” Zuko confirms. Tears are forming again with alarming speed; his foot throbs painfully with every passing second.

“What kind of burrito do you want?”

“You don’t have to —“ Zuko repeats.

“I’m getting al pastor. You like al pastor?”

AU: Zuko falls for Sokka, the super hot lifeguard who helps him after an unfortunate encounter with a stingray.

it's the illusion of separation by argentoswan (110k)

Sokka takes a job washing dishes at the new tea shop in town. It's a great gig, until he finds out his only coworker is his old high school bully. Sokka really should quit, but he also really needs to afford rent.

Also, Zuko is kind of hot now.

People like to think war means something by trying_to_spell_both_our_names_at_once (21k)

Sokka was the first to leave.

Somehow that hurt the most. . . . Not long after Zuko becomes Firelord, forces gather in the South and next thing he knows he's thrown into a civil war with almost no one by his side. Maybe healing is longer and more complicated than it needs to be, but with the right people by your side it is always possible.

a way that will destroy you by anothermistakemade (14k)

In the wake of Ozai's death, Zuko begins to fall apart. Sokka will do everything in his power to make sure that doesn't happen.

or, zuko might be losing his mind, but he also might just be really sad & traumatized

Those Who Favor Fire by CSHfic, VSfic (30k)

After a failed attempt on his life, Sokka fakes his death, dons a disguise, and infiltrates the would-be assassin's ranks in an attempt to bring them down from the inside.

Zuko learns of his husband's tragic death, mourns, and vows revenge.

Words Mean More at Night by DaisytheDoodleDog (28k)

Even ten years after the end of the war, rebellions rise and risk the balance of the nations. Sokka was willing to do anything to protect his people, which is perhaps why he's leading an army against the rebellion, attacking only as a last result. But Sokka's unwinding, it's taking a toll on him, and the only thing keeping him grounded are the letter Zuko and him exchange late in the night when no one can see the messenger hawks. But as they say, nothing's fair in love and war.

another word for wanting by eurydicees (23k)

Sokka begins to dream of his soulmate when he's eleven years old, and it just gets harder from there. Or, 125 moments soulmates share, and none of them come easy.

(In which your dreams are your soulmate's memories, and Sokka dreams of an all-consuming fire, growing and eating at his soulmate until it burns up the connection between their souls. In which they find love anyways.)

It Has Only Just Begun by Kirazalea (39k)

There is a bitter triumph in crashing when you should be soaring

Zuko had now chosen the path his uncle had been trying so hard to show him; he had someone who believed in him, who maybe loved him; he was travelling with the Avatar and they apparently had a plan to end the war. By all accounts, Zuko should be smiling.

But Uncle was gone (captured by Azula, and Zuko didn't think she would kill him, but he didn’t, couldn’t, know for sure). The Avatar was barely breathing (he could still die at any second and there was nothing any of them could do about it). Azula had conquered the last Earth Kingdom stronghold (all those innocent people who were now at her mercy). It seemed like, for every step Zuko took forward, the world sent him back three more.

But he was determined to push forward anyways. He needed to make his uncle proud, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

aka: zuko joins the gaang at the end of season 2

Nightmares and Reveries by HisMomoness (20k)

Zuko doesn't sleep because when he does, he's haunted by nightmares. Sokka worms his way into a job and makes it his mission to get Zuko to relax. Lots of head pets and one vacation to the South Pole later, Zuko might just be getting the hang of it.

Cue pining, some fluff, and eventual romance.

The One Who Stopped Time by ohhihoney (66k)

All hope was lost to Zuko until one day, his uncle asked a random person at the Jasmine Dragon to tutor his nephew. Gritting his teeth and embarrassed beyond the point of no return, Zuko gave the blue eyed boy his number.

Little did Zuko know how much Sokka would change his world.

Rubbed Off Stars by ohhihoney (2k)

Sokka wasn't going to just sit and watch the boy at the back of the bus cry while trying to rub off pride flags off his cheeks.

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WIP

Ozymandias, King of Kings by Think_of_a_Wonderful_Thought (168k)

After that fateful Agni Kai, Ozai makes a different call. Branded as a traitor and banished to a prison camp, Zuko learns how cruel the Fire Nation can be to its citizens. Three years, a water tribe raid, and an unexpected meeting with a gang of over-enthusiastic idealistic children puts Zuko back in the spotlight. The revolution is coming and it wants another poster boy, but Zuko is not willing to lend his face to the cause.

Another Brother by AvocadoLove (312k)

It was a mission of revenge. There weren't supposed to be any survivors, but Chief Hakoda couldn't bring himself to kill the Fire Nation boy. Against his better judgment, he brought him home. A Zuko joins the Water Tribe story.

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BONUS : zuko x jet

Something to Hold Onto by Wildgoosery (122k)

Since the day the walls of Ba Sing Se fell, the Freedom Fighters have struggled to protect what remains of the city and its people. Jet and his second command, a mysterious boy named Li, have spent the summer piecing together an army, hoping for a chance to take the city back for good. But Li is also Zuko, and the time for that secret is quickly running out. Soon, he'll have to decide exactly who he is, what cause he's going to fight for, and where his heart lies.

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gods-no-longer-tread-here · 4 years

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This is a somft thing I wrote because my platonic scoundrel @roseforthethorns was feeling sad. Ily bby

(3k+ words, Family Gossip, Geralt being good with kids, something akin to a binding..... just fluffypuffy stuff)

“You are an absolute darling, Geralt!”

“Hmph,” he grunted, and tucked the honeysuckles into the circlet before placing it carefully on Jaskier’s head. “You need to be pretty for the party,” the Witcher said firmly.

Jaskier beamed at him, eyes shining with affection. “That I do, my dear,” he said, adjusting the flower circlet to be at a jauntier angle. “Oh, do you like the ring, by the way?”

Geralt nodded, raising his hand. It was a lovely ring, but rather cheap. Bronze band, yellow agate cabochon, and tiny pearls. It was well-used, though. Jaskier grabbed his hand, squeezed gently, then skipped to the door. “Come on, then!”

Geralt was expecting the stares. He was not expecting so many nobles to glide up to him, give a nervous greeting, and then inquire about his relationship with Count Julian. Geralt was too baffled to answer with anything other than, “He’s my bard.”

One sharp-eyed old lady with an ivory cane showed up at Geralt’s elbow, and poked his middle with her cane. “Hmm. Too skinny,” she declared, while Geralt fought the urge to splutter. “How do you expect to take care of little Julie when you can’t keep yourself fed?”

“We’ve been getting along just fine for fifteen years,” Geralt retorted.

The old lady sniffed in disapproval. “Of course you would say that, you’re a man. Both of you need plumping up.” She smacked his middle with her cane and added, “Be careful with that ring, boy. It’s precious.”

Geralt grunted, hands automatically coming together so he could touch the ring again. The old lady nodded and walked away.

Jaskier had said this would just be a short jaunt to say hello to his cousin and leave--but said cousin was a queen, and asked him to stay for the whole evening. Of course, Jaskier agreed. And now Geralt was leaning on a wall sipping honey wine and feeling superfluous. There was nothing to do here. He should be hunting, gathering coin for their journey, not letting nobles stare at him.

A man in a military uniform approached him, and Geralt tensed, narrowing his eyes. He didn’t think he was going to be taken away; the soldier was alone, and Geralt came with Jaskier.

The soldier stopped, bowed, and said, “Greetings, Witcher. I’m Captain Yetzii, of the Palace Guard.”

“Geralt,” Geralt said.

The captain nodded, his heavy mustache and eyebrows hiding most of his expression, but the wariness and aggression in his scent and posture waning. “I suspected as much,” he said. “Not many people hover in corners watching Count de Lettenhove with such a worried expression.” The captain’s mustache twitched and the corners of his eyes crinkled, and Geralt was hit by the realization that, though this man was human and had red-brown hair and was as lean as a youth, he bore a striking resemblance to Vesemir. Even his scent had a familiar tang.

Geralt frowned and answered the captain, “He gets into trouble more frequently than we Witchers. If I don’t watch him he’ll do something stupid and end up wearing a casket of wine as trousers.”

“He’s already done that,” the captain said. “On his twentieth birthday, he and some of the troops got so drunk that they started a contest of what they could wear that was within uniform regulations. I don’t know how, but they all ended up agreeing that a wine casket and some sheafs of straw was within the rules.”

Something stirred in Geralt’s memory, and then jumped to the forefront: a few years ago, when he and Jaskier met again in spring, and got so drunk that--Geralt’s mouth twitched, but his voice was dry as he told the captain, “I know exactly how. I once witnessed him convince a king that he had created a dashing outfit out of moonlight and fresh air, then encouraged the king to wear it while giving a speech to the commoners. The fool actually believed him and stepped onto the platform before the crowd naked.”

The captain snorted, his posture relaxing further. “We heard of that, but no one knew it was M’lord Julian. Have you ever caught him dueling? He’s never been good at it, but by the gods, he tries. Especially when he was younger; whenever he visited, the Guard had to follow him when he went on a quest to seduce every barmaid in the city, because it was inevitable that he would end up trying to duel some poor citizen.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched again, visibly this time. “I can believe it.”

Somehow, swapping stories about Jaskier’s ineptitude with fighting rolled right into passive fighter roles; Geralt admitted that he’d rather be bitten by a manticore than pose as a bodyguard, and Captain Yetzii commiserated, saying that he had much preferred being in his village’s guard and patrolling the county to being a stationary captain. This led into how to prepare for long journeys far from humanity, and then a mild argument about horses. Geralt was offended by Yetzii’s insistence that horses should be bred for their lines, instead of for their traits; Yetzii was skeptical of the fact that the size of a horse’s heart was the defining factor of its speed, arguing that lungs and bone-structure were more important.

A noble boy, perhaps sixteen, drifted over and began asking questions that seemed to boil down to, “My tutor said that’s wrong.” Both Geralt and Yetzii immediately dropped the argument to speak to the boy seriously about how to choose, care for, and ride a good horse. A young lady of about thirteen took up a position close to the three of them, straining her ears to hear them while pretending not to.

It wasn’t long before Geralt and Yetzii had accumulated most of the attendants below the age of twenty, and were answering their questions about fighting, hunting, and survival. Yetzii was polite and deferential; Geralt spoke bluntly. So many curious faces, so many wide eyes--it felt like he was talking to his Witcher brothers.

Somehow, that didn’t hurt.

“I wish I could hunt trolls,” sighed a boy with lanky limbs.

Geralt frowned and said, “You’ve got the bones for it. Heavy laundry every other day, laps, and wrestling will get you started.”

The group went silent, gaping at him. Geralt stared back, then looked up to find Jaskier. He really had forgotten these children were nobles. He needed to get out of there.

“Do you think I could hunt trolls?” a young woman asked, her eyes bright with hope.

“You’re tall enough for it,” Geralt replied cautiously. “You’re almost done growing, but I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to.”

The young woman beamed at him, and Geralt felt very uncomfortable.

“Mr. Pankratz, sir,” piped up a pudgy child with a cloud of golden curls for hair, “I don’t think I’ll ever be tall. Could I still fight monsters?”

Geralt nodded. “Yes. Other warriors in training may tell you not to, but they don’t know your limits,” he said. It was so peculiar. He felt like… like he was saying Vesemir’s words in his own voice. He looked at all of the children, and added, “Any of you can be warriors. And warriors don’t always hunt monsters in dark places.” Something Vesemir had told him when he was small popped into his head, and he said it aloud, not quite seeing the children: “Sometimes Witchers kill. Sometimes Witchers talk. It doesn’t matter if you do one or the other more: you’re still a Witcher.”

“What does that mean?” asked the lanky boy.

“It means…” Geralt frowned, trying to put his words into order. “It means, no matter what your fighting looks like--whether you kill monsters or negotiate with kings--you’re still a warrior. We fight with what we have. A sword, a pen, medicine, knowledge; none of these are more important than the others. It’s what you use them for that matters.”

There was a moment of silence in the little group. All eyes were fixed on him, including Yetzii. He tried to think of how to escape, but before he could, Jaskier appeared, beaming and bubbling. Geralt had never felt such relief as he turned to Jaskier, who told those assembled, “Hello, everyone! Very sorry to interrupt, but the queen wishes to meet Geralt. We’ll be staying a few days, you’ll have plenty of time to talk to him.” Jaskier winked at Geralt with an evil smile; Geralt rolled his eyes, but followed his bard willingly.

“Their parents are annoyed,” Jaskier murmured teasingly as they approached the royal dais. “You’re far too interesting for them.”

Geralt snorted. “If they actually taught their little ones useful skills instead of drilling them on how to blow their noses, they wouldn’t be interested,” he muttered, and smiled just a little when Jaskier laughed. He liked Jaskier’s laugh. When did it go from painful to pleasant?

The queen, Jaskier’s cousin, was just as beautiful as him, but not nearly as theatrical. Her eyes were blue, but more washed-out. One of her ladies-in-waiting had lined her eyes with coal, but it was not nearly as neat and delicate as Jaskier’s. Her hair was a sandy blond, well-maintained and shining like gold, but Jaskier’s hair was shinier.

He bowed without giving anything away on his face.

“Queen Chrysanthemum, may I introduce Witcher Geralt,” Jaskier intoned gravely. Geralt shot him an annoyed look. Jaskier never made it easy to greet royalty. “He’s my friend.”

Geralt bowed again and muttered, “An honor to meet you, your Majesty.”

Queen Chrysanthemum smiled prettily. “The honor is mine, Witcher Geralt,” she replied. Then her eyes twinkled and her smile turned crafty. “We were all wondering what kind of man Julian would settle on,” she teased.

Geralt tensed, but it was embarrassment, not anger. He was used to this.

Apparently, Jaskier was not.

He turned red as a tomato, and spluttered a bit before objecting weakly, “I haven’t settled on anyone! When I do, you’ll know, because she will be the most beautiful woman the world has ever seen!” He avoided Geralt’s eyes firmly, even though all the Witcher did was raise an eyebrow and repress a teasing insult. How odd.

The queen snickered. “Yes, yes, I understand, Julian.” She turned to the matronly noblewoman sitting beside her and flicked her fingers subtly; the woman rose, curtseyed, and walked away, joining a circle of other noblewomen. Geralt’s stomach dropped as Queen Chrysanthemum smiled at him again and said, “Sit with me a moment, Witcher.”

Geralt did so, stiffly. For some reason, Jaskier seemed reluctant to leave, but also reluctant to sit. He shifted his weight, fiddled with his cuffs, bit his lip, and then nodded sharply, before turning and marching to one of the refreshment tables. Geralt shook his head. Jaskier was always very odd around his family.

“You don’t seem surprised by him,” the queen remarked, beckoning with her fan for a servant to bring them drinks.

“I’ve known him nearly fifteen years,” Geralt replied. “If he wanted to surprise me, he’d stop singing.”

That startled a laugh out of her, as she accepted a glass of wine from the servant. Geralt followed suit, but did not drink from it. He’d already had too much ale; his tongue was loose and his mind was too relaxed.

“Tell me, how did you meet?” she inquired. “I know Julian, his penchant for dramatics is devastating. Did you really defeat Filivandrel?”

“With words, yes,” Geralt answered, feeling that pinch of irritation again. That fucking song. He hated it. “There was no dramatic battle. Still, humans have no need to fear him anymore.”

Queen Chrysanthemum nodded sagely. “I thought as much. Julian has never once had the courage to face a fight willingly.” She must have seen Geralt’s confusion, because she smiled and explained, “He hated hunting rabbits, for the gods’ sakes. Anything scarier than a bee, he ran away from. We used to laugh about it.”

Geralt remembered the times when Jaskier had thrown himself into a fight to help him, had acted as bait or a distraction even in near-certain death situations, had stared down a griffin and run it through with Geralt’s own sword. Jaskier had never run away. Jaskier wasn’t courageous, but he was braver than any other human--if foolishness counted as bravery. Geralt ran his thumb over the hem of his “fashionable” surcoat; the money used to purchase the fabric, tailoring, and embroidery had come from Jaskier talking down an enraged nagani, negotiating with good will and good humour until she laughed and agreed to his terms.

Why would anyone think Jaskier had no courage?

“He’s changed,” Geralt murmured, instead of snapping at her for being so condescending.

“Pankratzes never change,” Chrysanthemum replied dismissively. “I’m a Pankratz too, and I haven’t changed one bit since I married. His parents and siblings conform to tradition so easily you’d think they were actors. You can ask a Pankratz any question and know exactly what he’ll answer with.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said.

“At least he gave you the ring,” Chrysanthemum said, nodding at Geralt’s hand. “So many women he could have married, even at his age, but never one could wear that.”

Geralt frowned again. ‘His age’? Jaskier was barely thirty-six. That wasn’t an old age. “It’s a nice ring,” he allowed, because he could not imagine arguing that Jaskier was available for marriage.

Chrysanthemum smirked and answered, “Yes, it is. It’s been in the family since the Conjunction.”

Geralt almost told her that was impossible, a ring that old would be completely destroyed, surely. He looked at it, perfectly fitted to his sausage-sized fingers, and wondered why Jaskier would give him a family ring. “Hmm,” he said again, making a mental note to ask Jaskier about it. Then he decided to change the subject. “Which side of the family are you related to Jaskier on?”

A sly smile preceded her answer. “His mother was my first cousin,” she explained. “She was amazingly beautiful, and men from every social class asked her to marry them. She chose our third cousin twice removed, instead. Probably because she’s always loved the sea more than people.”

Geralt hummed encouragingly. The queen took the hint, and continued. “She was an odd one before she had Julian. Always singing at feasts and dancing at fetes. When I was small, I thought she was the most magical person in the world. Her mere presence could make one smile. Mother told me it was strange--that her own father was one of the Seelie court.”

