#i like drawing between rounds its fun. also been on a painting kick

[emberglowfox]

lethal company things i noodled on during rounds where i died

[misterghostfrog]

[IMAGE ID; a digital drawing of Martin Blackwood carrying Jonathan Sims from The Magnus Archives. Martin is a fat freckled white man with curly ginger hair that is shaved close at the sides. He has a pair of round framed glasses in a bright red, under the glasses he is wearing eyeliner, and a navy eyeshadow. He has black lipstick, two black snakebite piercings under his lip, and a small black nostril piercing. His ear has a large black piercing that cuffs a chain to a small black piercing higher up his ear, and one final black piercing in the middle. He has a black choker, and then a looser chain necklace with an eye ornament on it. He has a studded lather jacket on that is covered in multiple patches and pins, mostly hidden by Jon: of the visible pins there is a trans flag patch on his chest, and on his shoulder is a large dark colored patch that has A-C-A-B on it in white. Under the Jacket is a black shirt that he has partly tucked into his pants, the shirt has a large anarchy symbol drawn on it in red. Under that he is wearing jeans that are significantly ripped as far as we can see. On his right hand he has several black rings, and his nails are painted black. Jon is a skinny Jordanian man with brown eyes and shoulder-length grey-streaked dark brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail at the base of his neck. He has a beard beginning to grow that appears to be the product of forgetting to shave. He is covered in a series of small round scars that vary in exact size. He is wearing a pair of rectangle-framed glasses, a plain t-shirt, a pair of jeans that are ripped at the knee, and converse. Martin is carrying Jon bridal style in his arms, and is looking away, he is blushing, though his expression is concerned and appears to be speaking. Jon has his arms wrapped around Martins neck, his cheeks are darkened and he is staring at hte ground with an expression somewhere between fear and the face one makes when they’re having to retrace every step they’ve taken to get here. END ID]

Punk Martin but make it Jonmartin.

Also I wrote a lil thing to go along with this under the cut, its only barely edited because it was mostly for fun so be warned its a big ol mess! But its s2 jonmartin nonsense with Martin being very cool and attractive and Jon being seven layers deep in denial (Also I may have written Jon as a touch autistic because its projection hours tonight i’m too sleepy to mask and that goes for writing too babey)

(Mentions of worms, past injuries, and Jon dealing with some internalised ableism and general foolishness)

Jon forgot his cane.

It’s a relatively regular occurrence, for a multitude of reasons. For one thing it’s something of a recent addition to the list of things he needs to keep track of when he leaves the house. Another lovely parting gift from Prentiss, a worm in his left leg that went just quick enough to start burrowing into the bone before it was removed. 

For another, he really has other things to worry about. And if it doesn’t hurt, it shouldn’t matter. Most days he can get by just fine without it- it hurts of course. But not so much he can’t support himself, and really, does he need it otherwise?

Martin and Tim don’t seem to agree, though Sasha has kept respectfully to herself on the whole business. Martin, of course, he trusts. Albeit only recently. But that doesn’t make him right, his priorities are warped. Naturally. He doesn’t see the bigger picture.

(or at least that’s what Jon tells himself)

Which is what leads to this moment, sitting on a bench outside the shop, single grocery bag by his feet. He’d only run out to get a few things, but somewhere between the his flat the the shop his barely visible limp had become more pronounced as his hip began to throb, then he was halfway through the frozens when he realized he wasn’t going to be able to finish the trip. After that he’d barely made it through checkout to the nearest seat before all but collapsing into it.

And now he’s sitting, stuck. An insurmountable walk from home, without his stupid cane. Which, he notes, he wouldn’t need if he’d brought in the first place. Funny how that works.

“Jon?” A familiar voice jolts him out of his thoughts. Jon jolts upright. Martin. 

He knows Martin lives in the area, a side effect of his... investigations. Though he was unaware he used the same shop. He looks up, a greeting or perhaps a question on his lips that dies as soon as he actually lays eyes on Martin.

Martin is wearing a leather jacket. Not just a leather jacket of course, but that’s the first thing Jon can process. He’s wearing a studded leather jacket covered in various patches that advertise various opinions and identities that Jon doesn’t have time to think about. His  jeans are about as much rip as they are Jean, and he’s got piercings- and eyeliner. he’s dressed like he should be riding a motorcycle, not the beat-up red bike he’s got beside him.

“Are you alright?” Martin says, and Jon realizes he’s been staring.

“Are you going to a costume party?” Jon blurts instead of answering. A costume party would make sense, of course. Martin doesn’t dress like this, he dresses like- like-

It occurs to him dimly that he’s never encountered Martin outside of work, at least never in a scenario that would allow him to change out of his work clothes. And some part of him has always assumed that sweaters and khakis were simply how he dressed. It suited him, really. Or Jon had assumed, but then again he assumed anything familiar is suiting.

“Wh- A- no?” Martin answers, looking vaguely offended. Jon flushes.

“I- sorry, I just- I’ve... I didn’t think you seemed the type to dress... like that...?” Jon fumbles, pathetically trying to salvage the conversation. Judging by Martins expression, he’s failing.

Martin opens his mouth to say something, and Jon realizes there’s likely no coming back from this particular mortification. He snatches the bag by his feet and moves to stand. Some excuse already tumbling out when the reason for his sit-down, which had dulled to a shockingly forgettable throb, decides to remind him of his place in the world.

He lets out a cry of pain, and crumples. Only stopped from hitting the ground by a pair of arms that wrap around his chest and under his shoulder. 

“Oh my god, Jon. Are you alright- what- is it your leg? Where’s your cane-” Martin babbles, Gently replacing Jon on his bench as Jon breathes through gritted teeth.

“It’s fine- i’m fine Martin I-” he sighs, studiously avoiding Martins gaze. “My cane is at home.” He tries not to sound chastised as he says the last part- he shouldn’t have to after all. He’s still Martins boss. He shouldn’t be looking away like he’s been caught at something.

“Jon” Martin sounds exasperated, and Jon crosses his arms. Once again, nothing like someone being scolded. He’s not being scolded. He’s an adult. “How long have you been sitting here like this?”

“I...” Jon begins before trailing off, he’s not actually sure. The period between sitting on the bench and the pain dulling enough for him to think through the fog is something is a blur. He is pretty sure someone asked if he was alright at some point. His lack of answer seems to be enough for Martin though.

“Just give me a moment.” He says, stepping away from Jon over to his bike- which has fallen over onto the ground -pulling it upright and over to Jon on the bench. He pushes down the rusted kickstand with a hearty kick- and Jon briefly notes he’s wearing steel-toed boots -and sets the bike gently upright.

“Okay, so! If you sit on the bike I can push it, and you can get home and rest that leg without jostling it too much by trying to walk without your cane.” He says pointedly. Jon makes a face,

“This... this really isn’t necessary Martin- I’m perfectly capable-” He grumbles, waving a hand dismissively. But a glance at Martins expression shuts him up quick. 

“Do you think you can stand?” He asks. Jon pauses, the memory of the white-hot flash of pain still fresh in his mind. He grimaces, shaking his head. Martin hums thoughtfully. “Alright, would you be alright if I picked you up? Just for a moment to get you on the bike” He asks carefully.

Jon hesitates, looking between Martin and the bike. And weighs his options. After several seconds he nods. Martin smiles, and Jon feels something in his chest flutter. Anxiety at his decision most likely. Or perhaps nerves in relation to sitting on a bike, he’s never ridden one- of course Martin will be doing all the work but surely there’s some sort of balance required isn’t there? Really he shouldn’t be riding a bike like this-

Those thoughts are all swept away at the feeling of large warm hands gently scooping him off the bench. He instinctively throws his arms around Martins neck for support as he’s lifted into the air. 

He can feel Martins chest warm against his side as Martin holds him close, one hand on his shoulder and the other supporting his legs. He’s being cradled by his subordinate, carefully as so not to jostle his leg. And all he can think about is how warm Martin is. He’s large and soft despite all the sharper accessories and he smells a bit like leather and tea on top of whatever soap he uses. Probably something that Jon wouldn’t be able to name with a gun to his head. And Jon can see the freckles on Martins cheeks and neck close enough to count if he wanted to even as he looks away, saying something Jon can’t quite parse because he’s too busy reeling from the realization he’d be happy to sit in Martins arms like this for the rest of his life.

His face goes hot and he forces himself to look down at the ground. The pain is clearly messing with his head, or perhaps the sleep deprivation. Or perhaps he’s still riding the high from that moment of realization that Martin isn’t trying to kill him, that he can trust him. 

Either way he’s not thinking straight, which is why he’s dissapointed instead of relieved when Martin gently places him on the bike with the exact amount of care he took in picking him up. Which shouldn’t make him feel so oddly jittery but it does.

The ride is quiet, aside from awkward instructions from Jon on where to turn as Martin guides them carefully along the sidewalk. They miss a turn once because Jons too preoccupied with the feeling of Martins arm bumping against his shoulder as he guides the bike.

And then they’re at Jons flat, and Jon once again feels that misplaced disappointment. He wonders if perhaps Martin will carry him up to his flat, and his face burns again as the silliness of the thought hits him.

Martin does very, very briefly lift him to help him off the bike when he stumbles. But his leg has recovered enough that he can make it up to his flat without assistance, or so he tells Martin. Who looks unconvinced.

“Let me at least walk with you, yea? That way I know for sure you got home safe.” He insists, and Jon forced himself to be displeased with the situation.

It ends up being a good thing Martin came along though, a partway up the steps the railing is no longer enough to support Jon, and he ends up half-carried the rest of the way. Martins arm under his shoulder, his own loops around Martins back, gripping the jacket for support. He can feel his head drifting at the contact- Martin is just so damned warm and safe and Martin it’s impossible not to get distacted.

He forces himself to think about something else, anything else. The jacket- he can feel the leather under his fingertips and it’s as good distraction as any.

It’s a nice jacket, really. Clearly well-worn. And it does suit Martin, in an odd sort-of way.

Jon winces internally, remembering the conversation from earlier. He hadn’t meant to come off so... well. It doesn’t matter. Except that it does, even though it doesn’t, but it does.

Once they reach Jons door, he pushes off of Martin to lean on the wall while he fumbles for his keys. Martin lingers as he does so, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly in the silence.

Jon finds his keys and sighs in relief as the door swings open.

He nearly wanders inside and shuts the door before remembering basic human etiquette. He pauses in the doorway, turning to Martin. Who smiles awkwardly.

“Thank you.” He says stiffly, still leaning heavily on the doorframe. “That was... very kind. Of you.” Martin shakes his head.

“It’s nothing, really. Couldn’t exactly just leave you there, could I?” 

Jon shifts awkwardly, wincing at the brief weight on his leg. He’s right of course, morally at least. If not logically.

“I... I suppose not.” He says, hesitating before adding “I’m sorry.”

“Look, Jon. I already said it’s fine-”

“No-” Jon grimaces “not for that. I- I meant... for what I said. About your clothes. They don’t... I just- I didn’t expect it, and I may have come off as... rude.” He mutters

“Oh.” Martin says flatly, Jons sure he’d forgotten about that until just now, and he wishes he could have kept it that way.

“they do suit you, though.” He says, after an awkward pause. “Your clothes, I mean. It looks- you look nice.” he finishes as genuinely as he can- he does mean it. Of course, he just doesn’t know how to make it sound like he does.

“Oh” Martin says again, brightening slightly, his cheeks going blotchy red in a blush. “I- er- thank you...? I suppose?”

“Yes. Well. Your welcome, I suppose.” There’s another awkward pause, Martin isn’t quite smiling at Jon, but there’s something soft in his expression Jon can’t quite parse. “ Have a good day, Martin.” He says finally, after a long pause. Martins cheeks redden again.

“Oh- yeah, er. You too Jon- and take care of yourself. Alright?”

Jon nods, and Martin smiles. And Jon thinks he’d like to see Martin smile a bit more.

He waves as Martin heads down the stairs, he can hear Martin humming as he goes.

[unbridgeabledistances]

a ✨drunk and clingy ian✨ one-shot

okay so we all know that saint patrick’s day is a very arbitrary and somewhat meaningless holiday (at least in the u.s. lol)- but we also know that the gallaghers are incredibly fucking irish, so i am using this as an excuse to write some drunk and clingy gallavich fluff (bc i think we all need it!! or at least i do!!!!)

hope y’all enjoy<3

--

Mickey and Ian came in the door from their final weed security run of a way-too-chilly and grey March afternoon, kicking the slush off of their lace-up boots in a tired but comfortable silence. Mickey had been fantasizing for a good part of the afternoon about his usual afternoon ritual of collapsing onto the couch with a cold beer in his hand, and taking a long lazy nap while shitty game shows played on the TV in the background— but unfortunately, Debbie had other plans. Or so he realized when he turned the corner and his eyes were met with a forest of green and white streamers blanketing the living room, with Debbie determinedly balancing on a kitchen chair to hang them in the doorway.

Mickey did a double-take, shooting a glance at Ian and then back at the festive room again. What the fuck? He quickly racked his brain— there was no way he’d could’ve forgotten Franny’s birthday, that was in the summer—and he was pretty sure that Liam’s birthday was in the winter sometime; so whose the fuck was it? Too many goddamn Gallaghers to keep track of. Finally, Mickey admitted his own defeat.

“Is it someone’s fuckin’ birthday or something?”

Mickey flashed another gaze to Ian in confusion as he said it, hoping that Ian would silently mouth whatever the occasion was to him, or at the very least raise his eyebrows and goad Mickey enough to jog his memory to remember whatever the fuck today was— but Ian just gave an easygoing grin as he took in the room’s decor and let out a laugh.

“Debbie, isn’t this kind of going overboard?”

Debbie looked over her shoulder from where she was now taping a crudely scribbled picture of a shamrock, most likely drawn by Franny, up onto the wall.

“What? If it’s our last Saint Patrick’s Day in the house, the least we can do is go out with a bang,” she answered nonchalantly, and continued fixating on hanging up Franny’s drawing.

Mickey inadvertently let out a scoff and rolled his eyes. Fucking Gallaghers.

“I’m sorry, fucking Saint Patrick’s Day?”

Ian’s lips formed a playful smile and he elbowed Mickey between the ribs. “Yeah, Mick, Saint Patrick’s Day— also known as the unironically most important day of the Gallagher family calendar year. I can’t believe I forgot it was today, with all the work stuff we had going on.”

At first Mickey couldn’t tell if Ian was actually being serious— but in the same second he decided that it didn’t really matter, since Ian’s eyes were bright and shining and there was this weird giddy grin he was sporting from ear to ear, like he was absolutely fucking delighted that it was Saint Patrick’s Day, instead of just a normal goddamn Wednesday. Fucking softie.

And as endearing as that was, Mickey still couldn’t let him off that easily. “There’s no way I’m celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day. It’s a fake holiday for yuppie rich kids to go bar hopping—I’m not getting involved in any of your Gallagher bullshit.”

Ian’s grin just grew, like he knew exactly what Mickey was doing. “Hey, you married into this family. If anything, this is your own fault.”

Mickey just rolled his eyes, then continued to unlace his boots and throw them by the doorway.

“The fuck do you do anyways, aside from getting trashed?”

Ian put a hand on Mickey’s upper back to steady himself as he pulled his own shoes off. “I think getting trashed pretty much sums up the festivities. Today’s practically a holy day of observance for Frank, and I’m assuming Debbie’s also just gonna use today as an excuse to get drunk on a Wednesday.”

“Hell yeah I am!” Debbie called from where she was putting the chair back in the kitchen.

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “I knew Gallaghers were white trash, but I had no idea you were this bad.”

“Oh, come on. You don’t have any Ukranian white trash holidays or whatever?”

Mickey held back a bitter laugh. Yeah, they had “holidays,” in the form of days when Terry was celebratorily drunk enough to leave them the fuck alone for 24 hours, rare occasions when his looming shadow was out of the house and a festive lightness bled in in its place. They sort of celebrated Christmas, which was mostly just associated with too many painful memories of Terry ripping open the presents before he or his brothers had the chance, and too many painful stings associated with him having one too many drinks as they sat quietly inside the sagging house and pretended to be a big happy family for one night a year.

But never anything as gaudy and deliberate and ridiculous as observing a C-list, Irish-American holiday just for the hell of it, just for fun—which yes, was probably fueled by Frank’s alcoholism more than anything else, but also made something swell in Mickey’s insides that he didn’t quite know how to place.

And Mickey didn’t know how to let out that entire internal monologue to Ian while Debbie was standing within earshot. “Nah, man. Milkoviches don’t really do… holidays.”

Ian snaked a hand around Mickey’s back, giving his shoulder a squeeze, a grounding touch. He gets it.

“Well, get ready to have your mind blown, Mr. Gallavich, because we’re about to celebrate this hallowed occasion Gallagher style.”

Mickey rolled his eyes again, but let himself lean into Ian’s touch, lean his weight ever-so-slightly against Ian’s chest that was pressed behind him by the doorway. And, okay— as stupid as this was, maybe there was something sort of warm and solid about tradition, about hand-scribbled shamrocks and streamers on the wall, about having days to celebrate just because you wanted to, just because you could…

Just then Franny came hurdling into the room, wearing a baggy green t-shirt and a face-painted shamrock adorning her cheek.

Ian’s face lit up when she stopped in front of them. “Hey Franny! Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!”

Franny held out two bottles of beer to Ian and Mickey from where she had been hiding them behind her back.

“Mommy said I should give these to you when you came home!”

Mickey smirked, carefully taking the bottles from Franny’s outstretched hands. “Thanks, kiddo.”

And if all celebrating Saint Patrick’s Day took was knocking down a few beers on a weekday afternoon—well, Mickey wasn’t going to complain about that.

**

Of course, hours later Mickey realized how severely he’d underestimated Debbie’s enthusiasm— after lounging around the house waiting for the stream of Gallaghers to trickle in from their various daily activities, Debbie had rounded everyone up and they migrated to the Alibi as the sun was setting, where they’d met up with Kev and V and Lip and Tami, who (thank fucking god) looked as vaguely confused and fully apathetic about this whole “Saint Patrick’s Day” situation as Mickey did.

Now it was late, and Mickey was leaning against the bartop of the Alibi sipping a thick, foamy glass of Guinness, which was as close to embracing whatever-the-fuck Irish heritage his husband had as he was possibly going to get.

All of the Gallaghers were here, swirling around the room—Debbie had put on some sort of peppy music as Kev poured everyone drinks, and a couple of other Southside neighbors had heard the bass thrumming and joined the ruckus. The room wasn’t too crowded, but it was pleasantly full of bodies and chatter— Kev had bought bunches of shiny, tacky green mardi gras beads for everyone to wear, and the air in the room was festive and bordering on sloppy in a way that felt very different from how Mickey had envisioned this evening would go.

Mickey was pacing himself, because it was a Wednesday for fuck’s sake— but his husband was an entirely different story. Between the beers at home and the various drinks Debbie had been siphoning into his hands all night, Ian was teetering on the drunkest Mickey had seen him in years—which partially made the tiniest spark of trepidation start to creep into Mickey’s bloodstream, a spark that he immediately extinguished. It was one night, the first in a long time— Ian deserved to have some fun.

And he definitely, definitely was having fun— casually dancing with Debbie and Sandy and whoever else would humor him, grinning with red-hot cheeks and bright eyes— from across the room Mickey could tell how warm his skin would be if he pressed a hand against it, how flushed. Mickey wasn’t really in the mood for dancing, or whatever the fuck stumbling around and chatting and making friends Drunk Ian was up to for the evening, and he was perfectly content to nurse his drink at the bar— which is why it surprised him when Ian pulled himself out of the crowd, slightly stumbling over his own feet, and made the way across the room to where Mickey was leaning at the bar, immediately boxing him in and putting his hands square on Mickey’s waist. Mickey almost imperceptibly let in a sharp breath.

Ian looked down at him, all smiles and shiny eyes— when he spoke the scent of sweet, hot liquor danced on Mickey’s face and all he wanted was to be closer, to breathe it in.

“Are you having fun?” Ian’s right hand traced up Mickey’s side, then back down to its hold on his hipbone.

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “You and your leprechaun family don’t mess around, Gallagher.”

Ian smiled a lazy, tipsy smile, and pecked Mickey’s cheek before Mickey could be embarrassed about it.

“D’you wanna dance with me?”

Ian’s hands slid off of his hips and entangled with Mickey’s hands that had been hanging limply at his sides, walking backwards so their fingers were laced together an arm’s distance apart.

Mickey shrugged noncommittally. “I’ll leave showing the Irish pride to you and the rest of the drunken Gallaghers.”

Ian registered Mickey’s words and opened his mouth to reply, just as Debbie pulled Ian over by the arm.

“Stop sulking with Mickey and do more shots with me!”

Jesus Christ. Ian was going to be wrecked when their alarm went off for work in the morning, and Mickey was starting to debate if he was going to need to have a talking-to with Debbie about the appropriate amount of “Saint Patrick’s Day fun” they were allowed to partake in next year— but for now Ian was happy, and he could stomach one night of hardcore festivities.

Mickey stood at the bar for a while, watching Ian and Debbie get progressively more flushed as they bobbed through the crowd— and then, when Debbie had found some other victim in their mid-twenties to get even more shitfaced with, Ian made his way across the room to Mickey again, plopping onto the barstool beside him and heaving his bodyweight onto Mickey’s left side, burying his face in the crook of Mickey’s neck. Mickey wrapped a tentative arm around Ian’s waist, trying to hold him up from slouching off of the barstool.

“M’tired.” Mickey could feel Ian’s hot breath dancing on his collarbone as he slurred out the words, and felt Ian’s eyelids flutter shut against the side of his neck.

Ian was always giving Mickey measured casual touches, wherever they were—but it was so exceedingly rare that Ian fully let himself go like this, let himself be drunk and happy and just crumple into Mickey, without worrying about holding anyone else up. It felt new, but it felt good— Mickey let the solid weight of his husband’s body leaning against his press him down, rooting him into the Alibi’s sticky floors, feeling the clammy skin of Ian’s forehead that was solidly lodged into the side of Mickey’s neck.

He hated to admit it, but in that moment, something in Mickey was also frozen solid— as much as Mickey had grown in the past few years, something about these situations, about PDA or whatever, still made Mickey feel like he was treading water—like he was fighting to stay afloat while everyone’s eyes were on him, and the strong current was only lifted when he and Ian were in the dark safety of their bedroom. If Mickey was drunk at a bar and sloppily leaning onto Ian, there was no doubt in Mickey’s mind that Ian would hold him, would gingerly touch him and caress him and do more to him than just prop him up— but something in Mickey still hesitated and flashed with warning signs in a crowded room full of people.

But Ian was still breathing hot on Mickey’s neck— so Mickey thought about what Ian would do, if it was Mickey who was tipsy and slumped on his shoulder. He tentatively raised his arm from where it was lying limply by his side, and started to run soothing circles onto Ian’s t-shirt, just above his hipbone where Mickey’s hand was holding Ian up by his waist.

Ian hummed in acknowledgement of the touch— and then he pressed a tender kiss to the crook of Mickey’s neck, where his face was buried. Fuck. Mickey just pulled him in closer, gently tugging Ian’s torso in by his belt loop to hold him steady.

Ian hummed again, then started to press kisses up and down Mickey’s neck. “You smell good.”