“Should you be saying this in public?” Geralt cut in, glancing around sharply. There were five people close enough that he knew they could hear the queen, and eight more who probably could if they tried. Jaskier was near the back of the hall, laughing with some servants.

Chrysanthemum scoffed. “Everyone knows the stories. That’s probably why he’s so strange, too. Do you know, he refuses to claim the title of Count unless he’s visiting me?”

“Can’t imagine why,” Geralt muttered, and drank his wine.

Soon, the king announced that his dear wife was tired, and they should all go to their beds. Geralt stood, bowed to the royal couple, and made his way to Jaskier.

“You spoke to her for a while,” Jaskier said as soon as they were in earshot of each other. “What were you talking about?”

Geralt shrugged. “Gossip,” he grunted. When he heard Jaskier’s heart speed up, Geralt shook his head. “I didn’t find it important.”

Jaskier beamed at him. “Oh, well, if that’s the case,” he said, and changed the subject. “Chryssie told me that we can have the Celadon Suite. You’ll love it, Geralt, there is not a single corner that isn’t brightly lit and everything is so soft--”

Geralt listened to Jaskier’s chatter, focused more on his voice than his words, as they walked surely down a hall to the guest suites. A Seelie grandfather… no, not for Jaskier. The Seelie court were kind, mischievous, and tended to stay in Skellige. The ones he’d met had all said they preferred their own monsters over the main Continent’s, thank you very much.

The Celadon Suite was, frankly, much too green for Geralt’s taste; but it looked well against Jaskier’s teal-trimmed dusky blue outfit. There was a small receiving room with a dining table and two seating areas; the bedrooms, large and lush and leaden with silence; one bathing room tiled with white marble, the bathtub large enough for Geralt and his brothers to lounge in; and a small balcony off of the bigger bedroom. Geralt chose the smaller one immediately.

“Oh! Oh, Geralt!”

The Witcher turned, and Jaskier grabbed his arm. He’d taken off the circlet, and unbuttoned his doublet, but Geralt’s nostrils flared as he caught a scent that was not as carefree as Jaskier’s appearance.

“We should eat and drink water before sleeping,” Jaskier said, faking a smile. “Don’t want to throw up at breakfast!”

Geralt nodded, reluctantly, and followed Jaskier to the dining table.

They were both silent for a moment, looking at each other. Geralt relaxed slightly, taking in Jaskier’s familiar face, his reassuringly broad shoulders, the little curls of hair over his ears and his collarbone. This was Jaskier. His bard. His traveling companion. There was no need to be on high alert with him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered, “What did she tell you?”

Geralt tapped his finger on the table for a moment, sorting his words. “She told me the ring you gave me is very old, and has always been in your family. She told me you were a coward when you were young. She said Pankratzes never change. And she implied that your grandfather on your mother’s side was of the Seelie Court. I don’t believe those last three for a moment. But I would like to know more about this ring.” Geralt set his hand on the table, palm down, and they both looked at the ring.

It was so small. A simple bronze band, a piece of agate, and six little pearls. Not that interesting. But it felt like... like being brought into Jaskier’s family, if only for a day or so. Having something so steeped in history pressed against his skin at all times felt like he was being asked to join that history.

But he was a Witcher, and human families were not for him.

Jaskier shrugged. “Mother said it would fit the hand of the person it was meant to,” he said, softly. “I don’t really remember the rest of her explanation. I was… lonely. So I decided it must mean that it would fit my very best friend.” He lifted his gaze to Geralt’s, and smiled. A real smile, one full of affection and happiness, so warm and enveloping that Geralt felt uncomfortable. “And it does! So you can’t say you aren’t my friend, because obviously you are!”

Geralt opened his mouth to deny it, then huffed in frustration and shook his head. Jaskier reached out and tucked his fingers between Geralt’s, interlocking their hands like cogs in a machine. The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched. It always amused him that their hands were the same lengths, but Geralt’s was blockier, meant for work, and Jaskier’s hand was perfectly shaped to play any instrument. It was also interesting how Geralt’s wax-pale skin contrasted with Jaskier’s peachy hue, tanned ever so slightly.

He just liked looking at their hands.

Jaskier hummed a bar from a new song he was writing, and carefully wiggled his hand so that he could slide it under Geralt’s fingers, joining their hands. The Witcher didn’t mind. It felt nice, oddly.

“I… might have drunk too much,” he muttered, but he couldn’t look away from the tiny valley formed by their fingers.

“Mm, me, too,” Jaskier murmured.

They sat in silence for even longer, watching the light from the lamps cast warm flickers on their clasped hands. It was so calm.

Idly, Geralt picked up Jaskier’s wilting flower circlet and draped it over their hands. Jaskier smiled.

“I’ll be yours, and you’ll be mine,” the bard whispered.

“Hmm. Friends and comrades,” the Witcher murmured back. “Joined in battle.”

“Bound by time.”

“Forever yours--”

“--Forever mine.”

Geralt’s medallion might have stirred, but probably not.

Jaskier pushed their hands upwards, so that their palms touched. “This isn’t for anyone else to know,” he whispered.

Geralt squeezed his hand back. “No,” he breathed. “This is ours.”

#Geraskier #Geraskier fic #The Witcher #soft geraskier

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charlietheepicwriter7 · 4 years

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Dangerous Feelings

Everyone knew not to approach the Overseer when he was in one of his moods, marked by him walking around the Safe Zone wall and staring off into the distance, into the infested city. His moods were strangely calm - he never yelled, never spoke a cruel word, but he had a way of looking them... In one of the few times it was discussed by the residents of the Zone, Damon had described that look as a predator sizing up his prey and finding it not worth the effort of the hunt. The only people unafraid of the Overseer in his moods was Matthew, who usually muttered that Lawrence used to act like that all the time before the Disaster and how he was used to it...

And Ethan, who trusted and was trusted by Lawrence too much to care about such looks.

The Survival expert approached Lawrence, who was standing at the top of the ten meter high wall, a thermos of tea in his hand that he periodically sipped from. Winter was coming and the air was biting, in to Ethan in his thick cloak, but Lawrence was dressed in his usual duster.

Ethan stood beside Lawrence, overlooking the infected city. He didn’t want to do this - he was horrible with feelings, even at 28 - but his conscious wouldn’t let Lawrence suffer alone. “What’s on your mind?”

He could feel Lawrence’s eyes appraise him, though he didn’t turn to look. “...Hmm...” Lawrence sipped his tea. “I think you already know.”

He did. Only two subjects worked Lawrence up so much that he would discard his genial mask.

Their former group.

And the nameless Her.

“I do,” Ethan admitted, though both subjects made him uncomfortable. “Which one is it?”

“Both, for once.” Ethan hadn’t expected that answer. “I keep imagining would have happened if we had found her back then, during the first few months of the outbreak. She could have lived with us in the school. Maybe she would even be alive now...”

Or she would have died with the rest of them, Ethan finished the sentence in his head. The destruction of their old group was something neither party liked to acknowledge, especially with how they both blamed themselves for the other’s deaths. Or at least, Ethan thought Lawrence blamed himself; it would explain why he was so overprotective - some would say tyrannical - of the residents of the Safe Zone, why he insisted on micromanaging every project.

Lawrence prefered to let Ethan think that he felt guilt over their group’s destruction. After so many years, he considered the older man/bodyguard a friend, and would hate to strife with him over something so trivial.

It had started with Judy. Poor, cheerful, stupid Judy, who had managed to find a poster for the Safe Zone on patrol despite his diligence. She had ran to show him and, thinking fast, he lured her into a swarm of zombies, destroying the evidence at the same time. But that had spooked Jay, who got himself killed on patrol, and then Scarlet had to kick up a fuss about his leadership. Well, he wasn’t going to let that slide, and poisoned her precious lip balm. That led to Sue figuring him out, so she had to go too. Then their was six - Ethan, himself, Zion, Hailey, Eugene, and Harry.

Hailey just had to find a poster for the Safe Zone and showed it off to the rest of the group. He was outvoted on going, even Ethan wanting to leave his protection, despite no one knowing anything about how that Safe Zone was run or if it would last. So, the morning they were to leave, he rigged the school alarm to go off. The hoard of undead tore through his dependents, those leeches, as he escaped to the basement. Ethan surviving was a surprise; an unpleasant one at first since he had gone against him, but useful in the long run.

Together, no longer having to worry about feeding freeloaders, they managed to fix up the school’s fence, build the beginnings of his own Safe Zone while the other one was destroyed in a year (they didn’t know about how zombies are attracted to sound, ha!). And now, he was Overseer. Lawrence regretted nothing.

Although... he did wonder what she would think about his rise to power. Not that he would ever tell her what he did - she was too kind and delicate for that sort of horror - but she was smart. Brilliant, unlike the other morons his parents forced him to tutor before the outbreak. Surely, she would understand the necessity of sacrifice.

“So, it’s like this, Lawrence-oppa?”

“Exactly! You catch onto math so quickly; I don’t know why you need a tutor in the first place.”

“Because Mr. Smith can’t compare to your teaching methods, oppa. I swear, he makes his lessons confusing on purpose...”

“If my style is what works for you, then I suppose you’ll have to keep coming back. I don’t mind; I enjoy spending time with you.”

Lawrence sighed as the memory washed over him. Her face was burry in his memory, her voice unclear, and he despised that she was slowly fading from his memory. At least he still had her eyes; they were clear to him, a bright blue that sparkled like sapphires even under the harsh fluorescent lights of the library.

He knew she was probably dead. He hated it, the idea that she was torn apart by some monster or had joined their ranks, terrified and out of his reach as she died. He would have sacrificed his own life to save hers, he knew. But such a fate was not his own.

His Safe Zone was dedicated to her despite this. If she ever showed up, if she ever returned to him, he would place her on a pedestal to keep her safe. He yearned for it, his heart aching everyday because he knew that she wasn’t within his grasp.

Lawrence and Ethan stood vigilant over the land, watching in silence for several minutes, and slowly, a group became visible through the dilapidated buildings. Ethan squinted, his eyes better than Lawrence. “Is that... group Gamma?”

Hunters, Lawrence remembered. But... “There’s too many of them.”

Groups out of the Zone were limited to three people, to keep noise at a minimum. Group Gamma had at least twice that many. “They found survivors,” Ethan said, reaching the same conclusion he had.

Lawrence faked a smile, finishing the last of his tea and shoving his emotional weakness back into the box it came from. “We should go greet them, then.”

And appraise them. If you weren’t doing anything in the shelter, you were removed, simple as that. People who didn’t work, who didn’t put in the effort (like Jay, like Scarlet, like Hailey, his mind whispered) were unwelcome here.

They left the wall and approached, picking their way through the Zone to reach the gate Group Gamma was aiming for. It didn’t take long for the group to enter. Lawrence easily picked out and dismissed the members of Group Gamma, focusing on the newcomers. There was a red-headed woman who seemed to be leader (a fighter, maybe?), a large man who stayed close to her (he’d do well in the construction zone), a young girl (possibly a child, so he’d have to let her stay regardless, to avoid angering the rest of the zone), and a brown-haired woman.

It was the brown-haired woman he focused on as they got closer. She didn’t look like much, small as she was, but her hair was cropped close to her head, a mask was over her face to prevent any blood or viscera from entering her mouth, and the pipe in her hands was worn from use. A fighter, clearly, and by the way she stood close to the others, she had been in their group for a long time. But nothing to explain why he focused on her so...

Their approach was finally noticed, and the woman looked Lawrence in the eyes. He stopped in his tracks and the woman froze, her beautiful, sapphire eyes growing wide.

“Lawrence-oppa?” Her voice was hoarse from disuse, but Lawrence could still hear the happy, hopeful quality that suddenly surged forth inside his memory.

Lawrence smiled as something inside of him finally settled, as if the deepest part inside of him relaxed when the locked eyes and said, Ah, there you are. His eyes softened in a way no one in the Safe Zone had seen before. “Hello, MC.”

So, this came out of a desire to figure out which ending from DFel Dangerous Shelters came from. My idea was... it wasn’t any of them, not even the Secret Ending. Basically, in this universe, MC never came across the DFel boys; instead, she ended up with the group from Havenless (And I haven’t finished that game, so I don’t know how appropriate that is, but don’t tell me!).

So, thanks for reading. If you want to support my work, buy me a coffee. If you know how to get Lawrence’s ending in Dangerous Shelters, send me a message, I’m desperate and keep getting the Caretaker ending, I need help.

#dangerous fellows #dangerous shelter #lawrence dfel #ethan dfel #mc dfel #overseer dangerous shelter #dangerous fellows lawrence #dangerous fellows ethan #dangerous fellows mc #mc stop calling lawrence oppa #you're like 27 #lawrence/mc #say what you will about lawrence but at least he's consistent #dangerous feelings

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horrible-monstrosity · 3 years

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I find myself increasingly concerned with the direction Legends Arceus is taking the relation between humans and Pokemens. No, I'm not talking about the bit with Pokemans attacking the player directly when you don't have your own Pokeymans ready, that was going to happen eventually, but just... the Sinnoh myths had stories about humans and Pokemon being so close they were considered the same sort of being, there's marriages, what have you, coming from thousands of years back. But this game apparently taking place only some hundreds of years ago... and it's "before Pokemons and humans lived together uwu"? The fuck? I feel like the games have been significantly moving away from humans and Pokemon being equals of a sort who both benefit from being together to Pokemons being some superior beings who humans benefit from but not vice versa and Pokemans are the superior creatures who humans should grovel in gratitude to and put up with all the shit from while never daring to burden them in any way. See gen 7, where living in haaaaarmony means having their lives and culture corralled by some asshole fairies because people can't be arsed to fight the ultra beasts, except the trainers who're forced to become kahunas fight the UBs themselves anyway (where they're forced to become fanatical enough about fighting to become strong enough to do so, but they're not even expected to be strong to fight UBs it's to lead their community... don't try understanding it just eat fairy shit and get excited for more fairy shit I guess). Why not just have a culture of the trainers who want to be strongest, or who have the greatest talent, being lauded as UB-fighters and becoming community leaders as well? Naw man, doing everything as the fairies want is haaaaarmony. Humans can't be strong enough with their Pokemon teams to fight the UBs, but have to be strong for other reasons ordained by The System, but then the ordained stronk humans have to fight the UBs anyway. But the fairies help, I guess. I fucking hate fairies man. Fucking elves of the Pokemon world. Smug sparkling fucks, fuck em I keep forgetting about the ride Pokemon but it still feels like the humans are supposed to bow and scrape to earn the gift of basic movement services so I don't think it really counts Gen 8 I don't know as well but it seems to go like this: Doggos are responsible for all good, their trainers or whatever their human companions are might as well not even exist. The postgame story is about those eeeeevil humans thinking they have some relevance to the doggos or something, eeevil I must say, so they have to do something evil to prove that.... um, something. Just some dumb shit that feels like a strawman argument against humans having any place in this world. Grovel to doggos.

Gen 6 was around the point where the weird cynicism started to creep into the franchise, mostly ORAS's weird abandoned ship segment, but it's pretty clear of this... aside from one random ace trainer or something late in XY who asks you, humans benefit from Pokemons, but how Pokemons benefit from huamn??? huh??? You're expecting an answer from him but he's just like, I bet you can't think of anything huh, hmmm??? Grovel, human.

You compare this to gen 5, and I'm not even talking about the Plasma plot (which was clearly bait on Plasma's part to get the public's sympathy anyway), but things like using Excadrill to dig out the mines. The 'drills were getting to do what they loved- dig- and being treated well by the humans in exchange for digging this spot in that way as directed. An equitable relationship that produced resources. This sort of thing existed as a counterpoint to N and Plasma's stated beliefs that humans were nothing but horrible for Pokemon and that they could never live together... Ironically what the later games are leaning towards, except that there is a way, and that's for humans to go fuck themselves. And again, Sinnoh's old myths, as well as any other myths that involve people and Pokemon together going back thousands of years.

I'd really thought the idea of this series was that Pokemon and humans were practically made for each other, that they were together from the very beginning. Raising Pokemon allows them to have a crafted moveset including TM and tutor moves, gain EVs, use held items aside from the few random ones they find in the wild... it's baked into the game itself completely incidentally. But no, I guess it's a Pokeyman's world and humans are just intruding on it somehow. What the fuck. Sigh.

I'm hoping that "Pokemans are so dangerouse man" line is just about the red-eyed frenzied Pokemon and that we aren't going into all Pokemons attacking humans and humans living forever at their mercy and deserving to scrape and grovel just to survive their onslaught.