Mickey’s heart started to beat a little quicker, his blood running hotter than usual—and Ian couldn’t fucking do this now, while the rest of his family was milling around and dancing and wearing fucking mardi gras beads while flaunting their Gallagher pride.

Ian lifted his forehead off of Mickey’s shoulder, and gently bit at the underside of Mickey’s jaw—and Mickey thought he was going to combust right there, on the spot, in a room full of Gallaghers pressed against the bartop at the Alibi by his very drunk husband.

And in an act of excruciatingly inconvenient timing, Lip sidled up to the bar and sat on the barstool on Mickey’s other side, nursing what Mickey assumed (and hoped) was a diet Coke in a beer glass.

“Hey there, Mick. And, uh, Ian.”

Ian looked up from where he was very engrossed in continuing to nuzzle the opposite side of Mickey’s neck, and glared at Lip from across Mickey’s chest.

“Go away, Lip.” Ian collapsed his head back onto Mickey’s shoulder and closed his eyes again, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s neck like a fucking boa constrictor. Mickey snaked an arm up around Ian’s back, holding him steady on the wobbly barstool.

Lip held back a laugh as he sipped his drink, then took a drag of the cigarette he was holding. “Seems like Ian’s done enough drinking to make our ancestors proud.”

Mickey took a sip of his own beer with his free hand. “Debbie made sure of that.”

Lip raised his eyebrows. “Damn. Guess we’d better keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn’t also have the Frank gene.”

Mickey grunted in acknowledgement, then took another sip of his beer, mostly because he didn’t know what else to say. Ian’s head shifted slightly on his shoulder— and Mickey realized he probably needed to haul Ian home ASAP, before he was even more sleepy and incoherent and unable to lug down the street.

Lip noticed Ian’s movement on Mickey’s shoulder and smirked. “I’ve gotta say, I’ve never seen Ian being this clingy before. Even with other guys—no offense, Mick— he usually stayed pretty contained. And you guys aren’t usually too into the PDA department.”

Mickey shrugged, trying not to jostle the heavy weight of where Ian’s head was hanging. Lip was right—he and Ian never really were all over each other, especially not like this, outside of the context of their room, when they were very much always all over each other.

Lip kept studying them, and the corner of his mouth eventually ticked upward. “It’s good. He’s definitely not this… comfortable with anyone else. Including me, which is definitely saying something.”

It felt weird, to get something like what felt like Lip’s full blessing at a raunchy Gallagher party months after he and Ian had gotten married—but that was also exactly what it felt like was happening.

Lip’s eyes suddenly darted across the room, to where Tami was holding up his coat and gesturing to the door. Lip rose from the barstool, stubbed out his cigarette, and put out a hand to clap Mickey on the shoulder as a goodbye.

“Catch up with you later, Mick.” Lip reached out and jokingly tousled Ian’s hair. “Make sure this one doesn’t hate himself too much tomorrow morning.”

Mickey smirked. Ian was practically asleep and drooling on his shoulder, his breathing turned steady—Mickey reached a hand up to card through his hair, then gently shrugged his shoulder to get Ian’s head to rise from where it was jammed on his neck.

Ian raised his head, his eyes bleary and confused at first, then softening around the edges when he met Mickey’s gaze.

“Alright, let’s get you home, carrottop.”

[mimithings97]

7:41pm Pt.2 (M)

FuckBuddy Tae wanting a taste of you early in the morning

Warnings: SMUTTTTTT. Tae just wants to lick you all over. Like SPIT!

A/N: Follow on from the 7:41 FuckBuddy Tae with the spitting kink. Same Y/N but can be stand alone’s if you want. Again, zero excuses as to the dirt I’m spewing. Actually black swan Taehyung is my excuse, he needs to STOP. 

Taehyung’s adamant he drew the short straw last night. You called him over, all sultry and seductive with the pictures on snapchat to match, but followed through with a mere one round. Call him selfish, but his mum always taught him to be an overachiever and, fighting his way through the cold on a Tuesday evening for a one pump chump kind of booty call, left space for selfishness. 

It’s why he wakes up hornier than usual. Or maybe it’s your warmth next to him and the feeling of your dip in the side of the bed. Or maybe how the sheets are cast far away from your body because you can’t stand the summer heat, so you’re in all your naked glory. Either or, his boxers are tight and he doesn’t even need to feel himself up to get to full mast. 

Your smell is all over him from last night, as well. The pillow he nestles into whilst still in the thrones of sleep is too. He follows it until he meets the source. Your hair, graceful in its splay, and lit with morning sunlight from blinds left untouched. He’s no romantic, and neither of you are relationship material for one another, but you look like a home he can get lost in right now.

His idea of such intimacy, however, doesn’t come in the form of soft spoken pillowtalk or light trailing touches across your hip. He will admit his fingers do twitch at the thought, though. His lips seek you instead. An overwhelming desire to taste you and taste you again. That damn smell. And your damn nakedness.

It has him lapping at the junction of your neck which you normally crawl into because you’re ticklish like that. But you merely stir, still lulled in sleep by the ambient noises projected from the slit where you left your window open. So he takes his share. Tasting from neck to shoulder. From shoulder to ear. The occasional nip of his teeth at skin just so he can confirm to himself that you’re real, wholesome and so fucking soft.

Soft enough that he keeps his touch light when he decides his hands destination is your pussy. Maybe with a quick detour so he can pinch at your nipples. They’re hard. Been exposed to the light chill of having no covers or protection for quite some time. His mouth has to busy itself at your ear so he doesn’t succumb to the desire to suck one nipple harshly and play with the other harsher. 

“Taee.” It’s a whine. An impatient one though that tells him you’re not to be roused from your slumber. 

“Shhh, just let me.” But he’ll persist. 

He cups where you’re bare and warm, wet also, because maybe he insisted you went to sleep stuffed full like a chistmas turkey, but he’s all the more happy, now, that he did. He gets the lubrication he needs to tickle around your clit in perfect cirles - almost a game to see when he slips up. He’ll know because you’ll whine.

The sheets crumple under him as he shuffles into your back, skin to skin, and his boxers, under the strain of where he’s stiff, find a home between your cheeks. He’s sensitive. So damn sensitive from a pent up night that he moans a lick up the side of your neck. Wet. A path of saliva he’s happy about.

“Urgh, sleeping Tae, just get yourself off without waking me up.”

He doesn’t care that there’s no romance, no intimacy in your tone. Not when he’s got a handful of your pussy and a cockful of your bare ass. 

“Kiss me first.” Yet he’s selfish and in dire need of your lips. It’s the taste. 

“Kiss my fucking ass, you bitch, I’m sleeping, already told you.”

But the way you rock into him a little, lay a claim on his boner by moving back and forth, has him smirking. It’s hot when you’re all denial in your words, but your body. just. can’t. help. itself. 

“I’ll kiss your ass if you ask nicely. Promise.” He means it. He promises he’ll duck under covers just for a taste of your hole. His insides tighten at the thought. And he thrusts, just a little, but enough he’s biting your neck again. 

He hears you laugh, and then suck in a little too much air to still find the humour of it all. Not when he slips his thumb shallow into your pussy.

“Wet little cunt.” It’s deaf on your ears, he knows, but he’s not here to sweet talk you into submission because he knows you’ll give out anyway. No, he narrates for his own purpose. 

You groan out when he sinks his thumb further and he swallows his own moan down into your jaw. “Talk shit about being asleep but your cunts beggin’ to be filled.” 

He’s so damn dirty. Horny and filthy. It has you being chipped away bit by bit as the sleep on you fades and his boner digs in a bit deeper.

“If only you’d keep up on your promises.” You’ve lent into the way he laps at your throat, now, and Taehyung knows he’s stolen you from where you were hiding. You’re his for the taking if he plays his cards right. 

“I could, yeh. But where’s the fun in that, baby.” 

He’s played the perfect hand it turns out, luring you through words and the push and pull at all of your sensitive spots so that you’re fastening a grip on his hard on and steering it in line with where you gush. 

Taehyung’s very in tune to your incentive. Perhaps all too quick to jump on the train because his thumb leaves you gaping just as quick as he’s got a cockful of that same hole. 

“Urgh, I hate you.” 

Keep saying that, is all he thinks. It does wonders for his ego having a girl too much of a slut for him that her words can’t keep up with her body. And your body’s writhing all over him. 

“Yessss. Wet. Deep. Fuckk.” He’ll make home in your pussy because it’s that damn tight. Tight enough he becomes senile every time. “Could fuck you all day, jesus.” And spouts the most shit. 

“At this speed, yeh, christ Tae.” You’re having a dig, as per usual, and he’s not going to let it be one of those rare occasions where you’re allowed to run your mouth. Not when he’s this horny and wanting to have you just ‘shut the fuck up’ unless it’s his name on your breath.

So he resolves the matter. Finding pleasure in how you’re silenced when he gets a good grip on your throat, and buck back into one of his thrusts also. 

The sun is high enough in it’s morning glory that he gets a good sight of the pleasure written on your face, mouth agape and struggling for air and your breast spilling from left to right as he puts your cunt through its paces. 

“Fucking kiss me.” Is what he thinks out loud. And you have no choice but to oblige. But it’s no kiss, not the conventional kind anyway. It’s Taehyung with a filthy tongue that paints the outside of your mouth and occasionally catches between your lips. 

He picks up his pace when you moan at how he licks from one corner of your face to the other. He just wants to be all over you. Call him an animal, but he can’t help that he’s some kind of primitive when he’s this deep in you. 

“I want to cum in you.” He spells out. Desperate and wholesome. “Really deep in you, baby.” 

Shit. It’s a name for you that is only dragged out of the locker if he’s really struggling to keep tabs on his sanity. You’d claimed the first time he used it, it wasn’t degrading enough, so he opted for other routes. But there’s a few times where he’s too damn lost at the sight of you sucking him in whole, or tasting you deeply that he finds himself calling out for you with zeal.

“Yeah? Please.” 

Urgh, ‘please’. He’s a sucker for the silk you speak. 

“Tell me how much you need it, baby.” 

Your eyes are at their whites now that he’s heading home, fast and hard and without reserve. 

“Fucking neeedd it Tae. All of it.” 

“Shitting hell, yeah you do, slut.” And with his new found pace, a pile drive reaching up into your throat, you’re loud. 

“Pleaseee.” He lodges two fingers into your mouth for the sake of how fucked out he is. It’s probably a possession kind of thing. To have him in every part of you. He unconsciously makes you choke, too. 

“Fuck, tighten like that again and I’ll cum.”

You gargle. 

“Open your eyes baby. Look at me, fuck,” and you do it, but barely, with the need to shut your eyes tight and just take the orgasm in it’s load, fighting at you. But you obey. He watches your eyes glisten and mouth drool as you follow the darkening of his gaze. 

You scream from somewhere under his fingers as he tightens his hold so you’re flush against him. 

Quick, sharp hits, deep into you and your cervix. 

It has you so fucking undone, and he knows because you cry. Eyes pooling and drowning at the strain of watching him follow. 

“Fucking hell, Y/N, oh my god,” he’s shocked at the power that overtakes him, “oh m- holy fucking shittt.”

He can’t help when he sticks his tongue down your throat as he cums at the same time, juttering messily both with his hips and tongue. 

It’s so damn hard. A band snapping somewhere. A fire down to his toes. The fucking visual of you crying and quaking even though it’s the first thing in the morning. 

In the tresses of his orgasming state he kisses you wholly. 

“You’re amazing, fuck. All day. Want this all day.”

“Mmm,” he’s deaf and probably rightly so, because he doesn’t want to know whether you’ve reciprocated his drunken incentive. A lustful exploration of the boundaries of whatever the fuck you two are. But you seem unabashed, at least, still quivering, and lapping at his tongue as he does yours. 