By the way, my autistic retard fanfiction: First off, when the wall breaks and the doggo statues are found that make everyone realise who the "real" heroes are (something we can THANK Bede for by the way, because if he hadn't destroyed a priceless cultural artifact Eternatus would have gone off unopposed... but no one ever acknowledges this, as Bede is shat on and disowned by Rose for following what Rose taught him and then forced to trune out by trunny granny. figures she's a fairy trainer, I fucking hate fairies)- the idea that the doggos alone are the "real" heroes is actually a misconception brought on by people/society's tendency to elevate Pokemon, similar to why people bought PLasma's bullshit back in Unova. So when Eternatus is starting its nukes, people are just waiting for the doggos to get going and beat it... but when Hop sees the doggo statues, his budding professor brain immediately sees the truth- both the doggos and their human trainers are needed to unlock the true power of the sword and shield items. This even makes some sense with the game mechanics, as Pokemon typically can't use items more complicated than a berry... so with Leon and co busy fighting the dynamax mons and knowing no one would listen to him, Hop turns to the only person he can ask- you, who saw the doggos in the foggos at the beginning with him, to go retrieve the items so the doggos can actually do their thing. Also, Rose was radicalised and groomed by some crazy apocalypse cult, an ironic inversion of his supposed grooming of Bede (here he actually has a heartwarming father-son relationship of sorts with him). They pushed him to push the darkest day plan up like he did, convincing him there's a desperate energy situation but secretly just wanting the maximum apocalypse-ness out of a single action (while possibly believing themselves that there's an energy crisis but that the real solution is to destroy shit so less people and things use energy). So there's that. In the end he's taken to jail, but it's not some absurdly mundane ending where he just gets arrested for apocalypse crimes, rather he's being questioned for what he can tell them about the cult, on understanding that he was coerced into this, and that he can pay for his crimes by giving information on the cult itself. Bede relates this to you with some concern for his sort-of dad. The Swordward and Shieldbert plot (I forget if that's their actual names but whatever) has the two bros asking you to aid in investigating the apoc cult while preparing to accept their destiny as the doggos' masters. You see, they've been raised for this, learning all about Pokemon companionship but having no actual close contact with Pokemon at all (to prevent any Pokemon from forming a bond with them closer than what they'd have with the doggo- your first Pokemon is special, after all). Book smart but street dumb, in other words. You know, as opposed to some inexplicable dumb shit because Mother 3 ruined an entire generation of game writers. They call on the doggos to battle the baddies and are disappointed they go to you and Hop instead of them, but ultimately accept it. Afterwards, Hop contacts Sonia with a request... soon he has the two brothers over to choose their very first Pokemon. Swordbro was going on about Swordog's nobility and Shieldbro about wanting to touch Shieldog's fluffy mane, so Hop has out a Yamper and a Wooloo, presented as a choice, but he knows exactly which one they'll each choose. This is another manifestation of his potential as a professor- not only doing the professor thing of handing out first Pokemon, but considering what Pokemon they'd work well with. Isn't that nice? Also there's something in there about Bede's long lost identical twin who's also being used as a pawn by the apoco-cult but I'll explain that later

My idea for the origin of the Pokemon world as we know it- Arceus didn't create Pokemon, or the world itself, but it is responsible for the way the world is now. Once upon a time, when humans and Pokemon were one kind of being, there was too much strife and disagreement among the groups and nobody was learning their lesson, so Arceus got fed up and split the world into two types of beings that would have to get along in order to thrive. It instated the "rules" of Pokemon battles, that attacks have set damage ranges and types have well-defined interactions, that attacks in battles only deplete some abstract hit points level instead of causing the damage they "should" for what they are (this doesn't apply to wild-on-wild predation necessarily, so it's a privilege enjoyed by Pokemon being aided or advised by a human). Outsider beings- aliens, maybe ultra beasts, etc- are "converted" into Pokemon when they enter "Earth"'s airspace, which is why even beings from the furthest depths of space follow the rules and biology of earthbound species. These "rules" require Arceus' powers but don't rely on its constant action, so it can be captured and hang out with a trainer for a while, play by its own rules to see how things are going, without disrupting the system. I'd never expected anything even vaguely like this to turn canon of course, because it's so specific and particular to the sort of ideas I tend to have, but... not like this man

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goingsparebutwithprecision · 3 years

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Poetry Lessons

Christian asks Cyrano for help with his poetry class. It goes about as well as you might expect.

ao3

Cyrano de Bergerac is a man of many talents; a fencer and a fighter, a polemicist and a poet. It's why De Guiche hates him so much, why he's always on the verge of being kicked out of uni, and why he's never going to be. He's both a genius and a good friend, which is why Christian asked him to tutor him in the first place.

And it's not that Christian regrets it, exactly - he's always happy to spend time with Cyrano, and since he and Roxane have been dating they haven't seen each other nearly so much - but -

"You can stop laughing," Christian says, wearily. "Really, any time."

Roxane takes a deep breath, draws herself up from where she's been flailing like an overturned beetle in the depths of their armchair - Roxane claims it's skip-liberated but Christian has been in Chancellor Richelieu's office more than once and the style is suspiciously familiar - rearranges her expression into one of grave interest, meets Christian's eyes - and immediately bursts out laughing again.

The corner of his mouth twitches up, just a little. It's hard not to laugh when Roxane is laughing, it's one of the things he loves about her.

"To be fair, I did warn you," Roxane gasps eventually, wiping her eyes.

"I thought you were joking!" Christian says, throwing up his hands and leaning back on his desk in despair.

"Why?" Roxane asks, propping herself up with her elbow on the arm of the chair, perfect pointy chin in hand. "I'm genuinely curious."

"Cyrano? Bad at something?" Christian says, incredulous. "Of course I thought you were having me on."

"He can't cook," Roxane points out.

"He can," Christian protests. "It's...food."

"Is it?" Roxane asks, rhetorically.

"Yes," Christian says, loyally, though sometimes he wonders. He's not...picky about food, the way Roxane seems to be. And the only times Cyrano has cooked for him he's been in a pretty bad way, so maybe he wouldn't have noticed? Mostly what Christian remembers is being surprised. And pleased, but shyly, because at the time he hadn't been sure if they were really friends, and surely you didn't make "sorry your life is a shambles, post-meltdown recovery pancakes" for people you were vaguely aware of in passing? Cyrano's generous, Christian knows, but he's hardly a saint.

He'd only had to pick a very little eggshell out of his teeth.

"He can't drive," Roxane continues, dragging Christian's attention back into the present.

"Nobody's every been killed," Christian says, because he can't actually refute that.

"And," Roxane says, with the air of somebody laying down the last +4 in the Uno game, "he never knows when to shut up."

"Untrue," Christian says, and when Roxane opens her mouth to provide an itemized list starting from the day she hit Cyrano over the head with a plastic trowel in the nursery school sandpit and gained a friend for life to the last five minutes, "he absolutely does know, he just chooses not to."

Roxane opens her mouth.

She closes her mouth.

She opens her mouth, and raises a finger.

"Well, you got me there," she says, and Christian bows, laughing.

"Thank you, thank you," he says, "I'm here all week."

Roxane shoves him, lightly, and resettles in the arm-chair, head over one arm and legs over the other, feet kicking idly in the air.

"You know, I asked him if he could help me with algebra once, this must have been, god, like Year Nine, or something? I don't remember. Anyway, he went off on a tangent about infinite bean soup and then asked me if I thought seven was a fundamentally angry number."

Christian considers this. "It's not angry," he says, after a minute. "It's -"

"Green, right?" Roxane says, nodding.

"-orange, obviously," he finishes. "Huh."

They contemplate this in baffled silence for a moment.

"Anyway," Roxane says.

"I just wanted to know how metre worked," Christian opines, staring at nothing. "Just, the too long, didn't read, nothing involved. Spark Notes. Nothing Professor Castel-Jaloux said made sense to me."

"And?" Roxane asks.

"He made up a villanelle about Castel-Jaloux's moustache on the spot, then asked me if I wanted cream cakes."

"And did you?" Roxane asks, lips twitching.

"Of course I wanted cream cakes," Christian sighs. "We were at Ragueneau's, and I was alive, QED."

"Shit," says Roxane, "now I want cream cakes."

"Ragueneau's later?"

"God yes."

They let the conversation lapse a while, Christian checking his uni emails from his phone on a whim, Roxane seemingly content to relax back into her contraband armchair, sun on her face and heels tapping on the cracked leather. He's got a text from Cyrano, and he's grinning before he realises it, so wide his cheeks nearly ache with it.

"You know," Roxane says, and Christian looks up to find she's watching him, thoughtful and knowing in a way that makes him nervous. Mostly, he has to admit, in a good way. "You can just tell him you don't need tutoring any more. He won't mind."

"But," Christian protests, mouth running before his brain has a chance to catch up, "he gets so enthusiastic! His whole face lights up and he starts talking with his hands, more than normal, I mean. I can't understand a word of it but it's so clear that he knows what he's talking about and that he loves it, and we don't hang out all that much any more and I just, I missed it, I think, and um - what?"

A slow, delighted smile is spreading across his girlfriend's face. Christian flushes. She'd smiled like that the first time he managed to ask her out, rather than blushing and tripping over his own feet when she asked him.

That said, she'd also smiled like that right before she broke into De Guiche's fancy off-campus flat and put treacle in all of his hand-made Italian shoes. So, uh. Mixed signals, there?

"What?" he says again, flustered.

"Oh, nothing, nothing," Roxane says, still smiling like the cat that got the all-access pass to the canary convention.

Christian squints at her, but she just blinks at him innocently and scoops up her book from where she'd draped it open on the corner of his desk.

"OK," he says, slowly. "Sure."

They settle back into studious silence, Christian chewing on the end of his biro as he wills his poetry assignment to make sense, Roxane dragging a highlighter violently through the library book, because she fears neither God nor librarians.

Christian starts to relax. Idly he wonders if he's going to get some delightful surprise later. Or if De Guiche is going to get an awful one. Either way, he's excited to find out.

Then: "how do you feel about polyamory?"

Alright, maybe it's both.

#goingspare writes #cyrano de bergerac

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glorywaited · 4 years

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☽ / @craterkissed : cass + bisexuality! SEND IN HEADCANON + A WORD / PHRASE !! ( always accepting !! )

she didn’t know she was bisexual for a while — but honestly she’s somewhat secure in it now ( she knows it’s a part of her now && that no matter how hard she’d tried to change it it just isn’t going to ) but it’s not exactly something she generally shares with people or is particularly ready to share as something she actively voices out. && that’s for a lot of reasons plus she’s a very private person to begin with.

she does, however, get extremely annoyed whenever anyone says you can’t love more than one gender && because she has such a short fuse she can end up seeming like she’s outing herself because she WILL stick up for it because it cuts way too close to home. though she also sticks up for all lgbtq+ even if in that era it was a very dangerous thing && a lot wasn’t exactly known or clear, so she doesn’t know it by ‘bisexuality’ as a term in her main verse / historical verses at least. but regardless of putting herself in danger, she’d help other lgbtq+ escape persecution && accusations. helping others like herself will always come before her own life tbh — she personally knows what it’s like. but she does have an irritation with getting mislabelled && for being boiled down just to who she prefers to sleep with or love ( && she does have flings with men, women, nb, etc. because she finds comfort in sex as a form of love that IS attainable much as a lot of people neglected && abused in childhood end up falling into later in life especially when not addressed at all — it’s something, but it does end up leaving her feeling empty because deep down she does crave Actual Love but doesn’t think she deserves it at all; sex is what she can have && what she deserves only && the only way she can actually have the physical affection she craves without having to put her feelings or heart on the line to get rejected or hurt or worse ).

she’s had crushes on both guys n girls growing up && it did confuse her when she was younger. although one girl she had become close to && had a very big infatuation with in her teens ended up telling her to ‘pick a side’ && telling her her feelings weren’t valid which just added to her torrid feelings about love in general — or that she wasn’t meant for it because she ‘did it wrong’ && added a fear that anyone she ever tried to date regardless of gender might do that again if she were to tell them she possibly liked more than one gender. she was honestly generally bullied a lot growing up outside of that — she always stuck out, always had interests girls her age shouldn’t have && a temper a lady shouldn’t exhibit, studied && knew more than a girl should in that era && got into a lot of fights in her teen years — but there was a time that it got out that she’d had another crush on a girl && unfortunately that girl was straight && horrible && picked on her for it && she was mislabelled as only liking women which reinforced what her previous crush had told her && served to make her feel worse && led to being outcast from another group of kids her age but luckily it hadn’t gotten out to anyone older && it wasn’t confirmed, just used as something to hold over her head before she was removed from the girls’ school / boarding school she’d attended for flat out punching her which led to one too many fights she’d gotten into ( which was fine by her, she hated it there for so many reasons ) — she was tutored privately at home after that. after that incident she cast all notions of love out because it just wasn’t going to happen for her && she didn’t want her already fragile heart to break further — love was dead && impossible for someone like her.

she cut her long hair into the iconic bi bob herself with her own dagger after leaving the girls’ school && never looked back since && honestly probably never will because the long hair was a forced thing on her, something she had to live up to expectations of && had to ‘be a lady’ when she doesn’t necessarily have the same views on gender identity as society wanted to dictate on everyone. long hair is something forced, short hair is who she is && how she feels comfortable && she honestly doesn’t care who says anything about it now because it’s here to stay. when she was very young she’d also ended up cutting it short when she was feeling particularly anxious about her role in life but she was reprimanded && grew it out through most of her adolescence && teens.

despite feeling secure in who she is && who she likes, she still has a fear of actually telling anyone she likes them — especially women even if she really likes them — but she tends to have a hard time hiding it if you pay enough attention to her. though she generally just stays away from people && grew up without close friends but after she left her schooling, she had no friends at all outside of her animal friends who never judged her && that’s how she liked it until rapunzel && eugene came into her life, that is. even then she’d tried her hardest to push them away at the beginning && had ill feelings toward both of them that grew into fondness because they stuck around when no one else had.

&& despite feeling a vague attraction to both of them that grew over time ( she does have eyes, after all ) she still didn’t want to admit that she might have feelings of any sort or even consider the notion of EVER falling in love with someone which led to her immense anger whenever love was brought up as a subject. though admittedly, andrew made her see that, perhaps, being in love && being secure with her sexuality might not be such a bad thing after all. && even if she knew what was between them wasn’t real ( && i take this from the confirmation from creators / writers that she’d been written to have a genuine crush && attraction to him ) she liked the way it felt to enjoy time with someone that close && enjoyed the way it felt to be treated so softly for once because everyone around her always treated her like an oddity or like she always had to be the strong, tough fighter she put herself out there as && treated her as though she couldn’t be feminine or soft while still having her nonconforming interests ( && it was the one moment she didn’t have to keep up her persona to try to not seem weak — because she’s constantly afraid to show that softness because she CAN’T be weak ). she kept his flower to remind her that she can, indeed, be attracted to anyone she wanted && also be soft when she wanted because maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t so bad after all.

she has not ever brought it up to her father — they don’t really talk about personal things && she’s admittedly afraid of telling him because he’s such a gruff man who upholds the law. though she’s thought about telling rapunzel && thought for a split second of telling eugene because he seems like he might be like her but she’s afraid of it && afraid she’ll just be made fun of && talking about her feelings or anything personal is so HARD. if either of them came to her about it though she might come out to them if brought up in the correct way because the instant she thinks it might go bad she’ll lash out && say it’s none of their business. she’s honestly way more open about it post series but only to people she trusts 100%.

all this to say, she exists, it’s not a phase, she’d never cheat on anyone && she isn’t attracted to every living thing; she has very good taste thank u, && she can && WILL punch homophobes n transphobes in the face very hard && very quickly !!

#craterkissed #[ thank u sm for sending this aaaaa ur so supportive n ily hbdasjd ]#[ i think about it a lot tbh n in her des.cend.ants verse the father of her child is a genderfluid nb so she rly out here being iconic ]#「 🌙 ◜ answered ◞ yet every horizon seems near 」#「 🌙 ◜ headcanons ◞ i know i was meant for glory 」#[ this ended up being rly deep im sry bdshanmd but like cass rly out here like mAYBE IF I CHOP OFF MY HAIR ILL FEEL BETTER ]#[ she champions for all lgbtq+ n we love that for her tbh uwu ]#[ she also transcends gender roles n owns her femininity while also enjoying more masc things whilst wearing on point makeup uwu i love her #sm ]

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blakemetothemoon · 4 years

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Love in a Laundromat - SaifahZon, M, Ch. 5/7

Summary: Zon's favorite place is a laundromat. That is until a certain tall, handsome stranger steals his washer and seems hellbent on making Zon miserable.

Notes: LONGER CHAPTER THIS TIME!! Thank you all so much for supporting this story! :)

Read below or on ao3! :)

Japan's house—well, mansion more like—is far enough from Zon’s apartment that when Tor offers him a ride, Zon has no problem taking it (And maybe he really likes riding in Fighter’s fancy car.) The mansion is one of those with far too many rooms, a pool in the backyard, and plenty of space for university kids to have fun getting plastered with drinking games and laughs.

It's been a while since Zon’s been to one of Japan’s parties; he didn't have work or classes the next day, so when Japan and Tanthai begged him, he didn't have any reason to say no. Besides, he did have fun most of the time—as long as he didn't have to play truth or dare aka the most anxiety inducing game ever. He would rather do beer pong any day and he's a terrible shot.

“Saifah said to text him when we get there,” Tutor says, interrupting Zon’s memory of the last time he was forced on a dare to do a handstand and immediately stumbled into the pool, taking a table of drinks with him.

“Who?!” Zon shouts, making both Tutor and Fighter jolt. The car jerks, but Fighter quickly corrects and keeps them from crashing.

“Don’t do that!” Fighter snaps, but Zon’s heart is pounding in his ears too hard, so he can barely hear him.

Tutor, however, is far too sly. He easily catches the sudden, excited nerves in Zon’s voice. “Saifah. Your laundry boyfriend.”

A hot blush burns Zon’s cheeks. “He’s not my boyfriend! Not even close! No way! Saifah would never want to—I mean, I would never... that would never happen!”

Tutor scoffs. “Are you hearing yourself, Zon? You sound like Fighter—”

Fighter frowns. “Hey!”

“—and what makes you think Saifah wouldn’t want to be your boyfriend?”

Zon goes to deny it again, but he’s never been great at lying to Tutor. He sighs and sinks back into the leather seats. “C’mon, Tutor. He’s Saifah. Popular, good-looking, perfect Saifah. And I’m the dorky loner.”

There’s a crease of annoyed concern between Tutor’s brows. “Have you been reading the cute guy’s page again?”

"No!"