Always so damn messy. 

“Cumslut.” 

His head spins.

“Says the guy who can’t get his fucking fill. It’s 7 in the damn morning, Tae.” True. 

“You provide your pussy, who am I to say ‘no’?” Also true.

You draw yourself away so his dick falls flaccid onto the mattress, a sad awakening to the day, especially when you look as though you’re headed straight back to sleep. 

But, instead, he’s left a little wordless when you’re turned, naked again, with the sheet kicked away, and grabbing at the skin of his back so he’s drawn closer. An intimate kind of closer. He thinks maybe he should out you.

But you beat him to it. 

“Hmmm, I’m amazing aren’t I? You could fuck this pussy all day yeh? All yours apparently.” 

It’s his words spouted back to him, carelessly. But now he knows you noticed him drunk on your sex, he might just be blushing. 

[chaos-family]

All credit to @janus-come-back-to-us for this story. Its og form is a bit hard to follow due to changing blogs so here it is in one piece! It’s from our dear lawyer’s perspective (in case you couldn’t tell) and the “you” is Orange. Enjoy!

Alright, it technically started on 11:47 of March 26th

That’s basically how the toys r us looked, at first, because it was a dark and stormy night.

I had just left from a courtroom, and was finally outside for the first time in months, when I suddenly heard screams… lots and lots of screams…

I turned around, and there was the ambassador of France, and yourself.

You had lit their pants on fire, calling them a liar.

The ambassador was, obviously, enraged. They had sent security after you, so many bulky men were running at a child.

You, being the spawn of chaos you are, was about to shoot porcupine spikes at a bunch of security men and the ambassador of France.

Me, being me, saw the ambassador sobbing, and thought this would be an amazing case to get me a ton of money.

Instead, she thought I was affiliated with you— probably because of the orange shirt I was wearing at the time— so she shrieked, “OH GOD NOT ANOTHER ONE!!”

You, also thinking I was in on it (for some reason?) grinned, and threw a larger porcupine towards me to use against everyone.

I caught the porcupine without injuring it or myself, but when I looked up, half of security was surrounding me.

I didn’t really know what to do. All I ever knew had to do with the law, and it was a prominent one to not attack security, nor the ambassador of France.

You didn’t seem to care. Infact, you poked your porcupine on some random spot (I never got a good enough look) and instantly hit several security guards square in the chest with spikes.

(They didn’t die, but I’m pretending they did for the dramatics of it all)

With all of those men on the ground, at your feet, the ambassador was shaking. The ones around me were frozen in fear, even as I gently placed my porcupine down.

You took one step towards us, and instantly, all of the guards fled. I would’ve been impressed if I wasn’t so confused.

The ambassador flicked her gaze between us both, her mouth opening and closing, like she was trying to say something.

You picked up the porcupine at my feet, and scratched a bit roughly on it. It’s skin and spikes came off like paint— because they literally were paint— revealing a zhu-zhu pet.

The ambassador slowly, shakily, raised a pointed finger at us. Her eyes were practically bugging out of her skull in terror. She screamed, “I’LL GET YOU BOTH FOR THIS!! YOU HEAR ME?? YOU’LL BE LOCKED AWAY FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE!!” Before running off with her security.

Naturally, I was terrified. I was getting accused for crimes by the ambassador of France, and didn’t know what to do.

You had just laughed good-heartidly, like this was something you did all the time. You show me a kind smile, before saying, “hey, wanna go to toys r us?”

I blinked, “what?”

“My family’s shopping over there.” You shrugged, as if you didn’t just knock out several security guards and burn the ambassador of France’s pants. And possibly her legs. “So? Wanna come along?”

I gave a puff of a laugh, y’know, the way you do when you’re feeling like you’re in a fever dream. “I— I guess??”

We arrived to find the entire family shopping. I didn’t recognize anyone— obviously, I didn’t know anyone at the time— but you dragged me over to the zhu-zhu pet section.

I looked around in awe. Some of these sets didn’t look like toys, they looked like weapons. There were armories, training sets (of various types!!), blacksmith sets, it was like a medieval knight paridise. But for zhu-zhu pets.

You had looked around, trying to find something, I suppose, but my head was reeling from your earlier stunt with the ambassador of France.

My gaze travelled to a ceiling corner, as I watched the security camera zero-in on us. The lens expanded, the flickering red light sped up, and over the store’s microphones, I heard,

“We have a code orange with an accomplice, I repeat, a code orange with an accomplice. This is not a drill.”

Followed shortly after by an exasperated, suffering sigh, and a loud “ORANGE WHAT DID I SAY??” From across the store.

Geoffrey the giraffe came out of the back door, with several weapons on hand. But we didn’t see those for awhile, for he had decided to arrive in a tank.

You, somehow, threw a zhu-zhu pet into the middle of the tank-shooter-thing-that-I’m-too-lazy-too-look-up-the-name-for, before bolting out of that section specifically. I followed you, not wanting to get exploded by Geoffrey.

We rounded a corner to find parent one, their arms crossed across their chest, giving the most parental look I could ever imagine. “Orange.” They said, lowly, “what—“

“Hey, it wasn’t my fault!!” You interrupted, as if we hadn’t ran across an entire store after burning the ambassador of France’s— “I was showing my new buddy around!! So obviously, I had to show ‘em the zhu-zhu pets too!!”

Parent one looked at me then, which must’ve been the least not-guilty I’ve ever looked. Covered in rain from the storm, still trying to catch my breath from running across the store, still frazzled from the ambassador of France moment, I wasn’t exactly the pinnicle of neat.

So, very dignified, and totally not weakly, I gave a small wave, muttering, “hi?”

Parent one looked at me, unimpressed, letting out another suffering sigh. “How much did she offer?”

I blinked, “huh?”

“How much?” Parent one releated, opening their wallet, “you’re not going to actually get whatever amount they promised, but I can give you $20 or something, for the trouble.”

“I didn’t offer anything!” You said, very smugly, “they joined in the fun!!”

“Actually, I—“ I began, but Geoffrey had caught up to us. Parent one merely waved at the giraffe in the tank, but you had looked ready to run.

Quickly, little lego men had left the tank, scattering lego’s all over the store’s floor. It would’ve been a painful nightmare to escape now, unless you had shoes on.

Unfortunately, neither of us did. We dropped them off at the entrance earlier, since they were soaked in mud and rainwater.

“You can’t escape now, Orange.” Geoffrey said, aiming their clogged shooter-thing right at us. My eyes widened at the sight, especially when the lego men began to build their own canon with their spare legos, “this is the last time I allow you to rob me of my zhu-zhu pets.”

 The canon was loading up, about to fire at any minute. My breathing quickened, panic coursing through me. Your glare at the giraffe only hardened, like you wanted him to try and stop you. Parent one remained exasperated, but calmly moved out of the way (a perk of having shoes).

The only reason why we weren’t blasted into smithereens, was due to a cryptid behind the tank, slowly rising in all of her cryptic glory. My jaw dropped at the sight, but you only grinned.

Geoffrey‘s tank was engulfed in shadows, and I never figured out what happened to it. All you said was “quickly, make shoes out of the legos!!” Which is what we did, before running out of that area of the store.

Unfortunately, Geoffrey was prepared. Around another corner, La La Loopsey dolls had begun to surround us, with needles and string in their hands. Very reminiscent of Coraline. You looked unfazed, even as they began to approach us with doll-like chants.

“What the hell do we do now??” I painted out, as you looked around for an exit.

“More like, what the hell did you do??” Came a voice. Turning around, we saw the same cryptid from earlier, spitting out a chunk of the tank, like it was a wad of bubblegum.

You grinned, “oh, not much. Just activated a code orange, y’know how it goes.”

“I most certainly do not.” She answered, glaring at you. It didn’t have the same tiredness from parent one, or the malice from Geoffrey. Rather, it looked... playful? “You left me out of the chaos. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such betrayal.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” You said, rolling your eyes. “I got a bit preoccupied.”

“Can you two stop bickering so that we don’t get sewn to death??” I said shrilly, as the La La Loopseys started drawing their planned sewing lines onto our legs.

 Anyways, both you and the cryptid finally realized the La La Loopsey’s intentions. You kicked a few away, but double the ones you kicked just took over.

“Quick, what’s your species??” The cryptid asked me.

“Uh— human?? What is going—”

“Damn, so nothing supernatural.” She said, letting out a huff.

“Quick, give me another doll brand!” You said, so the cryptid left (she was the only one not trapped) to find another doll.

I didn’t really have time to question the purpose of that, since you and I were trying to kick away the onslaught of La La Loopsey’s. “Seriously, what is happening??” I asked, exhausted.

“A typical Tuesday.” You answered, “though I’ll admit, these guys normally aren’t so persistent.”

“So this has happened before??” I turned towards you, flabbergasted, “do you have any idea how many laws we’ve broken?? We’ve assaulted security, and the ambassador of France, you committed arson with that stunt too. We’ve trespassed and area you’re clearly not allowed in. We’re committing property damage, currently—“

“Oh don’t be such a worry wart.” You said, flinging a doll across the aisle, “I just use monopoly money to bail out of jail.”

Monopoly... money...

I didn’t know what happened next (later, after the incident, parent one had filled me in), because I froze from the mention of the horrid money I was so used to losing from in court. You didn’t realize what had happened, and the cryptid hadn’t arrive.

The La La Loopseys— and in turn, Geoffery— were winning.

All seemed lost, for awhile.

You had been kicking La La Loopseys away from yourself and me, and for about 10 minutes, you had begun to worry.

The cryptid came awhile later, throwing a limited edition Barbie doll towards you. “Geoffery was prepared,” she said, “but luckily, I found her in the backroom.”

You wasted little time, quickly ripping the box open, displaying Barbie in all of her glory. The La La Loopsey dolls hissed, quickly losing interest in you and me, as they practically ripped the Barbie from your hands to assault her instead.

She will be missed.

You and the cryptid had to drag me away from the scene, finding a brief hideout in the backroom. “What happened to them?” The cryptid asked, flicking my forehead.

“I dunno, I just said something about Monopoly money, and—“

“YOU’RE NOT GETTING OUT OF THIS COURTROOM JEFFERSON!!” I hollared, stunning you and the cryptid for a moment. Apparently, the Monopoly money mentioned had made me automatically think I was in a courtroom, and my brain had been trying to calculate the amount of crimes I had to go against (that, and apparently I thought I was arguing against Thomas Jefferson, for some reason). I panted, trying to catch my bearings as you and the cryptid just stared silently for a moment. “... we aren’t in court, huh?”

“Not unless you count toys r us to be a courtroom.” You replied, “seriously, are you good?”

“No, I’m Green.” I answered, “a lawyer, in theory. Not one that typically gets chased down by giraffes and dolls.”

“So not a legitimate lawyer?”

“Shut up.”

Briefly, I learned who you, and the cryptid— Cerse, apparently— were, and that took enough time for some of the boxes to start opening from the inside.

Crawling out of them, at first, was a line up of toy story characters, which wasn’t so bad. But then the slinkies got out, and quickly used their dog heads and butts to wrap around all three of us.

Try as we may, escaping was futile.

Geoffery came around the corner, slowly clapping his hands. “Wow, and here I thought you might actually get away. But, as chaotic as you think you are,” he drawled, leaning in close towards us, “I’m always a step ahead.”

“I thought you took care of him.” You hissed at Cerse, once Geoffery leaned away.

“I did.” Cerse insisted, but it didn’t matter now. Geoffery snapped his hands (somehow?? How did that work he’s a giraffe??), and several buzz lightyears had turned on their wings, ready for the command to onslaught us.

“I’m rather impressed, y’know.” He said, turning around like some cartoon villain. “I never thought you’d keep trying, after coming here the 34th time.”