Tutor shakes his head, exasperated. "Then how many times do I have to tell you to stop doubting yourself, Zon? You’re right, though. He is Saifah. So all hope might not be lost for you.”

Zon starts to ask Tutor if what he’s implying is really what he’s implying, but the car pulls to a stop in front of Japan’s house, and it feels weird to keep the conversation going now.

The party is already in full swing when they walk in. People are everywhere—pressed together in the grand entryway, dancing to music booming in the living room, and in the kitchen getting drinks or snagging snacks. The crowd spills out the back door where the games, the pool and a fire pit are.

Exactly like Tutor said, Saifah is there, but Zon didn't expect to see him so soon, just inside the foray. He's dressed simply in dark jeans that show off his long legs and a tight, black v-neck shirt. Saifah is, of course, surrounded by boys and girls, one of which has her arm intertwined with his...

Something gross twists Zon's stomach at the sight of Saifah looking so cozy with someone else. Which is stupid because it’s not like he has some claim on the taller boy. He knows he's frowning so he goes to turn away to talk to Tutor, but something in the universe makes Saifah glance over right before Zon can drop his eyes. The way Saifah's entire face lights up like a beacon forces a smile out of Zon. He barely keeps it from turning into a full out grin when Saifah gives a rushed goodbye to the entourage and makes his way towards him.

Zon's smile does falter when the eyes following Saifah land on him. Zon suddenly feels too noticed, too much like he doesn't belong, especially when they start whispering to each other—

"Where'd that scowl come from?" Saifah asks once he's in talking distance. "And here I thought you were happy to see me."

The tease sets Zon a little more at ease. He rolls his eyes. "Who would be happy to see you."

A hand smacks Zon across the back of his head. "Why are you acting like you weren't just swooning about him in the car?"

A blush takes over Zon's face as he stares at Tutor with wide eyes. "Tutor!"

“Oh?” Saifah says, slowly raising an eyebrow. “Is that so, my Zon?”

"I'm getting a drink!" Zon snaps. He turns on his heel towards the kitchen, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Saifah following him.

“You know,” Saifah starts when they reach the kitchen island covered in mixers and ice and every type of alcohol possible. “I’m not used to seeing you without your headphones.” He reaches out and tugs playfully at Zon’s ears.Zon is more caught off guard by the fact that he doesn’t mind Saifah touching him, than Saifah actually touching him. “Didn’t know you had ears.”

Zon grabs Saifah’s wrists and pulls his hands away. He lets the left one drop, but keeps hold of the right. Then, he inspects the large palm and calloused fingers, and makes a teasing, curious noise. “Weird, I don’t see a guitar? Are you sure you’re the handsome and popular guitarist known as Saifah?”

“Are you saying I’m only handsome when I have a guitar?”

“No, you’re always handsome.”

Saifah stares at him with wide eyes, and if Zon didn’t know any better, he would say Saifah is...blushing?

Zon’s own words catch up to him, and then he’s blushing, too. Shit, where the hell did he get so bold? Tutor's words from the car must have done something to his subconscious. Or maybe it was seeing Saifah out of their usual setting, or his stupid v-neck, showing the sliver of chest and definition of collar bones. Or maybe it was the alcohol. Except he hasn’t had anything to drink yet.

He releases Saifah’s hand like it burns and quickly starts to make himself a drink.

“Zon!”

Tanthai’s voice travels over the sea of voices. Zon and Saifah look over to see him making a beeline towards them and Zon knows where this is going. But there are no easy escape routes. Desperate, he grabs Saifah’s hand again and says, “Tell them we’re going to play beer pong!”

Saifah stares at their connected hands. Then his eyebrows furrow. “What?”

“Tantai is going to force me into truth or dare if you don’t!” Zon shakes Saifah’s arm frantically. “Please? Please, please?”

Saifah pretends to think. “Maybe I want to find out if you’ve made out in public before…”

“Saifah!”

Before Zon can finish the scold, Saifah laughs and tightens Zon’s hand in his. He pulls them in the opposite direction of Tanthai to the back entrance towards the games. Zon breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the current game is about to end. They play one game and only win because Saifah is a perfect shot. Zon expects Saifah to leave him once it’s over because his friends-slash-groupies are continually asking for him to be their partner in this game and that. But instead Saifah picks Zon again for beer pong and laughs with Zon and not at him when Zon misses every shot and almost loses it for them.

But after game four, Saifah has to go to the bathroom and, like fucking vultures, Japan and Tanthai sense Zon’s alone. Zon pushes himself through the crowds and rushes inside, veering towards where he knows the stairs to the next floor are. He knows how relentless Japan and Tanthai are, and Zon has no hope unless he can find the best hiding spot possible.

“There he is! Top of the stairs—”

“Leave me alone!” Zon shouts over the banister, then moves faster, turning into a hallway—

And immediately colliding with someone.

"Whoa! Slow down—Zon?"

Safiah still has his hands on Zon's shoulders to steady him. Zon gets lost in Saifah's eyes for a second, but then he hears his name being shouted again, and his flight instinct kicks back in.

The bedroom door directly next to them is open. Zon grabs Saifah by the arm and yanks him into the room with him. He hides them behind the open door, breathing heavily. He presses his palm against Saifah’s lips and aggressively shushes him when he starts to ask what’s going on.

Feet shuffle past outside the room. Zon can hear the guys calling out to each other with shouts of, “Where did he go?” and “Find him! I have a question about Sai...”

(Thank god that Japan’s voice trails off with that last one as he heads back down the stairs.)

Once it seems like Zon is in the clear, he breathes a heavy sigh of relief. "Sorry,” he explains as he turns to Saifah, “the guys always try to rope me into truth or dare, and they know I hate it—"

The words catch in Zon’s throat.

Apparently Zon had never let his hand drop away from Saifah's mouth and his other hand is still buried into his shirt, gripping his hip to keep him in place. Zon quickly tries to put a little space between them, but all he manages to do is press his back against the open door. Saifah grabs the handle to slow it down. The door clicks gently instead of slams. Saifah’s other arm wraps around Zon’s waist to hold him up, and fuck how is Saifah so smooth at everything—

"How much have you had to drink?" Saifah asks, for some reason seeming just as breathless as Zon.

"Um," Zon crinkles his brow, both confused and thinking. "Just the beers from when we played. Not much."

They’re still so close that Zon can see Saifah swallow, can hear clearly how his next breath stutters. Saifah’s fingers on Zon’s hips flex; Zon feels it throughout his entire being.

“So, if you said I can kiss you, I could?”

You want to kiss me? Zon almost asks.

But it's impossible to mistake the hunger in Saifah's eyes as anything else.

Can Saifah kiss him? Does Zon want Saifah to kiss him?

“Y-yeah,” Zon finds himself saying before he realizes, “Yeah, you can do that—”

Zon honestly would have expected Saifah to be gentler but instead he seems almost desperate, relieved. Both do it for Zon, who returns the kiss with equal fervor. It’s a definite answer—Zon very, very much wants Saifah to kiss him. Has probably wanted it since the first time Saifah stole his washer, and since Saifah's shoulder brushed his as they huddled on that bench, and Saifah assured Zon his writing was good.

Saifah loosens his arm from around Zon’s waist, but only enough to press him into the door. Zon never thought a height difference would matter but Saifah is bent over Zon, practically trapping him between his broad chest and the hardwood. It shouldn’t turn Zon on but it does, coiling a fire in the pit of his stomach. The heat only grows when Saifah’s tongue traces Zon’s bottom lip, asking for access and Zon’s never given into a kiss so fast.

It doesn't take long for Zon’s neck to get sore, though. Saifah seems to have a similar thought because he grabs Zon by the shoulders and steers him backwards. Hands too busy running over Saifah’s back, Zon doesn't register where they're going until the back of his knees hit the mattress. He immediately shuffles up the bed, grasping Saifah by the neck to make sure he comes with him, desperate to keep their lips and tongues moving together.

Shit, Zon’s muddled brain manages to think, Saifah trapping him on the mattress is just as hot as him doing it against the door. Knees on either side of Zon’s hips, most of their bodies aren’t even touching, yet Zon feels like he’s about to overheat at any moment.

Then Saifah’s hands are in Zon’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp. He tugs at the locks, tilting Zon’s head at the same time his lips break away. A whimper leaves Zon without meaning to, but Saifah’s lips are immediately back, this time on Zon’s neck. He gasps and digs his fingers into Saifah’s shoulder blades, unintentionally pulling him fully on top of him, and the parts of them that weren’t touching before are definitely touching now. The unexpected grind of their cocks, hard beneath their jeans, makes Saifah groan, deep and husky, into Zon’s neck. Zon is pretty sure he lets out one, too, but he’s busy focusing on the stars behind his eyelids he sees when Saifah’s hips tentatively grind against his again.

This isn't like Zon at all. He never thought he would be here, in some stranger's bedroom pressed into the mattress by Saifah, of all people. Whose hand is smoothing down his ribs. It hesitates at the hem of Zon's t-shirt, teasing the barely revealed skin, waiting for a sign to stop or move forward. Zon runs his hands down from Saifah’s shoulders to where his shirt meets his jeans. It’s the sign Saifah needs. Together, they slide beneath each other’s shirts to feel the plains of skin undisrupted. Saifah is so warm beneath Zon’s always cold hands and the way Saifah arches into his touch makes Zon moan, makes him want more. More of Saifah’s skin on him, more kisses, more rocking their hips together. He’s ready to explode, the tingling heat in his lower half knotting tighter and tighter, until it feels ready to snap—

Saifah gasps and jerks when Zon suddenly presses against his chest and pushes him away. Zon doesn’t blame him; he went from fine to startled cat in two seconds flat.

“Did I do something wrong?” Saifah asks, expression going full-on hurt puppy.

Guilt stabs Zon in the heart. “N-No, it’s not that! But if we keep going then I’m going to—”

Zon bites off. He can feel his blush come back to life, embarrassed instead of turned on. It paints his cheeks, ears, everything red. He was seriously about to admit that he almost freaking came in his pants at a party, but no way Saifah didn’t understand where that sentence was going.

Silence meets his words. Zon drags his eyes back up to Saifah’s. He expects there to be some semblance of that trademark smirk. But instead Saifah is staring with some weird sort of awe, pupils blown wide. He finally nods, and it seems to take all his control to actually pull himself off Zon.

Unsure of what to do as they drop into a heavy silence, Zon rushes to the mirror on the wall. He looks properly kissed—lips red and swollen, hair a mess, and shirt wrinkled.

Maybe Zon is drunk, he thinks as he fixes his bangs. Making out on a stranger's bed is one thing, but what made himself so bold to move so quickly? He liked slow and careful but something about Saifah—about his lips and fingers and how he uses them to make Zon feel special, not just here but in their...the laundromat, when they’re playing music…

No, Zon isn't drunk. He's just going fuckin' crazy—

Long, calloused fingers run through the hair on the back of his head, smoothing it down. They linger at the top of Zon's neck, sending goosebumps down it. “You missed a spot,” Saifah whispers, smiling at Zon in the mirror. His presence at Zon’s back is adrenaline rushing and calming all at once.

“Thanks,” Zon replies.

Still holding Zon’s gaze in the reflection, Saifah's hand drifts down every ridge of Zon’s spine to his waist, and at the same time his lips move to the sensitive underside of Zon's jaw, where it meets his ear. He kisses Zon's neck, chaste at first, simply a soft press of lips. Then, with the dragging of teeth that makes Zon gasp. "You drive me crazy, Zon."

How does it always seem like Saifah is reading Zon's thoughts? Zon is the one going crazy. And, fuck, Saifah’s hips are intentionally not pressed against his ass but he can still sense the heat from beneath Saifah's jeans—

"Wh-whatever," Zon stumbles out the words and out of Saifah's hold.

Of course, now Saifah is smirking, more than aware of how he's riling Zon up in so many different ways.

"Let's go back," Saifah says. His hand goes back to the small of Zon's back, but the touch is more innocent now, guiding him towards the door. It still feels intimate. A different kind of intimate, but the butterflies in Zon's stomach still kick the same way.

Zon expects Saifah to lead him back outside to the games, but instead he leads him outside where they sit by the fire pit and they make each other laugh with stupid jokes.

And, heart fluttering, Zon leans into Saifah's touch like it's home.

#SaifahZon #Saizon #Why R U #Why R U? the series #fic #blakemetothemoon

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whyamistillwatchingtheseshows · 4 years

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The promo shots fill me with a bit of dread. But I keep thinking... Fighter thinks it’s his fault. He thinks he pushed too far and it made Tutor uncomfortable being with him and with himself. He understands that but what he doesn’t understand is why it’s so sudden? It wasn’t headed this direction. It couldn’t be that I fucked up, that I got my feelings toyed with and I toyed with him? It turns out truly one-sided? Merely a, “well, I took a hit, and I don’t like It?” No way.

Fighter is in this for the long haul. He had what he wanted and suddenly without a truly authentic reason why, it’s over, it’s gone. That being said I do know that Tor had questions at the beach, but they were assuaged by a confident Fighter. Same with when in bed and Fight says I’ll be your koala and I’ll find a way to make us happy. A confident Fighter kept his mind at ease, but then we know what happened at his work and that brought out repressed emotions, Tor thinking this is it I can’t have one good thing because perhaps if Fight’s father is right then the whole world is? Plus, this is for P’Fight’s own good. Also, while Tor’s inner turmoil is valid, still think it’s got that extra (you know how Type went extra), to make it believable. After this boils over...

Fight will confront Tor.

Alexa play me Give Me One Good Reason by Tracy Chapman

Rewind to here:

Said I don’t want to leave you lonely...

You gotta make me change my mind

Fighter needs a better reason because while he understands and the last thing he wants to do is upset or hurt Tor, another part what I like to call the intuitive side of him, is thinking what the fuck?

I just want someone to hold me and oh rock me through the night...

Give me one good reason and I’ll turn right back around

Suddenly we were a bouncy baby saying I don’t want to be far away from you and then we’re here:

“Just let me go, we can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

“But why, Tor? I am asking why? What exactly did I do wrong? Did I regret it?”

Me? No regrets. So yes, I’ll let go but...

Give me one good reason why...

Fast forward: You bet it fucks him up to see Tor in the necklace too. So he shows up, begging for a reason, door opens, Tor is wearing it. If he were that uncomfortable, if he were really wanting to break up, he’d take it off. Think about how ppl throw engagement rings to the wind, imagine Fight gets so far gone he takes the earring off and chucks it at Tutor. But no. This isn’t happening. Though, a desperate confrontation could still do without the aggressive pinning to walls and beds. Only accept any of that in a version of “take me back (Tutor consenting) sex.

Give me one good reason why...and I’ll turn right back around

Said I told you that I love you and there ain’t no more to say:

#90s throwback song to show my age #🤗😁😍#also make me shut up pls #fightertutor #fighter x tutor #why ru the series #lord help my soul

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flower-of-the-desert · 4 years

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hey, i really liked your posts about ep12, it helped me a lot to put things into perspective. i was wondering if you could share your thoughts on the 2gether finale as well, coz right now i just wanna cry im so disappointed with it =(

Aww, thank you, anon. <3

Ok so my thoughts on the finale are kind of all over the place but I’ll try to explain as best as I can and hopefully it’s gonna make sense.

Like I said, in my original post I dont love the ep but I dont hate it either. I suppose I fall somewhere in the middle. I enjoyed a lot of it - seeing all the couples progress and be happy together, Man/Type especially were just so adorable, Mil and Phukong starting to build something with each other (lil bro using Sarawat’s pick up line was a really nice touch, love that), Mil being an all around awesome supportive friend to BOTH Tine and Wat?? We love to see it. The way he turned up at the football field where Wat was being his angsty self and literally kicked his butt into taking action - *chef’s kiss*

Him and Fong are now the parents of the baby gays I dont make the rules.

Wat’s confession on stage and his song that he literally named after Tine and when he said he never confessed to Pam because he didnt know what love was before he met Tine - perfection. Absolute perfection. I’m here for it.

And Tine’s heartbreak was so well done too, I just felt so much for him.

Again, as I said, the whole thing with Pam didnt turned out exactly as I had hoped but it wasnt the worst case scenario either so I’ll take it. I’d rather have Pam making a mistake and realising it and backing off while assuring Tine that Wat really does love HIM and even though she tried Pam didnt stand a chance because it’s always gonna be Tine for Sarawat and she understands that now over her being an actual bitch who keeps trying to seperate them and uses the situation to her advantage. I mean they could have gone that way too - Pam didnt have to give Tine that recording or to tell him how Wat changed after meeting him but she did, I think, as her own way of apologizing for what she’d done. So yeah, overall, I’m fine with this.

ALSO NOBODY DIED SO THAT’S A BIG PLUS.

(History 3 MODC can’t relate)

ANYWAY, so those are the positives for me. Which as it turns out is most of the episode yay! Now onto what wasnt quite so positive.

My main issue with this episode is the resolution to Wat and Tine’s conflict. Mainly, there really... wasnt one. And I’m not talking about the physical intimacy thing, I’ll touch on that later but more importantly for the ending - the emotional intimacy. None of the problems they had were properly addressed. Tine’s insecurities were rooted so deeply that despite Wat spending 12 EPISODES doing anything and everything to show his love and adoration, Tine still couldnt really believe it. And that’s not gonna be resolved with a simple recording.

And on the other hand, can you image how all of this would make Sarawat feel? Like no matter what he does, no matter how much of himself he gives to Tine, his boyfriend still would find it easier to believe that Wat is just using him as a replacement for someone else. That’s gonna fuck with his head even if Tine came back. I really really wished they had talked at least a little about these things.

Like maybe if we didnt have half of the episode filled with pointless flashbacks there could have been time to actually talk... (tbh, part of me kind of wonders if they purposefully put in so many flashbacks to fill in the air time so they wouldnt HAVE to write those scenes which leaves me ?????).

I think I mentioned this too in the other post, but the Wat/Tine reunion echoes beat for beat the Fighter/Tutor reunion with all its issues but while WhyRU has a reason for why things turned out like that, here I just... I dont know what could have been the reason for 2gether’s writers? Unless they also couldnt film everything they wanted...

And then there’s the... “high-five controversy”, let’s call it and again I find myself in the middle of the argument. I stand by what I’ve said before about how I feel about the way they handled physical intimacy between the characters - yes, objectively and critically speaking, I’m not here for writers/directors/channel/whoever trying to censor the physical intimacy of an established couple. There is nothing wrong with two partners wanting to kiss/cuddle/have sex/etc. Sex isnt something dirty (I mean it can be depending on what you’re writing BUT THAT’S A DIFFERENT GENRE OK, we are not talking about smutty fic here cough cough) and shameful that “pure” people shouldnt be enjoying (lovely post on the topic here I was just thinking about it last night). And it’s about time show creators got with the programme, ESPECIALLY when it comes to non-straight couples.

As of ep13 it’s clear to me that 2gether went through some serious censorship - lots of people have talked about how it’s a thing that they do on this particular channel and maybe that’s all it is, I dont know. I dont want to speculate what’s been going on behind the scenes since I dont have any idea and sadly I dont think the writers will ever be willing to talk about it. I’d LOVE to hear their throughts on this matter tbh and why they decided to do things this way.

So on an objective level, this is bullshit. Subjectively, and this is where my personal opinion comes in, I wasnt as bothered by this as I normally would be because I’ve been enjoying all the other aspects of the relationship that the show successfully built up and prtrayed on screen. Does that make sense?

Specifically about the finale, though, I agree with the complains. Part of why the reunion felt so underwhelming and disappointing, I think, was not only the lack of emotional intimacy but also the hella.... awkward? physical “intimacy” they showed? The scene absolutely did call for a kiss or a hug, at the very least. Instead they were standing 2 feet apart cause... they’re not gay? I really really do not understand what happened there in that scene. I’ve seen some people mention that the finale was filmed before the other episodes so the actors werent used to each other yet and honestly I can see it - watching Tine and Wat in that ending montage felt like I was watching them at the beginning of their fake dating when both were awkward and unsure of where they stood with each other rather than seeing an established in love couple coming back together after going through something tough.

So these are my thoughts on the finale. It wasnt the best one I’ve ever seen but not bad enough to ruin the rest of the show for me (and there’s NOTHING I hate more than bad endings ruining a story I’ve fallen in love with so there’s that) and I do really love this show and its characters so much. It’s hard, even impossivle to find a perfect show from start to finish and honestly I’ve come to believe that’s not as important as what you get out of it - if the show makes you happy, despite whatever writing issues it might have, that’s the most important thing, I think. And 2gether did that for me. So I’m glad I watched it.

Omg, this got so long. Again. If you’re still with me, anon, you’re a hero. I hope I was able to help you. <3

#bl drama #2gether the series #Anonymous

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deltaengineering · 6 years

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Winter Anime 2019 Part 3: High on Concept

If you wait long enough, you’ll find something good to say.

Doukyonin wa Hiza, Tokidoki, Atama no Ue / My Roommate is a Cat

What: Misanthropic mystery author picks up tough stray cat, both get healed.

✅ The cat acts like a cat, the misanthrope acts like a misanthrope.

✅ The approach of telling the same simple story from the perspective of two characters that can’t really communicate effectively is interesting.

✅ This is very basic, but it works. I like both characters, and it's generally inoffensive. Pretty much Barakamon with less of a focus on telling you exactly what to feel. Might watch more of this.

❌ I see we’re now at the point where shows get localized titles that sound like lazy translations of bland Japanese names even when the Japanese title is not that bland to begin with. Lovely.

Dimension High School

What: A bunch of kids press XXX and YYY and are sucked. Wooow.

✅✅ The wraparound segments look extremely realistic. If there was more lensflares and shots of feet I’d almost say someone has finally beaten KyoAni in making anime look like a cheap, egregiously overacted J-Drama.

❌❌ Sadly, the puzzle dimension they end up in just looks like homemade MMD animation, because it is. I mean, at least it’s mocapped, but apparently with a Kinect.

❌❌ E.g., they make jokes about clipping and they kinda have to because everything clips into everything else all the time.

❌❌ Did I mention that all they actually do is solve lame puzzles and fail to be funny about it? It’s really getting to the levels of the dreaded “barely animated voice actor improv podcast” at these points.

♎ Suwabe’s in it, and that’s never an outright bad thing. He’s voicing the quizmaster, in the process proving he’d do anything for a paycheck. I wonder if he has a fiverr acocunt.

Domestic na Kanojo

What: Highschooler loses virginity to one night stand, finds out that it was the sister of the teacher he has a crush on. Incidentally, the mother of both also just married his father. Zany!

✅ This is presented like a low-key, slow drama, and it’s not even bad at that. Some good directing going on here, at least in the beginning.

❌❌ Really just too bad that it’s impossible to take seriously with a setup as contrived as this, not to mention taking it as seriously as it apparently wants to be taken. It’s also not exactly original.

❌ I’m not gonna say that sketchy relationships can’t work (it worked fine for KoiAme, for example), but embedding your suddenly also incestuous pupil-teacher affair in the setting of a harem comedy, complete with other sister walking in on attempted drunk blackout kiss, is not giving me confidence that this has the chops to pull it off.

❌❌ The show this reminds me the most of is Love and Lies, and that’s a real bad calling card to have.

Girly Air Force

What: Girl-shaped fighter jets fall in love with a dude.

❌❌ It’s just another military-hardware-is-cute-girls-actually show in the vein of Strike Witches, the kind where they think that having a few plane CG models is already thrilling content.

❌❌ But then it doesn’t even turn out to be that in practice, because most of the episode is taken up by lame “worldbuilding” (i.e., coming up with excuses for why your fanservice show has to be the way it is) and trying to make your bland harem lead interesting, which is a futile endeavour.

❌ The most interesting part is still the CG dogfighting, such as it is. It’s not great either. Also, girly planes are pink.

♎ Honestly got a laugh out of them randomly picking a Gripen as heroine unit in addition to actual JSADF hardware, because that’s a sleek-looking plane. The biggest prank the JSADF ever pulled on the otaku industry is buying the chubby F-35, which is nowhere to be seen here.

Go-toubun no Hanayome / The Quintessential Quintuplets

What: Empoverished highschooler is hired as a tutor for some rich quintuplets with large breasts.

❌ This is a blatant harem setup that would make a 2003 bishoujo VN blush.

✅ However, in practice it’s much better than it sounds. It knows it’s a wacky romcom with a dumb premise and it does not pretend otherwise.

✅ So it’s lighthearted, but it’s also surprisingly classy. In fact, it’s classier than Domestic no Kanojo, which is a show that’s actually trying to look respectable and failing.

✅ The relationships are also very feisty, with an energy that a comedy needs. There’s a lot of sass to go around here. Probably the best of these I’ve seen in a while, so I’ll give it three eps.

Kemurikusa

What: After getting pulled off the sequel, the Kemono Friends crew made their own version. Presumably there are blackjack and hookers in this show’s future.

❌ If you are a fan of KF’s “charms”, fear not, you would not be able to tell these people made another anime before. It's still total amateur hour.

❌❌ It’s not even the “looks”, though those certainly are not a highlight. The design is okay and the animation is bad, but I’m not incapable of enjoying shows with bad animation. What really kills it is the editing. I usually don’t comment on editing because that’s almost always competent and only very rarely great, but Kemurikusa has uniquely lazy and badly timed editing. Every shot being seconds longer than it needs to be is already an annoyance in low-key dialog scenes, but the alleged action is laughable and allows you a long, unblinking stare at every frame of bad animation. I really do wonder why they even bother with it when it’s so terrible.

✅ The setting seems alright, even though it’s just a reskinned Kemono Friends. At least it’s not gijinka nonsense this time (which makes one wonder where the gimmick characters are supposed to come from, but I digress), and it’s more upfront about what it actually is too. I’d call it mildly intriguing.

❌ I don’t mind mystery and certainly prefer it to exposition bombs, but instead of that this episode quickly establishes the most basic facts... and then repeats them over and over and over some more. Combined with non-editing, this makes for horrible pacing.

♎ I had no opinion on KF’s longer-term qualities, because the first episode was so boring I never got any further. I won’t have an opinion on this show’s long-term qualities for the same reason.

Magical Girl Spec-Ops Asuka

What: Magical girls are tragic, shoot gun’s.

❌❌ Yo bro, what if magical girls but dark? Surely such a thing has never been attempted.

❌ The particular source of grim here is that these girls are war vets and fight with semi-realistic weaponry, so there’s a fair bit of the ol’ milwank in this one as well.

❌ The best part of the entire show is that the enemies they originally fought looked like cute teddy bears. Of course, this is dropped in favor of just slicing and dicing some random terrorists in the main narrative. I guess “dark magical girl” is still too outlandish a concept, gotta go with ripping off The Punisher again.

❌ The characters so far are nothing special, you got your PTSD Rambo and the generically cute tomodachis she swears to protect. Such contrast!

❌❌ If you must make these 80s action movies with some otaku gimmick pasted on top, would you mind making the action look good at least? Because I don’t care how many gallons of blood you paint in your dramatic but conspicuously non-moving pans.

Meiji Tokyo Renka

What: Spiritually sensitive lonelygirl gets kitsuned to the Meiji era, which is full of delicious beef and some handsome men too I guess.

✅ This isn’t an outright comedy, but it goes all in on everyone’s fabulosity level to a degree that it’s really already three quarters to Dame x Prince.

✅ Similarly, the lead is not quite as unimpressed with these hams as Ani was, but she certainly has a lot more interest in roast beef than in these guys always trying to pull her into sparkly chin-holding poses &c.

✅ Meiji Tokyo Renka doesn’t seem to be anything special, but it gets the tone right and is expressive enough to not become boring.

♎ While certainly watchable right now, with these there’s always the chance that it decides to launch into real drama in the long run, which in turn almost always goes wrong.

Yakusoku no Neverland / The Promised Neverland

What: An orphanage’s happy daily life gets upended by the realisation that they’re just pizza rolls for some demonic entities.

✅ I watched this right after Kemurikusa and let me tell you, it sure helps if you’ve got professionals on the team. This is a highly competent show as far as cinematography and editing is concerned. While there isn’t any reason to go all out on the action sakuga, this show looks real good.

❌ I’m not feeling the character design, to be specific I think everyone’s chin is too big. This sounds like a real assholy nitpick, but be aware that this will impact around 90% of the time you watch this.

✅ The premise is workable for a shounen manga, even if hardly original (remember Owari no Seraph?) At least it’s not kids with superpowers spamming beams at each other while discussing the nature of heroism, and seems to be going for a more mindgames-based approach in the vein of Death Note. The characters are just barely good enough so far. In the end it’s not so much the premise, but how well the production values are able to sell it. And that’s what Neverland is good at.

❌ It’s specifically a Weekly Shounen Jump manga, and that is huge red flag. Sure enough, while the visuals and mood deliver, the dialog writing justifiably assumes the reader is a moron. Almost every line in this is either straight universe exposition or someone reading someone else’s character sheet back to them. It’s insane and not even necessary because their actions establish all of this just fine, but hey, WSJ readers amirite?

❌ Also, since it’s a successful WSJ property, don’t expect an ending or be prepared to watch this show for years. Most likely both.

♎ This seems like it could be entertaining once the exposition is out of the way and the real meat of the narrative starts. Then again, at that point pacing would come into play, which is yet another achilles heel of WSJ-style shounen manga. Against my better judgement, I’ll probably have a look how this develops, but I don’t expect much.

#anime #winter2019 #impressions #meiji tokyo renka #yakusoku no neverland #the promised neverland #Doukyonin wa Hiza Tokidoki Atama no Ue #My Roommate is a Cat #dimension high school #domestic na kanojo #girly air force #go-toubun no hanayome #the quintessential quintuplets #Magical Girl Spec-Ops Asuka

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thebigpapilio · 5 years

Text

The Koopa, The Dad, & The Better

This writing is inspired from/based on “https://duckapus.tumblr.com/post/184704406530/i-want-bowser-to-punch-gabriel-agreste-in-the-face by @duckapus“. It’s also a not-exactly-sequel to my post “https://thebigpapilio.tumblr.com/post/175002411360/mario-fans-heres-a-thought”.

Bowser had been monstrous, forceful, and many other things he would spend his life atoning for, but he was by no means a bad father. The Koopalings - quite young at the time - were entrusted to him by their blood father should they fall in battle. The previous Boom Boom had been loyal and a great ally of the Koopa royal lineage, so when the sad day came that he fell - thankfully long before Mario, or things would be a lot worse between the plumber and his adopted kids - Bowser was more than willing to take the mantle. Bowser took as good care of them as he could, and Kamek helped him through the whole family’s issues. Even when Junior was born, Kamek was there for all of them.

Bowser had been angry his father magically forced Kamek to hide the truth of the racism that started the generational war between the Koopa & Mushroom Kingdoms with a silencing spell, he knew it was not Kamek’s fault and forgave him. After learning the truth, Bowser swore to fix his father’s mistakes, and it was not much later that a peace treaty resumed, complete with Peach’s also-restricted memories being restored.

It also helped him move on from the then-princess, which was good, because when he had arrived to offer peace, he’d just missed Mario proposing.

After fixing up everything, Peach saw fit for Bowser to be invited to the wedding, though Mario had still been suspicious of him.

Nevertheless, despite Bowser’s newly-attained and seemingly-infinite patience, there had been - and there still would be - plenty of times in Bowser’s life when he became especially angry.

When he was taken away from his childhood best friend Peach? Mostly confused, but still angry.

When he first lost to Mario, followed by an uncounted amount of repeated results? He’d been furious, and with each time he returned from a fight in great pain, he found less and less things more aggravating than so much as the thought of that provocative plumber.

When memories of his father and why he “hated” the Mushroom Kingdom returned to him? Bowser thought he couldn’t be angrier.

But after he stepped into that portal disguised as a human, Bowser found himself to be wrong.

It had started when he’d saved the kid from collateral damage caused by one of those… what was it, akumas? To his horror, he learned this was a regular occurrence in the city from the boy (Adrien, Bowser, his name is Adrien) in a tone more surprised that he didn’t know. That was fair, but the tone should have been a red flag that something was wrong. Later, he watched the boy’s ride show up at his school while walking by, and his heart broke watching how fast Adrien’s face fell.

It got worse when he started sending in spies. They returned with information of his dad and secretary being incredibly inconsiderate of Adrien and what he wanted, telling him what he was going to do as if he had no choice, and even when he did them, he was treated like a rebellious teen. Apparently, it was so bad the kid had fought to go to the public school. Junior didn’t mind being tutored, but Bowser still knew that even if his kids hadn’t wanted to do evil like they had done, the Koopa King would still be supportive of him and his siblings.

Bowser had been about to lose his temper for the first time in what may have been a record-breaking drought when a Paratroopa returned with urgent news. When Bowser learned about the correlation behind the two pitiful excuses for “adults” and the reason behind the villains, he knew something had to be done.

He couldn’t do it alone, however - he had to do things more quietly than an invasion could, and while he was incredibly strong, he would be outnumbered, and he was especially bad against smaller & faster opponents, if Mario and Luigi (he’d finally remembered to not address the younger hero as Green 'Stache) were anything to go by. Plus, he was mad right n-

The Mario Brothers.

Bowser couldn’t think of anyone better to help him then the newly-dubbed Mushroom King and his brother. Luigi and Bowser were on decent terms, but that didn’t seem to be enough for his bro - even when Bowser helped find a way back to the brothers’ home world, Mario still seemed to not trust Bowser, however quiet or loud he was about it. The Koopa King wondered if this plan he was forming would get Mario to fully trust him.

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Mario and Luigi had been suspicious at first at a request for help - as much as Bowser had changed, the Koopa King seldom asked for help, certainly not in the desperate fashion that he had. But Luigi convinced at least get Mario to hear the Koopa King out, and looking back, Mario thought it was a good idea - when Bowser explained the situation, the Mario Brothers would have agreed instantly had Bowser not wanted to explain how bad it was.

Mario had mostly been on guard due to their wedding; he wasn’t exactly of noble stock, and if he were to let his Queen be taken by someone they had known was not always trustworthy, he didn’t know what anyone - least of all him - would think of the new King. But Peach seemed to trust the former enemy after missing memories returned, and Bowser had looked like a husk of himself on that day, so Mario had been too shocked by this new information to really do much at the time.

With the peace between the two Kingdoms, Mario had seldom needed to do any hero work with the Koopa army practically handling all defensive matters for him, so if nothing else, this was an excuse to get some exercise and do good for someone.

Besides, this was a human from a parallel world to he and his brother’s, right? The Mushroom World had ultimately changed their lives for the better, and if this Adrien kid needed it, they would do the same for him.

After conferring with Peach and making a plan, the three fighters were ready to go. Going through the portal made things a bit awkward given the wait and Bowser’s human disguise, but Mario finally started to feel that Bowser was becoming better.

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Just our luck that there’s an akuma attack going on, Bowser mused.

Looking further at the situation, there appeared were multiple akumas and two new creatures that Bowser assumed to be sentimonsters - Hawkmoth had decided to try Heroes’ Day again, it appeared, but this time he was nowhere to be found, a young, brown-haired girl in the villain’s costume.