You snickered. I never learned what had happened the 34th time.

“But now,” he continued, turning his head a bit to study all three of us, “I have you right where I want you. And your little friends too. If you won’t pay in legitimate money, then I’ll make you pay for damages with your life.”

The slinkies tightened their grip. I thought all hope was lost.

Until, of course, I heard a car coming towards us.

Everything that happened next was a whirl of colors. The chaos family had stolen a car— somehow fitting everyone inside— with both parents in the front seat. Parent two shot at the slinkies with a nerf gun, making them relinquish their hold. You and Cerse stood quickly, running for the car, and I did my best to follow.

Geoffery was faster, however. He grabbed my arm before I could reach y’all, and held a surprisingly firm grip for a giraffe. “NOBODY MOVE!!” He shouted, several buzz lightyears flying behind him, “OR I SEND THE SPACE TROOPS AFTER EVERYONE.”

You looked between me and Geoffrey, and in a split-second decision, threw a box of matches at us, followed by a lit match. Geoffery shrieked in fear, quickly letting me go so that he could escape. I ran as far away from the flames as I could, hopping ontop of the chaos family’s car, before Parent one took a sharp turn, making a dash for the entrance of the store.

“You’re grounded, by the way.” They said, no room for argument in their voice.

You huffed, grumbling, “I figured.”

Outside, we were barely out of the previous— now destroyed— front door, before French military surrounded us. Helicopters, tanks, ground troops, you name it— and infront of all of them, stood the ambassador, her arms crossed.

“Relinquish the Drama Duo.” She said, loudly but calmly, “and nobody gets hurt.”

Slowly, the entire car turned around to look at us, a shared look of “what did you do” on their faces.

I know that says US but pretend it says French.

“What.” Parent one began, “did you two. Do.”

“I swear I didn’t have anything to do with this.” I said, raising my hands up defensively. No one seemed convinced, but at least they were more skeptical of you than me.

“I wasn’t trying to start anything.” You said, crossing your arms, staring at the ground. “Honest. I was just at the convenience store earlier, buying matches— y’know how it is. And when I went to pay for them, the cashier said Monopoly money didn’t count. I called her a liar. She called me a phony. Long story short, I found her tonight when she was walking to her car with a bunch of men. And I lit her pants on fire. I didn’t think she was the ambassador of France.”

“It doesn’t matter who you think they are,” Parent one said, heaving yet another sigh, “you shouldn’t light anyone’s pants on fire.”

“She deserved it.” You grumbled, but didn’t try to argue further.

“And what do you have to do with this?” I blinked, not expecting the sudden attention.

“I swear, I was just getting home from work.” I said, unsure of how to handle Parent one’s calculating gaze, “I only decided to enter the scene because I thought I could make a ton of money as the ambassador to France’s lawyer. I didn’t think this would happen.”

Parent two hummed, “I guess that makes sense. You didn’t seem like the regular accomplice Orange has.” They mused.

“They’re all the same at this point.” Parent one muttered, before turning around to face the ambassador again, “but for now, you’re all gonna want to cover your ears.”

The whole car did as told, with Parent two putting on large earmuffs over Parent one’s head. Parent one inserted a CD into the radio, and turned it all the way up. I didn’t read the disc, but I didn’t have to.

Not when a loud voice rang out, followed by, “the fitness gram pacer test—“

The military men all began to vibrate, as if they were holding themselves back. Several of them left their vehicles, unable to operate them at the time.

The ambassador, slowly, fearfully, turned around she looked terrified, as her top general muttered. “Ma’am... we can’t... we can’t resist...”

“You must.” Shs seethed, but they could barely hear her, “or you’re all fired.”

That made them try to repress their calling more, but it didn’t last for long. As soon as the signal rang, and the music for the first round started, the military ran. They had to prove themselves to be more physically competent than their fellow soldiers. It was a calling in their blood, one that they could never truly resist.

The ambassador shrieked in rage, but it was muffled by Parent one raising the volume. “Sorry, what was that?” They asked, deadpan, as the ambassador’s gaze hardened on our car.

“I’ll— I’ll get you.” She sneered, before shouting, “I’LL GET ALL OF YOU!! EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU WILL BE LOCKED AWAY FOR THE REST OF YOUR DAYS!!”

Talk about a sore loser.

Parent one wasted no more time, at that point. They sped the car up, driving away as soon as Parent two chucked the— somehow working— stereo out the window, keeping the entire military distracted.

“Where are we going??” I asked, barely able to hold on to the roof of the car.

“Home.” Parent one said, “or at least, our current home. Probably gonna have to move out soon ‘cause of Orange.”

“Hey, I’m not that bad.” You insisted, even as parent one gave you with an unimpressed look.

“Sure.”

We arrived to the house after a very long drive, where I learned who the rest of the family was. Granted, I couldn’t really keep track of everyone at the time— since I was reeling from everything that had happened that night— but the calmer change of pace was a nice shift from being surrounded by the military.

We arrived at the house, where everyone unloaded their bags and went inside. I only went in because, lets be honest, all of that left me in desperate need of a shower, but I was stopped by the Parent duo— River and Cenn— before I could borrow their bathroom.

“So...” River— Parent two began, “you’re a lawyer?”

“In theory,” I answered, since I had shared a bit about myself during the car ride, “I do mostly criminal cases as the prosecutor. Why, is there any case you’d like me to check out?”

They shared a look with unspoken words, and I couldn’t really tell what they were saying. They turned back to me after a moment, with Cenn— Parent one— saying something, “well, have you tried... defending a criminal, perhaps?”

I blinked owlishly at that, “uh, not really, but I’m trained enough for it.”

Cenn nodded, seemingly satisfied with that answer, “good. We’ve been looking for someone to help us keep our kids out of jail, but so far—“

“Woah woah woah—“ I cut them off, wringing my wrists, “listen, i appreciate your hospitality and help tonight, but there is no way I can keep these guys,” I paused, motioning towards all the kids to emphasize my point, “guiltless!! Especially if tonight is just a ‘typical Tuesday.’”

River sighed, a bit defeated, but didn’t seem to give up, “look, we wouldn’t persist if we weren’t desperate. At this point, buying monopoly playsets has been more expensive than what court fees would be. Just— start with one kid? If all of them is too much?”

I hesitated. On one hand, trying to make them all seem innocent would be a waste of time, since any judge could look at their track record and immediately have a verdict. But, on the other, the amount of money I could make...

I sighed, my shoulders sagging, “alright, who am I defending first?”

They both huffed a breath of relief, with Cenn turning, calling out “Orange? Could you come here for a moment.”

And that, everyone who decided to stick around, is the toys r us incident (and coincidentally, the night I became Orange’s lawyer). I’m not getting into the aftermath— because I have irl stuff to do— but yeah

note from C: this is a little off according to the master timeline but who cares

[komahinasecretexchange]

Title: Traditions

Author: @dailyservingofhope

For: @hiddenkamukuraproject

Rating/Warnings: PG-13 (A few vague sexual references, Nagito joking about death, alcohol mention)

Prompt: Going out on Halloween and having fun

Author’s notes: AU where the tragedy didn’t happen. 100% pure organic fluff.

“You’ve never been trick-or-treating?!” Nagito smiled and raised his hands in a placating gesture, “Sorry, I had no one to take me when I was a kid. But it’s fine! It ended up being good luck!” “‘Good’?” Hajime asked pointedly as he rested his coffee mug on their kitchen counter. Nagito had a way of twisting things to fit his strange worldview. “I gave out candy instead. Since I could afford full bars of chocolate for all the other kids, I became sort of popular for a little while… at least until they got to know me better.” “That’s not the point,” Hajime said, “I just get upset when I think about your childhood. It’s not fair that you missed out on so much.” He felt robe-cloaked arms wrap around his waist and a soft peck on his forehead. “Don’t worry. I’m fine, promise,” Nagito reassured him. Hajime grumbled in response, wondering if it was okay to be annoyed at his partner’s cute attempt at deflecting. Sometimes Hajime felt that he was more bothered by Nagito’s troubles than Nagito himself. 'Fine’ to him often meant 'Not in the hospital’. How much disappointment and grief did he suffer in his youth before the bar lowered that much? This wasn’t about some silly holiday tradition, this was about making him feel included, and giving him access to experiences that most people took for granted. “You shouldn’t feel sorry for me, you know,” Nagito gently chided him. “I don’t,” Hajime said, worried that Nagito noticed his increasingly pitying expression during their conversation. “Good. Because I secretly switched your coffee with decaf.” “What?! Nagito!” “I’m just kidding. You always look at me like I’m a kicked puppy when I tell you about my past. I prefer it when you’re annoyed with me. Your voice gets this adorable lilt to it.” “No, it doesn’t! I… think?” Nagito chuckled. “Look, it’s not pity,” Hajime sighed, “I’m just worried you feel like an outsider because you had such a different childhood experience than many of us. It’s important to me that you feel welcome and have lots of happy memories. And if I have to take you trick-or-treating this weekend to make that happen, then I’ll do it.” Nagito’s face lit up, “You want to go trick-or-treating with me?” Aware that he just invited Nagito on a date involving an activity generally enjoyed by children still in the single digits of age, Hajime backpedaled, “Wait! I-It’s okay if you don’t want to! I know we’re too old for it, and we told Ibuki we’d be at her Halloween party, so we’ll get to dress up, anyway. There’s no pressure-” “I would love to! We can pick out costumes this afternoon!” Fear of embarrassment ranked high on Hajime’s list of top motivators, but it was nothing compared to Nagito’s sweet face. He couldn’t back out now. “O-okay! Sounds great!” ___ Hajime pulled a scarf around his mouth to warm the crisp, fall air flowing into his lungs. Yellowed leaves danced on the sidewalk with every breeze as he and Nagito strolled through the city. Their destination was a costume shop located in a quaint, less-trafficked district, popular among the dating crowd for its restaurants and shopping. They found it nestled between a cafe and a boutique clothing store. Walls painted black and covered in wheatpasted underground band adverts gave an eccentric touch that made it stand out from the conservatism of the surrounding businesses. Through the windows, there was a display of the typical bats and pumpkins, along with more unnerving props like costumed mannequins covered in fake blood and gaping wounds. Cosplayers and street fashionistas were the store’s year-round clientele, but nearing the holiday, they widened their selection to include Halloween costumes. Hajime pulled open the door for Nagito, “Have any ideas about what you want to be?” “Dead?” Nagito offered. “I really wish you wouldn’t joke about that.” “Aren’t ghosts popular this time of the year?” With a deadpan expression, Hajime poked Nagito in the belly. He then turned his attention to the racks and shelves, not wanting to take the bait. As they perused the aisles together, Nagito suddenly snatched a large package off a rack and hid it behind his back, “I’m going to try something on. No peeking!” Hajime continued to browse while his partner thrashed around in the fitting room. A rather seductive vampire costume caught his attention, and he briefly lost himself in a daydream involving Nagito and lots of sexy nibbling all over his body until he heard someone walk up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The glance turned into a double take. To say that Nagito was dressed up as a dog was about as true as saying The Big Bang Theory was a comedy. There was an element of objective truth to it, but it failed spectacularly to articulate that everything else about it was an abomination. The costume was like a long fuzzy tube, white on the belly and black and tan along the back, indicating it was probably intended to be a corgi. The head perched on top of Nagito’s head, its mouth gaping around his face as if it were a python swallowing its prey whole. His feet, which were only just visible from the bottom of the tube, were adorned with paw slippers. The hand-paws were so padded and fluffy that they appeared useless for any practical purpose other than being cute. “How do I look? Wanna be my owner for Halloween? I’ll let you walk me on a leash and give me commands! I know how to beg and lay down!” Nagito said as he shook his rear to make the stubby tail wag. Hajime blushed, looking around to see if anyone overheard, “Shhh! There will be kids around, so nothing… kinky!” “I would never do something I thought was weird around impressionable youth!” “That’s the problem, what you think is weird is a whole world away from what everyone else thinks is weird…” Hajime looked him up and down, “So why this, of all things?” “Most of these costumes aren’t really appropriate around children. What did you think I’d be? A sexy demon? A sexy cat boy? A sexy werewolf? A sexy…” “I get the point… they are a bit provocative, aren’t they?” “Don’t use big words like 'provocative’. I’m just a silly little dog!” he whined, covering his face with his paws in mock shame. “God, Nagito, can you be normal for like one second?” Hajime said, turning away to hide his laughter. Nagito closed the distance, picking up his hand and kissing it. He looked down into his eyes with a charming smile and whispered, “But this is what you like about me, right? There’s no way someone would ever go out with me for any rational reason. Doesn’t that make you abnormal too?” Hajime shivered at his touch. Even dressed in the most absurd getup he’d ever seen, Nagito was still hot, and when he cranked up the charm, he had a terrifying ability to render Hajime as helpless as a fawn. He pushed Nagito away, hoping he didn’t notice, “I-I guess I just don’t know how you do it. You can be so confident sometimes. I’d be afraid of wearing that in public.” “There’s a difference between confidence and being so resigned to loss that you stop feeling anxiety over the little things,” he said, a bit sadly. “Besides, it’s fun!” He waved his paws comically to accentuate the point. “Now we have to find something fun for you to wear.” “Okay, but let’s go by MY definition of fun.” “Whatever you say, Hajime,” Nagito beamed. His eyes darted around, then settled on a mustache and beard set which he handed to Hajime, “How about this? You can go as a grumpy old man. Bonus! You won’t have to be seen with me.” “Oh, come on.” Hajime said, snatching it from him. He looked it over then held it up to his face in front of a mirror. “Hey, I could go as Izuru Kamukura,” he joked, referencing their old high school’s founder. Nagito folded his arms and side-eyed him, “Don’t get all full of yourself now, Hajime.” He then backed away as Hajime approached him with a toy sword taken from a rack. “Wait! What do you plan on doing with that?!” ___ “Happy Halloween!” Hajime, who had been sleeping quite peacefully until then, would have fallen out of bed in fright if a heavy weight had not subsequently landed on him. He opened his eyes to find Nagito sprawled out over his lap. “Sorry, I missed you. I couldn’t wait any longer,” Nagito said. Hajime slammed Nagito on the back of the head with his pillow, “Being cute won’t save you this time.” “Noooo, don’t kill me! I’ve never been kissed!” “Yes, you have.” “Could you remind me?” Nagito said, puckering his lips. Hajime played along and kissed him, “There, now I can kill you.” Moments later, Nagito flew through the air from a good whack from the pillow. Their day went on with the two enjoying horror movies playing in the background as they enjoyed a peaceful afternoon together. After the sun set, they prepared themselves for the night ahead. Hajime had settled on being a black cat, largely because it worked as a couple’s costume, but also just looking at Nagito’s cumbersome outfit made a simple and light costume seem more appealing. The set consisted only of ears and a tail, with a fluffy black sweater and black jeans from his closet to complement it. There was also ancient makeup in the back of a drawer from his scene kid phase which was totally just an ironic experiment and definitely not anything he ever took seriously. He leaned over their bathroom sink to get a better look in the mirror as he used an old eye pencil to draw whiskers, a nose, and thick eyeliner with wings that swept out half an inch. “Who said scene was dead?” Nagito said, as he smirked at him in the mirror. “Hey, I can’t help it that I can do a perfect cat-eye.” “Can you do my makeup sometime?” “Oh please, Nagito, you don’t need it. People would kill for your lashes.” “You know, you’re starting to sound a little… catty.” Hajime groaned at the pun. He reached an arm behind him to blindly swat at his partner, only succeeding in stirring the air around as Nagito dodged the attack, “Is being sarcastic the only thing you’re good for? Why aren’t you dressed yet?” “I will, it’s just hard to move very well in it and I wanted to bother you more effectively.” Nagito draped his arms over Hajime’s shoulders and leaned in. “Actually, I’d like to thank you. I know you get scared of embarrassing situations, so for you to take someone like me out doing something meant for kids, knowing people will look at us funny… It’s sweet of you.” “Why do you think I’m putting on makeup? If all goes well, I won’t even recognize myself.” He chuckled, “But in all seriousness, you know I’d do anything for you.” Nagito buried his face into Hajime’s neck and said nothing. ___ “Everyone looks so happy!” Nagito said, gazing at the lively scene. Costumed kids flocked together at doors or ran around screaming and laughing in excitement. With jack-o’-lanterns on every porch and fake spider webbing drooping from trees, the neighborhood oozed Halloween spirit. Hajime caught himself staring at his adorable partner, “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Are you ready for some trick-or-treating?” “Tell me what to do! I’ve never done this before!” “Come on, you know what to do. Here, try this house.” “What if they yell at me because I’m too old?” “In that case, we threaten to egg their house, then run away.” He responded, hoping Nagito wouldn’t take it as a serious suggestion. Nagito’s eyes swirled. “I wonder if we’ll get chased. That would be exciting,” he said breathily. “You seem a little too excited by that…” Nagito wasn’t listening, he was already halfway up the driveway of a house. Hajime remained by the street to watch while Nagito knocked on the door. An old woman appeared. She looked him up and down as his outstretched arms presented her with a wicker basket ready for filling. “Trick-or-treat!” She gave a tactful, patient smile, “You’re so cute, but aren’t you too old for this?” “My boyfriend is forcing me to do this,” Nagito said, “He’ll be angry if I don’t come back with anything.” “Oh my… well, here…” She dropped a few pieces of candy into his basket, “You look like a sweet boy, you should get away from that awful man. Good luck, dear.” “Yes ma'am! Thank you!” Nagito chirped as he skipped back to the street, somehow managing not to trip over his slippers. “I couldn’t hear you guys, but it seemed to go well?” Hajime asked. “She wasn’t going to give me a treat, so I tricked her.” “Nagito, she was like… 80.” “It’s the Halloween code. I don’t make the rules.” “What did you say to her?” “Nothing to worry about. Let’s go on to the next house!” ___ “Really? You’re trick-or-treating at this age?” “I’m dying of lymphoma, it’s my final wish to trick-or-treat one last time.” “Oh my goodness, of course! Have as much candy as you want!” “Thanks!” Nagito said graciously as he took a few pieces. Hajime looked at him askance when he returned. “Wow, you’re getting a lot of candy. I… honestly wasn’t expecting this…” he said, gesturing at Nagito’s nearly overflowing basket. It seemed like every house in the neighborhood was eager to give him everything they had. “Yeah! Everyone has been so nice!” “I’m glad you’re having a good time, but what are we going to do with all this candy? You don’t even like sweets.” “I had no intention of keeping the candy, Hajime, this was all just for fun.” Nagito’s smile transformed into a grin. “But now that you’ve brought it up, there’s something I’ve wanted to do all night.” Hajime watched as Nagito trotted towards a group of teenagers. Sneaking up behind them, he reached into his basket and tossed a chocolate bar over their heads. They jerked back in surprise, and as they turned to see where it had come from, they were immediately pelted with handful after handful of candy. The next minute was pure pandemonium. Children ran from across the street to join in the fun, grabbing as much candy as they could while it rained down on them. And somehow in that moment, with the kids cheering and Nagito laughing joyfully among that beautiful chaos, Hajime swore his boyfriend never looked so handsome. Yeah, even despite the costume. ___ Ibuki’s Halloween party was well underway by the time Hajime and Nagito arrived. Blaring music greeted them at the door before she did. “You made it! Look at Nagito, so cuuuute! And Hajime, Ibuki loves your makeup! Meowwwww!” Being a world-famous musician, she could afford the finer things. Her house, which better resembled goth night at a club than a habitable dwelling, boasted enough space to host a party with room to spare for dancing. Witch-house played from an expensive sound system that cost more than Hajime and Nagito’s annual rent. It went without saying, Ibuki threw the best parties. Hajime hardly had a minute to take in the surroundings before Nekomaru had him and Nagito locked in a crushing hug. “Hahaha! We’re all here now!” Nekomaru beamed. “You made it, I am so happy!” Sonia said. “Yay.” Chiaki added in her trademark 'not sure if sincere or not’ tone of voice. “Look at you losers wearing a couple’s costume.” Saionji sneered as she eyed them up and down. Mahiru cleared her throat, “We are too, Hiyoko,” remarking on their Sailor Moon outfits. Saionji pouted, “But it’s cute when we do it!” “It’s too bad Teruteru died in that freak accident involving the helicopter tour over that active volcano, he would have liked to be here right now.” Souda said, idly scratching his head. Tsumiki dropped a piece of food on the floor and bent over to pick it up, showing her rear to everyone, “I’m sorry I’m so clumsy! I’m ruining everyone’s good time! Don’t worry about me!” “It’s okay, no one is worrying about you. No one is thinking about you at all!” Saionji cheered. “Waaaaaaaaah!!” Byakuya shook his head in disdain at Hajime and Nagito. “You’re late for the party, you missed out on donuts. Where are your priorities?” Akane’s mouth was too stuffed to respond, so she waved the last donut at them in greeting instead. Gundham held out his arms, letting his hamsters crawl up into his hands. “My Four Dark Devas are enraged at your tardiness for the most evil night of the year. Now the ritual can begin in earnest. Count yourself lucky that they have chosen not to kill you where you stand.” Peko had the eyes of a predator fixed on Nagito’s fluffy animal costume, while Fuyuhiko grinned and raised a shot glass containing an orange liquid, “Hey guys, come drink up! I brought juice!” Ibuki squealed, “Baby gangster is so adorable, only drinking mixer!” “I don’t need to drink alcohol to be cool!!” Amid all the shouting and arguing, Nagito turned to Hajime, “You know, this might be the best Halloween I’ve ever had.” “Same here. And I think you actually taught me a thing or two about the spirit of giving. Wrong holiday though.” “Yeah, too bad it doesn’t count.” Nagito grinned. “I’ll just have to fill up a stocking for you when Christmas comes around.” “I’d love that, Hajime! I’ve never had a stocking for Christmas before!”

[copper-wasp]

Laser Tag - Dante x Reader

Fandom: Devil May Cry

Pairing: Dante/Reader

Rating: T

Words: 1663

Also posted to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18719848

“Oh, boys. You are so gonna lose,” you said, strapping on the laser-tag vest, pulling the straps tightly to your chest. Straightening your shirt, you gave a steely look to the silver haired man in front of you. He looked completely nonplussed, inspecting the plastic gun he had been given.

“Doubt it,” said Dante, taking a step towards you. He was much taller than you, but you had no intention of backing down, tilting your head up to meet his eyes with a cold glare. [E/C] stared into blue for a long moment, your eyes narrowing in challenge. He broke first, barking out a loud laugh and clapping you on the shoulder as you covered your mouth with your hand, trying and failing to stifle your own giggle.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Lady whined, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you out of Dante’s orbit, “No fraternizing with the enemy!”

“The enemy?” V said, looking confusedly at the blinking LEDs on his vest. “I thought this was all in fun.”

“Fun? No way! We’re gonna get absolutely destroyed by them,” Nero said dramatically, trying to shine the laser into Dante’s eyes. “These women are vicious.”

Dante quickly grabbed the gun out of Nero’s hands, twirling it by the trigger guard just out of his reach. “Have some confidence, deadweight. You do have me on your team,” he stated, flashing a dazzling smile at the young man. Dante tossed the gun up, striding away as Nero snatched it out of the air, fuming at his unfortunate nickname.