In a hidden spot near the battlefield, Bowser murmured to Mario and Luigi to go and help the heroes, saying he needed to save Adrien first. They all wore communicators - Bowser’s on an arm bracer, and the Mario Brothers under their hats. Nodding, they went off to go help, a well-placed fireball knocking Befana off her motorcycle and ultimately ending up purified in Luigi’s arms. Chat Noir - the kid was there, which made Bowser’s job a lot easier - and his friends were caught off guard, but when the brothers started to keep pace, they relaxed and returned to fighting the akumas once more.

Bowser would have loved to join them, but he had bigger fish to fry. Transforming back into his true form, he took off for Gabriel’s mansion.

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Hawkmoth and Mayura were a bit worried when new heroes stepped in. It was already a taller order than last time due to the reactivated Monkey, Snake, & Horse joining the original five, but they had saved up enough energy to be at least on par with that. When the dynamic duo showed up, however, the villains started to become quite uncomfortable.

On the battlefield, Luigi’s hammer smashed the last akumatized item - Volpina’s necklace. This Lila girl had turned out to be willingly akumatized and working with the villains, and she was promptly taken to the police by an infuriated Carapace and Rena Rouge while the other heroes celebrated.

The brothers’ communicators came on then, their draconid ally’s voice arriving right on time.

“You guys cleaned up yet?”

“Perfect timing, big guy!” Mario said, the two brothers watching as Carapace and Rena Rouge returned.

“Good. Now, tell them to follow you to the big bads’ place, got it?”

With all the up-close fights Bowser and the brothers had, they still forgot sometimes that in the end, he was a born leader and knew how to give commands without being angry. Walking over to the heroes, they introduced themselves as “Fireball” and “Green Thunder,” and told the heroes not only that that they’d been doing detective work about Hawkmoth’s identity but that they’d tracked him down, with someone holding personal quarrel with the villain already confronting him.

Ladybug would have spoken first, but she was interrupted by the sound of glass shattering from a while away.

“That’s our cue, then…” Green Thunder smiled. Gesturing in the direction of the sound, he continued, “...care to follow us there?”

You would have thought their heads would fly off their necks with how fast they nodded.

Meanwhile, Hawkmoth and Mayura caught their breaths after dodging the shards of glass sent their way. When they looked up, their breaths were caught once more as they took in the appearance of the cross-looking creature whose glare that screamed you are in for the beatdown of your life. Fortunately for Mayura, she could see that the glare was mostly trained on her boss. Unfortunately for her, it was only mostly.

“Hawkmoth and Nathalie Sancoeur,” he uttered, and the two in question froze up in not only shock at this creature’s ability to speak so clearly and the fact he appeared to know Mayura’s identity but confusion, because this beast referred to Gabriel as Hawkmoth, even though at this point there was no conceivable reason this monster did not know that Gabriel was Hawkmoth.

“I have some words for you.”

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“You may never have heard of me, given the differences of our origins, so let me tell you just who you’re messing with.”

Slowly stomping towards them, he proceeded to do just so. “I am King Bowser Koopa, ruler of Dark Land and former villain. I’m the ex-scourge of the Mushroom Kingdom and the first of the Seven Star Children. I was known as the Final Boss, the Destroyer of the Dark Star, and old enemies-turned-friends once called me la tartaruga mortale - the death turtle."

To himself, Bowser thanked Luigi and Mario for teaching him Italian, because someone needed to know it other than those two if the brothers went evil.

"I did a lot of evil things in my career as a villain - I’ve conquered galaxies simply because they stood in my way.”

“I could raze you and this whole mansion to the ground right now if I wanted,” he roared, clearly putting fear into the two villains, “but I won’t. You wanna know why?”

At their somewhat-frantic nods, any amusement on his face said goodbye.

“Because there’s a kid in this place.”

At their slight confusion, he scowled. At this point he stood over the floored duo.

“The title I hold more dearly to me than any of the ones I just named is Dad. I have eight wonderful children, and every day of my life I do my best to make sure they want for nothing, least of all my attention. ”

At that point he snatched Mayura’s brooch faster than either of them could react, leaving a stunned Nathalie Sancoeur in her place. Looking back for a second, he noticed the other heroes had arrived - Red & Green with them. Grinning, he returned to Hawkmoth’s fearful gaze.

“Now I’m not perfect, true, but at least I try. I support my kids, I take time to understand them and their interests, I teach them as best as I can, and even if they hadn’t wanted to follow in my villainous footsteps during that time, I like to think I would have respected that and continued to love them nonetheless.”

His glare hardened even further.

“Too tall an order for you, huh? If you can pretend to be the fashion mogul known as Gabriel Agreste, I think you could easily take time to be a parent to your kid.”

“Why do you keep saying he’s not Hawkmoth?” Chat Noir spoke up from Roi Singe & Ladybug’s grips.

“For what I know, Gabriel Agreste was a kind, caring, and patient guy who liked to do good for others simply for the sake of it. This guy doesn’t fit the description, so he can’t be Hawkmoth, right?”

It was clear that Bowser knew Gabriel was Hawkmoth, but the message he was conveying was clearer - Gabriel had changed, and not for the better.

“You’re using your grief as an excuse to hold your son at arms’ length, but you only take control of him when it’s convenient. If I asked you about his favorite color, or his friends’, or what he wants to do with his life if he could choose, or even what he thinks of the “designer clothes” you stick him in, how much could you really tell me?”

At this, Hawkmoth was silent. Bowser let out an angry snort, then finished his tirade.

“I’m not gonna go too far on your failing attempts at villainy. You’re a faulty & foolish failure as a villain and a parent, and as I said earlier, if it wasn’t for the kid, you’d be burned to a crisp and stomped into a paste - not to mention scum like you aren’t worth the effort.”

He picked up the main villain, dropped him on his two feet, and with a growl of “Get bent.” he walloped him into the wall with a single punch.

Hawkmoth would wake up after about a week and a half in the hospital, having changed from purple to white. A change to orange would follow soon after.

But for now, Bowser would turn around to face the other heroes. He would help get the detransformed shell of Gabriel to the police and hospital, and after taking the Black Cat wielder aside, he gave him a small remote-like item he’d packed that let him and anyone he wanted - other than Hawkmoth and Nathalie - come to the Koopa Kingdom if he wanted or needed to.

Bowser sometimes felt the repercussions of his past villainy too strongly. But whenever he remembered that day - especially punching Hawkmoth in the face - he felt a lot better about himself.

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cloudybookash-blog · 5 years

Note

25-50

Soooo… I take forever to do these things, sooooorrryyyy!

26. What would your character say their best trait would be?

Idk, probs that she’ s nice or something? I literally have never thought about how my characters feel about themselves???

Great start!

27. What is your character’s greatest fear? Deep, irrational?

That she ends up accidentally, or even intentionally, like her father in her attempt to over throw his rule. I’d say she’s terrified to become a hypocrite, all these years facing against her family and the way the rule/conduct themselves to end up doing or being exactly like them would be nightmare inducing for her.

28. What is currently motivating your character to stay with the party?

She killed the other party… In all fairness, it was an accident.

But for real, before meeting her current Crew™ her biggest fear was leading her Old Party and being shunned by the very peoples with who she was coming to aid/save. Of course, she stays with them because at the end of the day she loves them and enjoys their company but there are obviously a lot of other reasons to stay: she doesn’t know the land (her Old Party were going to teach her when they reached ‘safety’), she doesn’t have any ties on the new planet apart from a single group of rebels from her home world who aren’t the easiest on the eyes, she hardly speaks the language or understands the customs/culture of this new planet, and probably even more that I haven’t thought about. Bottom line is that she needs them.

On a happy note, they need her too.

29. What are your character’s hobbies and interests outside of their class?

I’m translating these q’s for a book and I don’t know enough about dnd (or my fucking characters for that matter) to answer.

30. What would most people think when they first see your character?

Tall. Like, freakishly tall.

31. What stereotypical group role does your character play in the party? (The Mom, the Mess, the Comic Relief, etc. Optionally: What role would your character play in the “Five Man Band” structure?)

Well, she’s technically the leader I guess. It’s kind of her quest they’re all on but at the same time the others tend to take her place leading the sub groups while she figures out a plan. I guess she might be The Man in The Chair or Behind the Curtain.

32. What is your character the most insecure about?

Maybe her intelligence, like not being the smartest person in the room. She’s known (even on the new planet) for being super strong and a great fighter, but she detests that viewpoint because it makes it difficult for people (and herself) to differentiate between the ‘bad guys’ in her family and the ones who’ve been fighting the Good Fight, like her.

33. What person does your character admire most?

I think I’ve answered this before and it had something to do with liking people who could be strong and caring at the same time. Or something sappy like that.

34. What does your character admire and dislike the most about the player character sitting to your left?

Translating for a book her so I’ll answer about how my character feels about the other four members of the main cast:

J: PRO: very understanding, never have to explain or defend herself to him - he always gets it. CON: not who she thought he would be.ME: PRO: loyal, despite having their little spats, at the end of the day ME would die for her. CON: not very understanding.HH: PRO: funny, can relax the whole mood at a moments notice. CON: reckless, is usually the only reason they get into trouble.M: PRO: is the closest to her in age and as a result is like her best friend, there’s almost nothing she hates about M. CON: I literally can’t think of one Z could have against M.

35. Why is your character’s lowest stat their lowest (the in-character reason, not “because there’s no reason for a wizard to have 16 strength, duh”)?

Not applicable.

36. What would be your character’s theme song/favorite band/favorite genre of music?

Something folky?

37. What stereotypical role would your character play in a high school AU/if they attended a normal high school? (Nerd, jock, bully, goth, etc.)

A toss up between the Loner or the Class President.

38. What treasure/item/artifact that your character has collected during the adventure is the most important to them?

She doesn’t/can’t really collect stuff, survival mode, y’know.

39. Is there any particular weapon, item, etc. that your character longs to find?

No? Her fight isn’t after something material.

40. Where does your character feel the most at home?

I think I’ve tried answering this before and couldn’t answer, probably at her Uncle’s place though, because it has the best memories for her.

41. Does your character care about how they’re perceived by others? How do they change themselves to fit in with other people?

I think yes, as she’s keeping her identity a secret. As a result I’d say she tends to distance herself out of fear of slipping up that she’s related to the enemy. Her entire plan rest on being supported by a lot of people and the idea that where she comes from could hurt her chances of success would be stressful.

42. What does your character think is the true meaning of life?

Broooo, this too deep for 10:41am.

43. What is your character’s scent? (Bonus points for a description that sounds like it could be from a bad [or awesome] fanfic.)

lol, B.O. probably, she’s a preteen running around in the woods.

44. Does your character think more with their heart or their brain?

Heart.

45. What is your character’s most recent or frequent nightmare?

I don’t wanna be cliché and say the murder of her older brother and mother, or her fear of failing overall but… I’m gonna be cliche and say those are the two things she probably has nightmares over.

46. What opinion does your character have on [CERTAIN ESTABLISHED GROUPS/AUTHORITIES IN THE GAME WORLD]? (Dragonmarked Houses, royal crown, etc.)

There are a lot of little, influential groups that she comes across and some of them live up to her expectations and others don’t. Overall, she has the opinion that any group in a position of power needs to do more harm than good, and act as both protector and provider to their people. That’s regardless of whether they’re just a random clan that walk around together, or the ‘police-type unit’ in this world, or the political rulers, she doesn’t care how small your reach is, if you rule - you better do it well.

47. How did your character spend their childhood? Where did they grow up/who were their childhood friends?

Pretty sure I’ve answered this before? Um, just recap I guess - she was born second heir to the throne on her world, spent her childhood hanging out with her Guard, learning and training under royal tutors and trainers. Fucked up along the way and got her ass banished, was sad, lived with her uncle who subsequently became her teacher for everything, and spent quality time with her brother as a result, she was then welcomed back out of banishment for a short period of time before she ‘defected’. And, technically, she’s still a child, so the contents of the book are her ‘growing up’ so to speak.

48. What aspect of your character’s future are they most curious about? (If they could know one thing about the future, what would it be?)

Whether they’ll die before they achieve their goals. Morbid I know, but this is war.

49. What colors are associated with your character?

Blue, Black, Purple and White.

50. Who in the party would your character prioritize rescuing, in dire circumstances?

Probably M or HH, both J and ME prove themselves to be able to get out of any situation on their own but sometimes HH can get overwhelmed or distracted and then can’t save himself and M has yet to prove herself as capable enough to handle anything that comes her way.

#lol don't expect the other two q's to be answered any time soon #I got called into work and now im tired #writing #wip #crafiet #wassup bruh

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cyb-by-lang · 6 years

Text

Shell Game (13/?)

Training begins.

During lunch on Monday, Kei stopped in with Principal Nezu to let him know about what had happened on Sunday. He could take it or leave it, but she was nonetheless slightly relieved to hear that the water villain would probably get his hearing back. Eventually. In prison.

She wouldn’t have been that happy if the jackass had actually managed to lay a finger on Hayate, but that was an alternate universe she hadn’t allowed to manifest.

After classes on Monday, Kei and Shinsō met for their mutual tutoring session in the school library. First of all came studying and, like the good student he was, Shinsō actually had all the notes from the classes Kei variously daydreamed through, missed, or simply didn’t understand. Though Kei did copy a fair portion of them and asked Shinsō for explanations for various topics, a fair chunk of the trouble came from not actually reading the coursework. She’d read more of the Modern Literature coursework in the past hour as a result than she had since the term started, with Shinsō outlining his note-taking strategy in between barely-hidden yawns. Sunday night clearly hadn’t treated him well, but he seemed game enough for their agreed-upon training.

And then, after the sky started to change color, it began.

It was…probably about the physical equivalent of what studying was for Kei. To wit: An embarrassing slog.

I didn’t realize it was this bad, Kei remarked to Isobu, while watching Shinsō get warmups out of the way. It’d been a long time since Kei had seen anybody huff and puff that hard after running a mile. Or its equivalent.

Training was all right in theory. Between Hayate’s pestering and Shinsō’s offer, Kei didn’t have much choice other than to study. She just hadn’t expected to have that kind of time while waiting for Shinsō to exercise.

Their route today was in Mustafu, solely because that was where UA was and it saved them train fare. Besides, studying after school meant there didn’t really seem like anyplace else to go that still felt like they’d be keeping momentum going. So, Mustafu it was.

By mutual agreement, neither of them were running anywhere near the bank from yesterday.

You may have forgotten that the majority of humans cannot keep up with a special jōnin in any capacity.

…Crap.

Shinsō managed to catch up to her, eventually. Checking her phone, she timed it out to about ten minutes. Unless the internet was lying to her, Shinsō was somewhat slower than average for a Japanese boy his age, and he was definitely not going to make the cut with the Hero course kids with a score like that.

Kei wasn’t even winded. She felt vaguely guilty about that, but figured Shinsō wouldn’t appreciate what’d look like pity coming from her.

Maybe she should have started him out with a kilometer run instead.

Once Shinsō got his breath back, he gasped, “Please… Just let me focus on Modern Literature.” Before Kei could pose a clarifying question, Shinsō went on, “If I have…to also tutor you in math…before doing this? I am going to die.”

Kei did her best to channel Gai. It was generally a safe bet. “Don’t give up yet, Shinsō-san!”

Shinso muttered something unintelligible, reaching up to adjust the sweatband around his head. He didn’t seem encouraged.

“Anyway, now it’s time for stretches and cooldown activities.”

Kei’s outlook didn’t really improve from that point onward, though she wasn’t nearly as frustrated as Shinsō was. He made it through most of the stretches fine, though he couldn’t touch his toes particularly well. At the end of it all, both of them were differing levels of annoyed, but at separate problems.

Are my standards completely broken?

Yes.

She didn’t even know where to start with katas. She needed more of an idea of his capabilities, even if his physical conditioning wasn’t filling her with confidence.

They went to a completely mundane non-beach park, which was conveniently free of witnesses on a Monday afternoon. There wasn’t exactly much to attract people besides the playground fixtures, and those were a little stooped and sad due to too many Quirk-blessed children attacking the structure over the years. And there was a water fountain, which Kei supposed was probably the only thing to recommend it.

Kei poked and prodded until Shinsō stood across from her on the grass, his feet shoulder-width apart. Given his expression, he was less enthusiastic than she’d been as a kid about the entire process. Then again, her mother had been using a shinai and had, perhaps with a bit too much faith in Kei’s impulse control, given her one to hold while the corrections went on. The trouble then had been keeping Kei still, not getting Shinsō to keep his muscles loose.

“Throw a punch, please,” Kei said, after she was almost happy with what she’d managed.

Shinsō blinked. “Right now?”

“No better time,” Kei said, and before she’d finished the last word, Shinsō had already thrown it at her face.

Kei caught his fist one-handed and said, “Gotta change a few things before you do it again.”

Shinsō huffed. “I’ve only thrown one.”

“And I’m here to make sure you don’t break your fingers on the second.” Kei turned his hand, saying, “Thumb on the outside. Otherwise you can hurt yourself more than the enemy.” She let go of him and reset their starting positions. “Again!”

A second punch.

“Don’t punch with the flats of your fingers. Knuckles first.”

A third.

“Stop aiming at my face. You’ll hurt your hand worse and just barely break my nose. Too many bones.”

A fourth.

“Keep your wrist straight. Good thinking, aiming for the throat.”

And on, and on, and on.

Shinsō switched arms before he could get tired, while Kei continued to correct him with the patience drilled into her by her mother and by trying to teach Hayate kenjutsu in their younger years. There was a different tempo to this kind of lesson, and Shinsō didn’t have the experience Kei relied on as a fighter to fall into step with the constant demand. Falling into a pattern in a real fight could be fatal, but here she just needed Shinsō to keep pace.