“We’ll only gloat a little when we beat your asses,” Nico added, pulling her hair back into a messy ponytail. “Now come on, Lady, let’s talk strategy,” she said, taking the other woman by the arm and walking away from the boys.

You had propped your foot up on a bench, retying the laces on your Doc Martens when Dante sat down next to where you stood, dragging his eyes obviously from your polished leather toes up to your face. “You don’t really think you can beat me, do you, [Y/N]?” he asked, swatting your hands away when you went to retie the other boot’s laces. He quickly tied them for you, hands deftly knotting the cords securely. He caught your eye, a little smirk playing on his lips and you blushed, putting your foot back on the floor. You rolled up the sleeves of the denim shirt you were wearing, bending over a little to level your eyes with his. He slid his eyes down to your cleavage, lingering there for a long moment before reluctantly dragging his gaze back up to your face.

“I guess you’ll find out soon,” you replied, moving your mouth next to his ear. “I’m going to wipe the floor with you, cowboy,” you whispered, pushing the barrel of your gun against his chest. You pulled away, Dante’s scent following you, citrus and lavender and heat. He chuckled darkly, hooking his index fingers into the front pockets of your jeans, keeping you from moving any further away from him.

“We’ll see....” he remarked, scrutinizing your face before he stood, body nearly touching yours. “Good luck, sweet cheeks.” You glowered at him, no real dislike in the look, before taking a step back and heading over to huddle with your teammates.

“So, what’s the plan?” you asked, eyes flitting between Lady and Nico.

“Divide and conquer,” Nico said with a smirk, laying out an iron-clad strategy. A minute later, all three of you were nodding in understanding, a solid plan formed to take down the boys.

“So, I’ll take on V; Nico, you keep Nero busy, and [Y/N], you’ll take care of Dante, ok?” Lady said, doing some last minute checks on her gear.

“Gotcha,” you replied, “leave the Legendary Dumbass to me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were strobing lights and metallic sounds all around you. Neon glow-in-the-dark painted set pieces were scattered throughout the arena, fog machines providing the perfect addition to the Post-Apocalyptic theme. All the props were broken, smashed, or otherwise damaged to add to the ambiance. How fitting, you thought, just like being on a job.

As soon as the buzzer sounded, the plan was put into action - the three of you immediately separating V, Nero, and Dante, driving them to different areas of the arena. You lost Dante in the fog and flashing lights pretty quickly, which, to be fair, you were expecting; the man was practically the Flash, born with innate speed and dexterity.

You heard a very loud, very Nero-sounding “Damnit!” a minute later, followed by a very bored-sounding voice over the intercom reminding you to watch your language. You chuckled, mentally congratulating Nico on her no doubt masterful takedown of the cocky young hunter.

You were tensed, completely on edge, eyes peeled for Dante’s form, ready for him to round any corner. V had the misfortune of running into you, and you immediately shot at him before he could even raise his gun to aim at you, flashing red lights exploding over his chest. He groaned, turning on his heel and calmly walking away from you.

You saw Lady streak by you a few moments later, skirt swishing as she chased after the tattooed man. You kept walking briskly around the outer perimeter of the space, head on a swivel, trying to locate the half-demon. A second, equally loud “Damnit!” resounded throughout the arena, and you clearly heard Nico cackle in absolute joy. The bored voice sounded over the speakers once again, sighing before giving the language spiel for the second time in ten minutes.

“Where the hell are you, Dante?” you growled lowly, peeking around a corner. Seeing it was empty, you crept past a fake storefront painted to look as if it would crumble any moment, green and orange dented trash cans on either side. Your boots stirred up the fog, the nearly opaque smoke swirling around your ankles. You softly stepped down the corridor, slowing nearly to a crawl as you neared the next corner.

Hearing a creak, you pressed your back against the end of the wall, gun poised and ready, a big grin on your face. You sprung around the corner, a jubilant “HAH!” leaving your lips, pulling the trigger of your laser-gun and having it make contact with... nothing but air. A dead end was before you, neon graffiti of a smiley face sticking its tongue out at you painted on the wall.

Sighing annoyedly, you went to turn back to continue your search, when you felt the stiff plastic barrel of a gun press between your shoulder blades. “...Shit,” you said resignedly, raising your hands in surrender.

A fingerless-gloved hand grabbed your gun out of your grip, the barrel of the other one pushing insistently on your back, coaxing you to move further into the dead end. You went along with it, rolling your eyes at how Dante was teasing you. Once you reached the end, a hand grabbed your shoulder, turning you around to face your would-be laser murderer.

Dante looked at you with a huge shit-eating grin, the black lights making his teeth glow an unnaturally bright white.

“All right, you got me. Take your shot,” you grumbled, hands still raised in surrender. For extra comedic effect, you closed your eyes, twisting your features into an exaggerated grimace, awaiting the telltale vibration of your vest as the laser made contact with the sensor.

For a moment you didn’t feel anything, and you were tempted to crack on eye open to see why he was taking so long. “Dante?” you asked, just to see if he’d respond. You noticed a soft rush of air blow past you as something moved into your space, smelling the bite of citrus, and feeling a soft pair of lips press against yours.

Your eyes shot open, seeing nothing but Dante’s closed ones as he kissed you, gently working his mouth against yours. His free hand wove into your hair, tugging a little to angle your head a certain way to get a better seal over your lips. Your eyes fluttered shut once again, raised hands finding purchase on his shoulders, gripping them tightly. You kissed him back eagerly, increasing the pressure and you felt him hum appreciatively against you.

Your hands caressed up to the sides of his neck, ends of his soft locks brushing against your fingers. He nipped at your bottom lip and your mouth opened slightly with a gasp of surprise. He took the opportunity to slide his tongue in past your lips, tentatively touching yours. You were sure you were melting, electric shocks firing down your spine with each soft, experimental touch. He tasted like heat, like sin, a pure addiction that you never wanted to kick.

You pressed your body against his, needy for more contact, and you felt his other hand, still holding onto both of your guns, press into your lower back, pulling you close to him. You licked into Dante’s mouth, wanting more of his taste, a small moan escaping from your chest. He moved his hand to the side of your neck, sucking your bottom lip between his two, drawing another lusty noise from you. He chuckled, placing one more gentle peck on your lips before he moved away, fingertips lingering on your neck, little prickles of heat dancing on your skin.  

He grabbed your hand, pressing your laser gun back into your palm. Without saying a word, he backed up a few steps, his eyes never leaving yours, and pointed his gun at your chest, firing right into the bullseye. Red flashes erupted in your peripheral vision as your mouth dropped open, a look of complete indignation spreading over your face. He grinned, super white teeth mocking you.

“You ASSHOLE!” you shouted, stamping your foot  like a toddler. He gave you a tiny salute before turning quickly and disappearing around the corner, fog swirling after him.

The intercom crackled; “Language!”

Thank you for reading!!

You can also find me on:

AO3: copper_wasp

Twitter: @copper_wasp_

[mimiplaysgames]

Strength to Protect the Things That Matter (Ch. 28)

Pairing: Terra/Aqua Rating: T Word Count: 11,864

Summary: Terra braves the Realm of Darkness to find her.

A/N: THERE ARE NO SPOILERS IN THIS CHAPTER - there can’t be. I’ve finalized the outline for this thing back in May, and it’s barely changed. I have gotten messages from readers worried that I wouldn’t get this fic done before the game releases, and while I appreciate so much the concern and enthusiasm, this is simply impossible. I’ve said it many times, but this fic has a sequel, and there is just no way for it to finish. It will just continue on being an AU (hopefully). That being said, I’ve had a lot of fun with different concepts of what Terra would see in the RoD, and I finally get to the reunion that I’ve been wanting to do for so long. I think of this as what Aqua truly deserves (or based from the trailers, an AU where Aqua meets Terra in the RoD, as opposed to Ansem SoD). I’ve been absolutely mortified, to the point that it has affected my mental health severely, from sharing this. But at least it’s here. This chapter makes references to The Black Cauldron (1985).

Reunion

He doesn’t know how he is still alive after drowning, but it’s a blessing. It means he’s finally close to her.

Though Aqua isn’t anywhere to be seen. His face half-submerged in murky water, on a sloped hill, Terra groggily opens his eyes. It appears to be night.

Then his eyes snap wide. He yells.

His shoulders are heavy and strained, his back writhing from the snaps of nerve shock. It is as if the burden of a body his same weight is rung on top of him, making it difficult to stand up.

But it’s his throat that hurts more, his blood pumping as though an invisible person has a hand gripped around it, squeezing to cut off all air, and strong enough to leave bruises. To breathe scratches him and swallowing burns, and with every effort to raise himself from the ground, the weight of it all gets worse. That familiar headache makes itself known, like his hair being ripped clean from its roots.

The Realm of Darkness must be giving Xehanort better hold, and he’s trying to wrestle control of the body back.

Terra summons his armor to cover him, enclosing him in a protective shell that stands between himself and the toxic atmosphere around him. But more importantly, it traps Xehanort within him. Most of the pain is alleviated immediately, gradually fading away as if falling asleep. The headache still lingers and it’s still uncomfortable when he swallows, but it’s manageable.

His ankles are deep into the water, his cape gently ghosting the surface. Behind him is a small town, with cobblestone streets, dimly lit lights, and architecture that begs to be inviting and warm, like an old-fashioned vacation resort.

Though it’s quiet. Ahead, the water is so dark it is black, and clean like waxed glass. This must be where he came from. The reflection of his armor is so crisp, it’s like looking in the mirror.

Deep in the water, a red lightning bolt strikes. The reflection turns its head and steps away.

Terra stumbles backward with a yelp, unsure what he’s been expecting. He knows the Realm is sentient, and he supposes mind games are a part of that. Anything can happen. Panting hard, he tells himself to get it together. No use letting everything scare him.

The town ahead is quaint enough – if it had people. He can imagine that it normally would have children running around, laughing. Bakers yelling about their goods. Mothers shopping through several stores. Men dragging their wares. People just trying to get to where they need to go. But Terra is completely alone.

Through a window, he sees drawings made by children lying across a coffee table in front of a television set, which is off. On the dinner table just beyond is half-finished food. But there is no one there to enjoy any of it. If he doesn’t know any better, it looks as though the family who used to live here had to abandon their home in the middle of a typical evening - when events turned into an unknown catastrophe, or it was their lives they’d had to give up if they chose to stay. And they never came back.

Not all of the houses are in good condition. Some of them have roofs ripped open, the pieces hovering above in the sky as if frozen in time. The stone streets are cracked, and several of the buildings lean into the water. Like the entire neighborhood is slowly sinking. 

On second thought, the town is rising from the water, and he realizes why the architecture here is so familiar.

This is Traverse Town.

Or a part of it, creeping its way into the Realm of Darkness. There isn’t much time left for that world to continue standing. He must hurry.

The sound of his shoes against the stone is loud, each clank reverberating way too much. As though he’s begging to be found by predators. He almost wishes he can speak out loud just to have some other noise to diffuse his steps… but what if that makes them come faster? And still, some part of him needs to hear something. He hasn’t been here long and it’s already too quiet.

A radio sits on an open windowsill of a small house. The room behind it is dark, and all he can make out are the shadows of empty furniture. There is only a single light, deep in the very back of a hallway, and it’s too dim to really show him anything else. Some part of him is grateful that he can’t see much – lest there is someone sitting inside he doesn’t know about. If there are any people walking in the Realm of Darkness at all.

He flicks a switch to turn the radio on. No power.

He flicks it back off and walks away from it. Static. It comes so sharply that it nearly screams through the rustling of its commotion.

And it’s so loud. He scampers over to jerk the switch back and forth, but it won’t shut up.

Then he hears it, muffled and barely audible. “Terra.”

Her voice.

“Aqua!” He lifts the radio and talks right into the speaker. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

The static turns off.