“Enough,” Kei said finally, while Shinsō shook out his wrists. His hands looked a little reddened by the constant impacts. Her own palms hardly tickled. “Take a break.”

Shinsō glared at her, but she ignored it. While he stalked toward the water fountain, Kei tried to think her way through the problem.

Would they get further with pure physical conditioning? The technical details were important, but Shinsō’s endurance wouldn’t really matter in a match with students who’d been training all along. Either he could grab someone with his Quirk and would win the match after essentially trash-talking someone into submission, or he’d be forced to rely on barely two weeks’ worth of training to rally after mind control failed.

Dammit, if only we had more time.

That is what everyone says, eventually. But you do not have that kind of time.

Kei pressed her thumb to her lower lip, trying to think.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar flare of fiery chakra, and Obito stepped out from behind a cherry tree in his Tokyo clothes. Jeans and close-toed shoes had been a hard sell for him, but the medical eyepatch and long-sleeved shirts without the Uchiha high collar had been comparatively easy. He still wore gloves to hide his mismatched hands, but otherwise Obito was about as inconspicuous as he ever got.

He had a smiley face on the eyepatch. Because of course he did.

“Hiya, Kei,” Obito said brightly. “How’s life?”

“Kind of weird. Did Hayate tell you what happened yesterday?” Kei asked, hand on her hip.

“A bit. You really do run into a lot of trouble, don’t you?” Obito’s gaze focused on Shinsō, who was making his way back to them.

“Trouble finds me.” Kei gestured toward Obito. “Hey, Shinsō-san, this is a friend of mine. Dropping in to check on me, I guess.”

“Kei needs looking after sometimes. I’m Uchiha Obito.” He inclined his head just slightly. “Nice to meet you, Shinso-san.”

“Likewise, Uchiha-san.” Was it just Kei’s imagination, or did Shinsō give Obito a searching look after all that? “So, are you two close?”

Oh, great.

“Uh, we did grow up together.” Obito was oblivious, of course. “So, what’re you two up to today?”

“Training,” Kei said, before Shinsō could dig any further into that topic. “The Sports Festival is coming up, so we’re trying to get in shape.”

Obito brightened. “Can I help?”

“Mark out another…two kilometers,” Kei suggested. With a sweet smile that sat not-at-all on her face without a twist, she said to both boys, “We’ll finish with that!”

Shinsō looked like Kei had just signed his death warrant.

Obito trotted off, whistling.

“So, are you two—?” Shinsō began with the beginnings of a teasing smirk.

“He’s my best friend, not my boyfriend,” Kei corrected him immediately. With a stern expression, she indicated the direction Obito was traveling. “And we do have a beach. What do you think about running in sand, Shinsō-san?”

Shinsō, even despite his exercise flush, somehow managed to go pale. “I’m good.”

“Thought so. Now, I don’t have much else going on in the afternoons, but I don’t think it’s realistic to meet every day.” Mostly because having a purple duckling following her around would put a severe cramp in her ability to keep up the whole “shinobi” thing. She hadn’t done a proper perimeter circuit since the school year started. “Okay. How about I show you how to fall safely on Wednesday? And maybe throw people.”

“Why Wednesday? Why not today?”

“I can show you how to throw Obito today, but only because his Quirk means we don’t need mats,” Kei explained. She tapped her foot on the grass. “Softer than concrete, but I’ve had concussions that say otherwise. So has he. And he already knows how to fall, so there’s that too.”

Shinsō sighed. “At this point I’m not sure who got the better deal here.”

“I did say I was fine if you cut it down to just Modern Literature,” Kei responded. She checked her phone for a cheerful “Done! ᕦ( ᐛ )ᕤ” from Obito, then said, “Let’s go. We’re wasting daylight.”

“I hate you so much already.”

“Big words for day one! Come on, it’ll make you feel better to throw Obito around.”

Shinsō groaned aloud.

#Shell Game #shinsou hitoshi #Keisuke Gekko #Obito Uchiha #my hero academia #crossover

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laurent-ofvere · 6 years

Text

the angsty pallazar fic part 1

can be seen as somewhat of a follow up to this pallazar fic of mine in terms of chronology, bc that one goes into how they started fucking around wheres thes one just jumps into things

Pallas had taken many lovers in his life.

Though he was only in his early twenties, he had still spent much of his life traveling throughout the kingdom, experiencing all the delicacies his country had to offer. Whether it was his years spent in the army or all of the aristocratic endeavors that his birth had subjected him to, there was no shortage of men for Pallas to make his way through. Be that a son of a noble, a stable boy from his family’s home in Kesus, a man in an old tavern or a fellow soldier he’d shared company in the barracks with, he had admired them equally. Despite his early age, Pallas had been sure that he had sampled them all, and that there was nothing left that could surprise him.

That was, until he met Lazar.

Lazar had come into Pallas life like the storms that took Isthima in the summer: a slow building gradualness that could be acknowledged without begging concern, before hitting in a full burst of nature that threatened to wash the streets with ocean water and crumble homes into ruins.

Pallas hadn’t been entirely sure what to think of the man at first. Since they had caught sight of each other at Charcy across distinguishing lines, he had began to make his awareness of Pallas known in minute ways that were some odd combination of lazy and self assured, like it would take nothing more than a slide of his eyes and a low whistle for Pallas to be lifting his skirts for him at the nearest corner of privacy. It was part insulting, and part encouragement when Pallas did simple things like walk across camp borders or slather his body in oil before stepping up to his wrestling opponent.

It was inevitable that they ended up in bed together (if behind the barracks, followed by the first empty tent they could find constituted as a bed). Pallas wasn’t in the habit of denying himself the things he wanted, and he wasn’t a fool. He had known from the instant they had locked eyes that he was going to have him, it was only a matter of time.

Lazar was different, in ways that Pallas couldn’t initially put his finger on. At first Pallas had thought it was because of his Veretian roots, but it had only taken the weeks following the death of Kastor-Exalted where he spent unlimited time in the presence of countless other Veretians to see that they were all just more of the same, and that there was something else that set Lazar apart.

Pallas didn’t know much about him at first, or vice-versa. He knew that he was a soldier in the Veretian Prince’s guard, that he knew little to no Akielon, and that he fucked better than anyone Pallas had ever spent a night with. That fact alone was enough to sate any of his initial curiosities, and the notion was only reinforced the more time that passed. A sizable amount of Veretian soldiers had returned to Arles to ensure that it was protected on all fronts following the trial that had brought the demise of the Regent, but Lazar was part of the contingent that remained in Akielos under his prince while he waited for Damianos-Exalted to heal. Because of that, they had nothing but time, for the unforeseeable future.

Pallas hadn’t particularly minded the language barrier, despite the minor difficulties that it offered them. Pallas’ highborn upbringing had ensured that he knew an appropriate amount of Veretian, and if he was being honest with himself, he found Lazar’s lack of Akielon and his muddled attempts to speak the language quite charming.

He was trying to learn, to his credit. While they mostly spoke in Veretian, Pallas would occasionally point out an object and offer the Akielon word, and Lazar would repeat it back to him. His accent was strong, his tongue softening the harsh Akielon vowels in a way that was wildly contradicting to his rough demeanor, and that coupled with the determined set of his brow each time never failed to make Pallas’s chest temporarily feel like it was contracting.

“Don’t they teach other languages where you are from?” Pallas asked one evening in Veretian, after he had asked Lazar for his chiton and was handed his sword.

It was quiet outside in the dead of the night, only the sound of grasshoppers entering the small confines of his tent. Lazar had snuck in, as he tended to, barely bothering with either language before dropping to his knees.

Lazar turned his head to face Pallas, the tips of his dark hair grazing the pillow. “Of course they do,” he said. “The prince speaks Akielon.”

“The prince is royalty,” Pallas said, thinking of the quick glimpse he had gotten of prince Laurent that morning when he had been guarding Exalted’s sickroom, bustling past Pallas and through the doors with an intent look on his face. Surely he spoke the Akielon language, growing up in a palace with what was likely the finest tutors. It was not as if he had someone teaching him the language alone, in private, like Pallas was teaching Lazar.

“And I’m not,” Lazar said. “So I don’t see why I would.”

“I am not royal either,” Pallas said. “But I speak more than one language.”

Lazar made an offhand sound at that, a short laugh that didn’t manage to be more than a breath. He had an arm crossed behind his head, the line of his bicep tensing as he looked back up. “You and I don’t exactly come form the same kind of places.”

Pallas rolled his head back as well, pondering the idea. He thought of the home he had grown up in, the different ones he had taken lodgings in. The prearranged dances and the prim negotiations the nobility would hold, the ones Pallas was required to attend when he was not otherwise occupied. He tried to insert Lazar into that image, to view him side by side with his father, and then tried to stifle his smile.

“Where do you come from?” Pallas asked him, wanting the adequate information that could help him paint the proper picture. Lazar was good with his hands, perhaps he came from a family of blacksmiths.

“Ladehors,” Lazar said. “Why did you ask about languages?”

Pallas frowned. “What?”

“You brought it up when I gave you the sword you asked for.”

“Oh,” Pallas said. “Because I asked for my chiton.”

“Oh,” Lazar repeated, nodding a few times. His eyes moved up the length of Pallas’ outstretched legs as he did, and Pallas saw as they paused by his stomach, head stilling as well as he looked up. “Why would you need that?”

Pallas blinked twice, unsure if he had perhaps misunderstood. Lazar tended to forget that his Veretian was not perfect and spoke a little fast for him. He braced a hand on the bedroll. “To dress,” he said, pushing himself onto an elbow.

But his efforts went intercepted, his body stilling when Lazar pushed his hand above his head, the tight grip of his fingers similar to the way his legs were suddenly straddling his waist.

“I didn’t say I was finished with you,” Lazar said, his other hand going loosely around Pallas’ neck as he bent down and took his mouth.

Pallas wasn’t entirely sure what it was they were doing, or what was compelling the two of them to continue to go back to each other. There was certainly no shortage of places for the other to look for a tumble, and he knew their time together was to be limited, seeing that Lazar would be returning to Vere soon.

Perhaps that was it, Pallas thought as he rolled on top of Lazar. He knew who he was, and what his future would entail. Pallas could do whatever he wanted now, but he wasn’t negligent enough to entirely ignore his eventual fate. His birth had always promised him to another, someone who couldn’t possibly be farther away from Lazar and the person that he was. Dallying with someone who was similar to him, someone who would always be there was pointless. That could only potentially court sentiment, whereas with Lazar it was nothing more than an exchange of pleasure, and physical pleasure was always interchangeable.

Lazar was a good fighter, a better fuck, but most important was his expendability. Whatever transpired between them now was only temporary, and as long as things remained the way they were, Pallas didn’t see that becoming a problem.

It had been a long day. The Veretian captain Enguerran and Nikandros, newly appointed Kyros of Ios had implemented new drills at the king’s bidding, and the soldiers had been up and in the training yard from the first sign of light, not sparing a moment of precious time. By the end of the sessions Pallas’ bones ached, his limbs feeling like they could give out at any moment, his fingers stiff like the concept of uncurling them from around the hilt of his sword would be an impossibility.

Pallas valued it, the burning strain of it all, a sign of a successful day and the proof of his body being pushed to its greatest limits. He relished it, but not nearly as much as he relished the taste if Lazar’s cock, his hands tight in Pallas’ hair as he pushed deeper into his mouth.

Pallas’ jaw ached, his knees feeling sore on the ground as he gripped the backs of Lazar’s thighs. He was still dressed, not having bothered to remove his blue livery when he entered the tent once silence had fallen over the camp, and Pallas didn’t bother to do more than unlace the front of his pants before opening his mouth for him.

Pallas kept his eyes opened, from the strong line of Lazar’s jaw or the way his neck rolled as he swallowed, his own lip pressed between his teeth. He watched Pallas as he pulled out, slowly, his hooded eyes reflecting in the dim lamplight as he thrust himself back in.

The sound Pallas made was muffled, his tongue laving around the sides as he took Lazar in as deep as he wanted, pushing past his own barriers for him. The noise Lazar made was roughened, a string of words that were too muddled for Pallas to understand in his dazed state leaving his mouth in open breathes as he continued to thrust past his lips.

Pallas was unable to move like this, restrained by the strong grip of Lazar’s hands on either side of his head and the unyielding rhythm of his hips pumping forward as he fucked Pallas’ mouth as he wished, as Pallas wanted him to.

There was something about Lazar when he was like this, unrestrained, like the barely contained energy that he exuded each day on the sawdust against men who couldn’t handle his strength was being expended on Pallas now. He didn’t treat Pallas like a man of refined birth, a highborn noble who required polishing and dainty treatment. Here, like this, he treated him like a treasured find in an old brothel, like he was the only person capable of matching his most raw desires and wants.

Pallas’ scalp stung, the roots of his hair burning as Lazar tugged sharply, one hand sliding down to the nape of Pallas’ neck for different leverage as he pushed into his mouth once more, twice, his nails biting into his skin as he came inside Pallas’ mouth with a loud, unabashed groan. Pallas didn’t release his hold against his legs, not straying from his position as he swallowed down all of his spend, watching the look on Lazar’s face as he did.

The way Lazar looked after climax was something else that Pallas liked- had slowly found that he liked. His cheeks held the slightest tinge of a flush, though Pallas could never be sure if that was simply a sign of exertion that his lighter completion couldn’t hide, or something else entirely. His already dark eyes were like flames wavering against stained glass windows. His face, usually sharp with stark lines of determination and surety were softer, lighter, a layer of confident bravado temporarily stripped away so that he appeared years younger, vulnerable.

Pallas accepted his hand as he was pulled up off the ground, bringing them back to their near equal. Lazar released him after a moment, the edge of his lips quirking as he raised a thumb to the side of his mouth and wiped at the skin.

Footsteps sounded a few yards away, dead grass crunching under what Pallas couldn’t be sure were sandaled feet or boots. He took Lazar’s wrist in a light grip, swiping his tongue along the finger before finally releasing him, putting a single step of space between them.

Lazar followed him, as Pallas expected that he would, though he wasn’t quite expecting the way Lazar placed his palms on both of Pallas’ cheeks, pressing their lips together before implementing his own bit of space.

He said something as he adjusted his pants, words coated in the honeyed rumble that often came with release, though you are was all Pallas had been able to make out of the Veretian words, the third one foreign to him.

Lazar had a hand on the entrance of the tent, his head turned one last time, and it was only after the cloth flap fell closed and left Pallas to himself that he realized his heart was pounding.

To Pallas’ surprise, it was not just Lazar’s ability in a foreign language that was progressively improving. His Akielon was getting better, gradually, in that he was able to point out random words or state occasional phrases when Pallas wasn’t expecting it. They were usually broken and often incorrect, but the fact alone that he could remember a sufficient amount of vocabulary was a success in itself, and the accent that he couldn’t seem to drop was something that only made his valiant attempts sweeter. It was unclear why he was trying to learn, given that they could handle most conversations in Veretian, but his resilience behind each carefully pronounced syllable was something Pallas was slowly growing familiar with, in more ways than one.

“Who are they?” Pallas had asked that afternoon, watching as two men walked out of one of the palace corridors and into the courtyard. He was standing with a group of men, passing around a canteen of water. Aktis was at his right, Lazar at his left.

“From Patras,” Lazar said in Akielon. He spoke easily enough, though he pronounced it as Pah-trahs.

“What do you know of them?” Lydos asked, his shoulder on a wide stone pillar.

Lazar shrugged, accepting the water. “Huet is trying to fuck the tall one.”

But it was not just Lazar who was learning. Pallas had never known that Veretian had different dialects, or that it varied depending on what province you lived in. Lazar also taught him a few Vaskian terms of mountain slang, though none of them would be of much use outside of a bed. When Pallas asked him how he acquired any knowledge of the Vaskian language Lazar had only grinned, crossing his arms behind his head.

“Do you- with women?” Pallas asked. He heard how incredulous he sounded.

“I’m a man of many tastes,” Lazar replied. They were back to speaking Veretian, Akielon saved for a word here and there.

Pallas looked down at him, blinking. He thought of the scarce bits of knowledge he had heard about Veretian customs, how strict they were with who they were allowed to take to bed. “Is it not forbidden?”

“It can be our secret,” Lazar said as a response. He placed a hand on Pallas’ thigh. “Have you been to Vask?”

“No,” Pallas said.

Lazar hummed. His fingers trailed the edge of his chiton. “They would like you there.”

Pallas’ knowledge of Vask was limited. “Why?”

Lazar made a different sound. “For the same reasons I like you, I’d guess.”

Pallas’ hand – halfway to Lazar’s – stopped. His boots were discarded at the entrance, his jacket removed. He looked comfortable on his back, feet crossed at the ankles, not seeming to care in the slightest that he was lounging in Pallas’ tent like it was his own. Lazar had told him earlier in the evening that he wouldn’t see him that night, and Pallas had been too caught off guard with pleasant surprise when Lazar had still shown up to question it.

Pallas lowered himself down the bedroll, turning his body onto the side so he was better facing him. He waited for Lazar to open his eyes, only then taking his hand and placing it on himself.

“Tell me,” he said, moving it lower. “What it is like in Vask.”

Lazar grinned again.

For all the men that Pallas has been with, he had never spent so much significant time with a specific one.

It was not that he had any problem with consistency per se, more so that no one had managed to hold his attention long enough to go back to. He was never one to build up such a routine, to close his eyes at night thinking there would be something, someone waiting for him the next day. Such concepts were abstract, conceptual, and a notion better suited for a future. More specifically, a future that wasn’t filled with contracts, unions and obligations.

Seated on Lazar’s lap with his legs on either side of his waist, those realities felt far, far away. The last thing Pallas had felt walking across the courtyard and picking his way through the private, singular Veretian tents was obligated. Lazar’s shirt and jacket long ago discarded, his own chiton unpinned so It was pooled at his waist, the only thing Pallas felt as Lazar rubbed a calloused thumb in circles around his nipple while mouthing at his neck was alive.

Pallas spanned his fingers against his arms, the sensation in his stomach clenching when he felt the way the muscles rippled under his hands. Lazar raised his face to his, barely managing a kiss before Pallas was pushing him down onto his back, his hands moving to his shoulders.

Lazar’s hands went to his waist, reflexively, giving a not so subtle shift of his hips as his palms trailed down the sides of his thighs. “No foreplay today?”

It wasn’t a word Pallas was familiar with before Lazar. It seemed silly that Veretians needed a word for every individual action. “Do you need foreplay?”

He tried to pronounce it the way Lazar had, but he still heard the way his tongue struggled around the smooth vowels, jagged shards to polished glass.

His smile was impish, like it always was in these definitive moments. “Get my oil.”

Pallas remained on his knees as he crouched over one of his trunks, moving clothing aside until he found an inner compartment stuffed with cloth. He unwound it, shifting things aside until he came across a glass vessel.

The vial was wider than the ones Pallas was used to; the glass tinged a darker shade. He uncorked it, and the blunt sound it made had Lazar lifting on an elbow and turning to him, shaking his head only a second after Pallas realized it was the oil meant for filling the lanterns.

“That’s the wrong one,” Lazar said, motioning to a different compartment of the trunk. Pallas nodded, absently, peering into the vial.

“I realize,” he said, lifting it to his nose. He saw Lazar looking at him, lowering it to his lap. “It smells of lavender.”

Lazar was turned to him, pushing onto a second elbow. “It came from Vere,” he said. “Oils are typically scented.”

“Not all of them are,” Pallas said, having been in enough Veretian tents to know that there were non fragranced ones. He looked around the small perimeter of the tent, thinking about the way the oil slowly burnt as the flames diminished. He thought of the acrid scent that spread throughout, the way it tended to linger and make him feel as if it clinged to his body, even in the mornings.

He raised his head. “You like the scent of lavenders?”

A wasp had flown in through the billowing folds, its quick movements seemingly captivating. “No.”

Pallas leaned back on his palms, considering putting the oil to use so he could better see Lazar’s expression. “Should I pick you flowers after I’ve sucked your cock?”

Lazar was sitting up now, his mouth set in a way that desperately made Pallas want to laugh. He looked like a petulant child, arms moving across his bare chest. “Are we going to fuck or not?”

Pallas couldn’t help it, a bit of laughter leaking out from between pressed lips, feeling like some of it had seeped out from the confides of his chest, vibrating against his ribcage. He was moving forward, helplessly, not quite able to stifle his lingering smile, even as their lips pressed together.

Pallas’ future was not something he thought of much, at least not in the detailed sense. When he was eight his eldest sister had been married off to the son of a noble from Sicyon, close enough to the Delphan border that his father hoped to maintain some of intel, along with benefiting from their chain of vineyards. She had had to sever ties with her young handmaiden who always flushed in his sister’s presence, and Pallas remembered passing by the lower quarters at night where the washing was being done, the soft sound of weeping coming from beneath the door. When Pallas had asked his sister about it, she only patted his cheek and told him he would understand when it was his time.

That was a response Pallas had received many times, growing up. When his sister had to leave someone that Pallas had seen make her smile more than any other. When his parents would argue behind closed doors and he was too curious to ignore it. When his brother, nearing the age that his sister had been when she left, disappeared.

Pallas had never given the choice that his brother had made much contemplation, even once he had begun to understand it. His thoughts of him were more tangled up in reminiscences of sitting in their courtyard, watching him spar for hours on end and thinking, this is what I want to do. They never strayed far from those singular moments, those days spent training on the sawdust together. And yet, for reasons unbeknownst to him, memories of the morning he had woken up to find his brother’s chambers empty, along with his horse and favored sword seem to slip into his every day thoughts more and more, unwelcome and unignorable.

Perhaps that was why Pallas was thinking about it that evening, the white flowers and silk dresses that his home would be filled with one day, unlike the second pair of boots or the dagger that was currently left by his own things. He wanted to place all of his focus on the way Lazar’s hands felt under his chiton, his tongue tracing the line of his lips, yet he couldn’t stop the brief flashes of neatly scrawled ink on the folded over parchment that he had discarded the instant Lazar entered, telling him of how lovely the daughter of the Kyros of Aegina was.

Lazar noticed as well, it seemed. Only a few minutes of this had passed when he puled away, his hand still on the inside of Pallas’ thigh. “What?”

His lips were wet, kiss swollen. Pallas lifted his eyes from them. “Nothing.”

Lazar looked at him for a few moments, saying nothing. Pallas had seemed him look similarly at a target while spinning a spear between loose fingers, rearing back after a minute. Pallas shifted.

“Is it to do with the papers you were reading before?”

Pallas was silent, weighing all the different responses he could offer in his mind. it was odd to talk about, odder with Lazar, though he couldn’t be too sure why.

Lazar leaned back on a hand. “What was it?”

“Nothing important,” Pallas said. He tried to extend a hand, but Lazar only swatted it away with an amused tilt of his mouth.

“Did you steal someone’s letters?”

Pallas reared his own hand back, horrified. “That is dishonorable.”

He watched as Lazar rubbed a palm across his forehead, muttering a few words that he couldn’t understand. He asked of them, but Lazar only waved him off again.

“Tell me,” Lazar said.

Pallas drew up a leg, winding his arm around his knee. It was new, different for Lazar to be engaging him in something other than sex this intently. Maybe that was why he felt a sudden urge to talk.

“They are letters,” he amended. “From my parents.”

He waited for some kind of reaction to that, only to receive none. Pallas had spoken Veretian more those past few weeks than he ever had in his life, and his comfortability in the language had improved enough that he rarely needed to think before speaking, hearing the way Lazar spoke helping even more. He almost missed the slight hesitation, the excuse to put his attention elsewhere.

“All right,” Lazar said.

“They write to me every so often,” he continued.

Silence. He half expected some comment on the young soldier writing to his mother and father, but Lazar only gazed back at him with the same blank expression that Pallas hoped he was giving.

“This one specifically was about Calista of Patras,” Pallas said. “My prospective wife.”

A strong breeze bustled the tent flaps, common for the final summer nights in Ios.

“Wife,” Lazar said.

“Future wife,” Pallas corrected.

The air around them was still, the space between them silent. Pallas tried to put his finger on why he felt like he was holding his breath. This wasn’t necessarily the first time he’d had this conversation, and there was nothing unique about this particular one. And yet, some part of him felt like his legs were dangling off the edge of a precipice.

Lazar’s grin was slow building. It was languid, a little crooked, familiar in a way that Pallas almost mirrored back. “You’re marrying a woman?”

Pallas flushed. He hoped that his complexion didn’t show it, but was sure that the quick aversion of his eyes did. “I- well, yes.”

“Care to tell me why?” Lazar said, nudging him with an arm. “Am I keeping you unsatisfied?”

His neck still felt warm. He wanted to put out the lanterns, to go outside for air. “It’s expected.”

“Expected,” Lazar repeated.

“Yes.”

Lazar was no longer looking at him, but he still had a wry smile as he shook his head. “Fucking aristocrats,” he said. And then he laughed, shaking his head again.

He hadn’t expected to hear his laugh, the low, almost reserved sound. “What?”

“I don’t know what tomorrow will bring me,” Lazar said. “And you already know how your life will end.”

“It is my duty,” Pallas said, automatically. He had lost track of how long they were sitting there, talking.

“Well, I think it sounds awful,” Lazar said.

Something about that gave Pallas pause, had him looking at Lazar with a more considering eye. He was reclined casually, comfortably, seeming entirely unruffled by the discussion of marriage. Disinterested even, aside for Pallas’ personal involvement. “You don’t believe in marriage?”

“I don’t believe in doing things I don’t want to,” Lazar said, looking up at the tent poles.

Pallas was watching him in the same way. Lazar wasn’t someone who typically spoke of himself at length, that much was apparent. Testing the possibility like the dip of his toe in cold water he said, “what do you want?”

Lazar straightened his neck, looking back at him. He reached a hand out, and suddenly his fingers were curled around Pallas’ wrist, tugging.

“I want,” he said, pulling Pallas down on top of him. “For you to fuck me.”

It was the middle of the night. Or nearly morning, depending on how Pallas looked it. He had yet to fall asleep, his legs drawn up with only a thin sheet pulled across his lower body. He thought it might be the hot air keeping him up, thick and humid, but growing up in Akielos had made sure he was accustomed to such weather. If he was being truthful, then it likely had more to do with the fact that Lazar was still laying beside him, despite how long ago they had both finished, Lazar even redressing most of the way before taking his spot back up on Pallas’ bedroll. That had immediately sparked in Pallas’ mind, and it was just about as uncommon as the way Pallas’ thoughts were reverberating in his mind.

He was thinking of that evening, the way he had been sitting on a log by the fire, a mug of wine between his hands when Aktis had joined him. Aktis was a few years older than him, as most of the men here were, but their age difference did nothing to impact the way they had grown together. Their close proximity and similar circles had allowed them to train together, to aspire together, and those twinned ambitions had brought the two of them here, serving under their king.

“You keep watching him,” Aktis had said.

A second passed, another, Lazar laughing at something another soldier said before he turned to Aktis. “And?”

“You don’t just watch,” Aktis continued. He had a drink of his own in his hand, but made no move to sip from it. “You look, like his attention should be yours.”

Pallas scoffed. He lifted his mug to his mouth, licked the wine from his lips. “He’s not mine.”

“No,” Aktis agreed, looking at Lazar himself. “What would your mother and father think?”

“It’s not-“ Pallas frowned. “He-“

Aktis lifted a brow, dark and naturally shaped with a strong arch. Pallas considered how to reply, what to reply, when the spot on his other side was taken. Pallas hadn’t needed to look, he knew the way that arm felt around his shoulder.

“Is this for me?” Lazar said, taking the wine from his grasp and drinking. Long, deep gulps that left his lips colored and wet.

“You share drinks?” Huet asked, another Veretian soldier who Pallas did not know well but knew Lazar considered a friend. He had taken the spot across from him and Aktis without him noticing, two more men joining them shortly after.

Lazar set it down on the grass, watching Huet as he did. “We share more than wine.”

Pallas had glanced at him, the fire making his face feel hot. He hadn’t minded the insinuation, not really. He was sure everyone there wanted Lazar, wanted to be in his place, but it was still an odd thing to be spoken about in public, and only made more so when Lazar had brazenly followed him to his tent.

Now, Pallas turned his head to the side so he could watch the way Lazar dozed with his eyes closed, the tips of his fingers brushing along his midsection. He had a scar on his face, small, a faint line running down the side of his left brow in a jagged line. He reached out to touch it, and it was the quick, embarrassed withdrawal of his hand that had Lazar opening one eye.

“What?” he murmured. His voice was languid with sleep, but Pallas knew he had been awake from the way his breathing had not yet evened out.

Pallas had pulled his hand back to his side, a little mortified by his impulsive act. He thought back again to the way they had all sat together for well over an hour, the way Lazar’s hand had only moved from his shoulders to the top of his knee.

“You really don’t care?” Pallas asked.

Lazar had both eyes opened then. “What?”

“To talk about-“ He didn’t know how to phrase it, this. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, motioning to where Lazar’s head was now resting by his hip.

Lazar followed the movement of his hand, his gaze trailing up Pallas’ arm and to his face before he snorted, looking back up. “I’m the luckiest man here,” he said. “Why should I care who knows it.”

Pallas’ lips parted, his fingers gripping the edges of the sheet so he didn’t do something stupid again, looking at the ground and remaining silent. He felt, a bit ridiculously, as if he was in the middle of a battle of long sword when a second dagger was suddenly pulled on him, and he didn’t quite know how to subdue the feeling.

Lazar sat up, abruptly, the bedroll ruffling beneath them as his knees pushed into it, turning so they were facing each other. He looked at Pallas like he was waiting for something.

“Those matters are private,” Pallas said, keeping his voice neutral. “And you don’t even pretend to deny it.”

“Deny it?” Lazar repeated. “Who am I, Damen?”

The name took a moment for Pallas to register, one too long. By the time he realized who Lazar was referring to, his brows were tugging in a downwards line without him even meaning to. “You should not talk that way about Exalted.”

Lazar made a noncommittal sound, a flick of his wrist. “He doesn’t mind,” he said. “He’s used to it from the march south, all that time with Veretians.”

Pallas bristled at the familiar tone. “He is my king.”

Lazar’s hands were against his chest. They were crossed against his middle, tugging on the loose laces of his shirt that fell down beside each other. “I never said otherwise.”

“Then you should speak of him with respect.”

Lazar was unflinching in the way he was looking at Pallas, and it did nothing to deter the way he looked at him back. He didn’t know what this was, this sudden rush or irritation – of despondency – that he felt, only that it came on like a wave and it didn’t seem to be going away. He felt as if-

Lazar was pushing himself up. His expressed was crossed with something new, a shadow passing over face as he looked down at Pallas. “Have I upset you, my lord?”

The wave crashed, dousing his bones in rattling ice water. Partially from the statement, partially from the way the last two words were spoken in Akielon. “Excuse me?”

His feet were in his boots. He was tugging the laces together, and Pallas struggled with the sense that something was slipping out of his grasp.

“Do you think I’m one of your prim, repressed suitors who need to act polished for you?” he asked. Pallas thought the word meant prim, his grasp on Veretian felt a little disarrayed at that moment. He sat there, wordless, simply watched as Lazar finished doing up the front laces of his jacket, pulling at the collar one strap too tight. “Or have I spoken out of line?”

Not for the first time, Pallas wondered how it was that Lazar made it to the personal guard of a soon to be king. He had seen him train, he knew his capabilities, but he also saw the way he tended to carry himself with a certain level of utmost indifference. He often toyed with the notion of him catching someone’s eye, of his impeccable abilities bringing him under the prince and a hearty compensation, without much of his own ardor either way. The thought, once again, nestled in his head.

“Even if you didn’t chose to be here,” Pallas said, watching Lazar retreat and ignoring the way he felt it in his throat, “it does not mean you shouldn’t honor your royalty.”

Outside, the camp was long asleep, the palace surely the only place where people bustled at all hour of the night to keep their king alive.

Inside, Lazar stopped straight-backed with a hand on the post, his shoulders a rigid line. He turned, drawing the flap aside before setting his eyes on Pallas’.

“I would die for my prince,” Lazar said, taking the step out. “You know nothing about the choices I’ve made.”

Pallas was patrolling the courtyard, as was one of his tasks that day. It was mid morning, early enough that the trees were still bathed in a golden light that poured out onto the rest of the gardens, making each flower and blossom seem like something out of a dream, a honeyed fairytale. Pallas’ hands were behind his back, his eyes not staying in one place as he walked the long grounds, several other soldiers visible a ways off.

He circulated the fountain in the center of the grass, its three straight levels that decreased in size as they rose, water spurting out of the top and trickling down the ledges into a stream where lily pads floated throughout. A bird landed on the marble animal mounted on top, its musical chirping soft in the still air.

The bird was blue, the sort of shade that only needed to be threaded in gold to resemble the livery that he would see if he looked anywhere around himself, and yet he hadn’t actually seen in days.

The bird jumped from one foot to another, flapping its wings enough to take him onto the edge of the fountain, to the base, then off into the air where it flew far enough that Pallas needed to pivot his body to follow the path it made, eventually setting Pallas’ gaze on the two figures standing beside the pillars.

They were under an archway, wide and curving upwards with winding vines, pink flowers trailing down its ends. The pillars were thick, enough shade provided to block out the blaze of the sun and to offer a sturdy surface for Exalted to rest his back, leveling the weight of his body.

The fact that the king was outside was shocking in itself, and a testament to how far his recovery was progressing. More than once on guard duty outside his sickroom, Pallas had heard the Veretian prince reiterating to the physicians in an eerily calm voice that all decisions regarding when Damianos left his bed went through him, and that they were to ignore Damianos altogether. The notion itself was preposterous, and yet he hadn’t seen him leave his sickroom until now.

The prince was by his side, a mere few inches between them as if his close proximity alone was holding Damianos up, or holding him together. His posture was straight, bordering on rigid, and even from his vantage Pallas could see the way his eyes would rarely lift from Damianos’ mid section. It was there they stayed, unmoving, until a knuckle was brought beneath his chin.

Pallas took a step back just as the prince lifted his head, both of them acting in a similar kneejerk reaction. Damianos was smiling, a certain look that Pallas had never seen on him in the short time he had had the honor of being in his close presence. His king was handsome, his features always etched in warmth and kindness, though above all he held himself with a certain poise and regality that was quite unlike the way he was murmuring around a crooked grin, whatever it was that he was saying being enough to cause the prince’s cheeks to color like the blossoms framing them both.

Pallas looked elsewhere, turning his body away like a wall. It was improper for him to be watching, an intrusion that was beneath him and that he was already regretting. He continued his stride around the grounds, retaking his usual position of crossed wrists and a raised head, clearing his throat with a mouthful of air. As he followed the sounds of the soldiers from the barracks, he tried not to think of the last time he had seen a look similar to the one he just witnessed, and what Damianos slowly being able to leave his rooms meant.

#captive prince #writing #my fic #the angsty pallazar fic #so here is what i have so far #if you were interested #it also stops right when things actually started to build up so hahah i suck

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