He tries the switch again, but there is no response. No power.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something is moving inside that house, like a person shifting on a couch.

Rocks roll down the corner of the street, where it turns around the block. A shadow creeps behind a lamp post until it disappears. Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, by a closed crate, something blinks. Yellow eyes stare at him through a second-floor window in the house adjacent to him.

He drops the radio and summons his Keyblade. Like trapping prey, the Heartless leech out from between the cobblestones, surrounding him.

These are stronger than the ones he’s faced in the outside world. Even if small and primitive, darkness here gives them a kick. His strikes don’t stun them as much, and every attack drains him. He only destroys half of them when the headache stings, but he continues – delivering throw downs, massive swings, bright shockwaves. Until it’s quiet again, though who knows when the next group will come, especially after all the noise he’s been making.

But he’s exhausted, leaning onto the Ends of the Earth for support. This isn’t normal. The use of his Keyblade shouldn’t feel like it’s trying to suck him dry of life. Maybe in this place, when Xehanort shares a space in his body, the light he uses depletes its ability to protect him. 

Then he shouldn’t use darkness at all here, and should probably be more careful in choosing his battles from now on. After all, keeping his sanity is worth keeping control over his body. He swiftly follows the street until it abruptly ends, leading up a tall, grassy hill. It may be a leg-sore to climb all the way up, but the ocean on the other side is a no-go as well.

It’s a normal climb up, until the ground underneath his feet starts to crumble, collapsing under his weight. He sprints faster, sometimes stumbling onto his hands and knees with every shift under him. He reaches the top, the crumbling dirt pausing before it reaches the peak, as if it gives up on trying to kill him. Like a sore loser. Sentient and tricky, indeed.

Looking back, the way up is completely gone, a giant pit of nothing taking its place. The remnants of Traverse Town, floating in the air like a painting, now sit in between an endless hole and an infinite ocean on the other side.

That ocean is the entrance he took to get here. The message is loud and clear: the Realm is telling him there’s no way out.

“I’ll find another way back,” he says defiantly. He can’t let it get to him. He’s come too far.

Onward he goes. A path of dirt and stone through tall trees that are sparse enough he can still see the sky. Who knew the Realm of Darkness has stars – slightly dimmer than usual, but odd. There are different night skies, as though they’ve been snipped off from whatever world they came from and were pieced together. The bushes he passes by don’t move, because there aren’t any critters to rustle through them. All the animal calls that are normally present in the woods are not to be heard here. No wind to bother the leaves. Some branches hang low enough to hit his pauldrons and his helmet, and this alone is the loudest thing he can hear for miles.

Clearings and valleys also have their limits. They taper off cliffs into a vast blankness, where artificial stars from who knows where will also hover.  Sometimes, the ground is split in two, with a lower level of undiscovered territory and mounds of dirt floating in the air as if to stop themselves from getting lost in the void.

What is left in the Realm of Darkness are shards of a world.

And a bunny.

A white, glowing rabbit, waiting in the middle of the trail, its nose twitching.

“What are you doing here?” He crouches down, surprised to see that it doesn’t seem afraid of him. It is incredibly round and fluffy – incredibly adorable, so much so that it hurts to look at it. And it stays long enough for him to suspect that this can’t be a trick.

It shines with such a pure, white light, it is exactly like the dolphin that led him here in the first place. A light in the shadow. An alebrije. A spirit guide.

It’s when he realizes that he has imagined Aqua’s spirit guide as a rabbit before that his heart swells with excitement. “Take me to her.”

It runs and he follows, past stone benches and idyllic arches. There is an abandoned gazebo, with carvings in the wood that depict angels, flowers, and hearts. This area is romantic, the kind of trail that a couple would take to find a private, intimate getaway or to host a wedding. Flowers grow around the shrubbery here, but they disappear as soon as he comes near them. With sunlight, this place would be peaceful. But here, the false night sets this up like a haunted venue, its attractive and charming exterior just a lure for a trap. Enough to make him wonder if scorned lovers are waiting to abuse their revenge on unsuspecting passerby’s.

The rabbit is gone, but at least it led him far enough to suggest a direction for him to go.

He passes by another clearing. And then he sees her.

On a stone bench, right at the edge of a cliff. Cross-legged, with her palms to her knee, Aqua sits calmly as she surveys the ground. As if she has been waiting this entire time for him. Her blue hair is the same length it has always been, and she is so close he only has to take a few steps to touch her.

He doesn’t have the time to care much about how hard his heart is beating against his chest. “Aqua…”

Her gaze comes slowly, and her expression is as a blank as a doll’s. Not a care in her eyes. Something is wrong with her, and he nearly shouts in anger over the thought that the Realm of Darkness has harmed her.

He nears himself with an outstretched hand. “Aqua, I’m here. You’re safe.”

He’s within inches of her when she cranes her neck back to its limit, as if trying to see behind her. Her body follows the weight of her head, and she slips backward off the precipice.

Terra lunges forward to try to grab her, yelling out her name and his denials over such a grotesque sight. He misses. His reflex grabs the foot of the stone bench before falling off himself, and he watches her tumble against jagged rocks of the level below beneath, landing with a sickening crunch that sounds like crushed plastic, her limbs splattered and obviously broken.

She isn’t real. She’s just a mannequin.

He struggles to pull himself back up, rolling over to his stomach when he’s safe on solid ground. This isn’t real.

It is hot inside the armor, sweat dripping down his shoulders and his forehead. He hears that crunch over and over again in his mind, and it’s suffocating. He wails at the image of her throwing herself like that, and he flips his helmet off in an attempt to cool himself. But there is no breeze in the Realm of Darkness, so he sweats and heaves all the same.

“She wasn’t real. She wasn’t real,” he keeps saying, hoping that hearing it out loud will make it stick, that he just didn’t see her get crushed.

Maybe it isn’t a good idea to have his helmet off. His headache comes back and it pounds at his temples, hard enough for him to see lights. He opens the jar of Tifa’s thick brown potion, and swallows the rest of it until it is empty.

Soon enough, the headache melts away and he relaxes. He wiggles his helmet back on, the easing sensation of the potion traveling through his limbs as if being enclosed in the armor traps this symptom of relief and will continue to keep it that way. Terra studies the empty jar. She made this brew so compassionately and it has now outlived its usefulness. I should thank her when I get the chance, for letting me get this far.

The rabbit makes itself known after hopping out of some nearby bushes. It stands on its hind legs, surveying the area. The Realm may want to try to claim him for itself, but it’s as though the rabbit knows the only truth that exists here. Everything else is a distraction.

“Wait for me.” He stands up, shakes off the last image of the mannequin in his mind, and leaves the empty jar behind.

The rabbit fades in and out, only really appearing when Terra makes a misstep. It lets him guide himself otherwise, learning to trust his own heart to find her. And he walks, forgetting he is hungry and tired. Eventually, those feelings simply don’t exist anymore, and all that is left is just the need to go forward because there is nothing else to do. Thinking about it too much sends him into a state of worry.

It makes him regret not bringing Riku along with him.

What if he never eats again? How does he even begin to search a place this huge for her? What if the Realm shifts and changes their locations, making it so that they will never reunite? 

Anytime he thinks he won’t find her, the rabbit will appear. As if to say, You already have.

It isn’t until he hears the splashing of water that he realizes he’s been walking for what seems like hours and he’s suddenly shin-deep in a swamp. He hasn’t been aware of where the domain has changed. It just does.

The trees here are so much more compact, roots stretching upward so it makes it hard to through them, with vines reaching into the murkiness, and plants so tall they make it hard to gauge how deep they run. The water is so dark there isn’t a way to see into it. Quite frankly, he’s lost.

“Now what do I do?” he asks out loud, hoping the rabbit hears him. He wades through the water, telling himself to calm down, using breathing exercises taught by his Master in an effort to ease his mind and listen to his heart on where to go next. The foliage is so thick, there’s isn’t a clear path he can take next.

The silence is maddening, and he aches just to have something, anything, to speak to him.

“I need to get out of here.” He probably shouldn’t be talking too much out loud, for fear of what will hear him, but it’s better than not hearing anything. It’s too quiet.

The Realm of Darkness decides to comply to his wishes, and a pig’s shriek vibrates and pounds across the entire area. From every direction, sounding as if it is dying from a brutal beat down, or a gas leak, or an electrocution – something that is letting it suffer as long as it can until it can go on no longer. It comes in waves, like the wind. The squeal will pass by him, until it comes back around. It’s so horrid, he attempts to cover his ears, but his helmet won’t mute the sound. He needs to save it from its misery. But with the way it travels, it’s more like a specter. And it can probably hurt him.

He spins and heads the direction he came from, but something grabs his ankle. And its force is strong. It pulls. He stumbles to his knees, nearly getting submerged.

With a yell, he summons his Keyblade and sends a blast of intense light toward the direction of whatever has hold of him. Let free, he scrambles to the edge of the bank, where he can at least stand on mud.

Searching the water for what grabbed him shows him nothing, until he notices a bright blue color rise to the surface. It is shaped like a star, and it glides there, as if beckoning him to grab it. Aqua’s very own Wayfinder.

He shivers. His first instinct is to dive headfirst to take it. It’s hers, and the Realm of Darkness cannot claim it. He stares at the floating Wayfinder, trying to give himself the best reason not to reach for it. Wondering if whatever that grabbed him is actually her, and if he has just seared her with his Keyblade. The image of raising his weapon against her fills his mind, and-

“It’s a trap,” he says out loud to the Realm, as if to declare he has it figured out.

In response, the swamp water bubbles, and the Wayfinder disappears, like a light being turned off. But what rises in its place are a pair of bright yellow eyes. And another pair just behind a plant. And another underneath the roots that stretch so far above the surface of the water, its tree knows it is toxic.

Terra finds himself surrounded by hundreds of pairs of eyes: shadows that surround him on tree branches, in between twisted trunks, coming out of the water and the mud, forcing their way through bushes, climbing down vines. There are so many of them, he’s certain they can easily force him down the water.

The Keyblade is a marvelous weapon, and when he conjured it for the very first time, he was a boy ready to face any danger that lay ahead of him. Believing he was invincible. But it comes with costs. With an entity like Xehanort still inhabiting his body, using the power of light through the Ends of the Earth is the equivalent of forcing himself to run for his life after having survived a multitude of whiplashes to his body. Tifa’s potion barely does much to keep it all at bay. It hurts. It’s tiring. The old man simply waits to take over, and the headache that comes only grows with every swing.

And these Heartless just won’t stop coming.

He scurries away from them, tripping over enlarged roots, squeezing his way through tight spaces in between trees, ripping away vines that get entangled onto his armor. He doesn’t know how many Heartless are chasing after him now.

The rabbit is on a branch high above the water, dashing across, telling him to change direction.

But once the spirit guide passes through an entanglement of bindweed, the Realm decides it has had enough. The trees expand and turn, enclosing the bunny within their grasp, until it is no longer seen. He uses his Keyblade to hack away, but to no avail. It’s gone.

He desperately crawls through the swamp until he leaves the muggy terrain behind. Until he reaches a vast, empty wasteland. Though this doesn’t stop them from stalking him. An army of Heartless creep out from the swamp, coming at him at full speed. He proceeds to run away from them and sees something worse: hundreds of towering Darkside Heartless, very aware of his sudden presence in the vicinity. The horizon beyond has a soft glow, and Terra can barely make out a castle in the near distance.

A Darkside moves to attack. Terra dodges. Out here in the open, he is completely bare.

He makes for the castle. Sprints. Pants. He tries to steady his labored breathing as he wills one leg to dash in front of the other, avoiding the large, black hands that try to grab him. The army of shadows behind him swarm the wasteland, keeping up to his pace. He pushes himself to run faster, his lungs ready to burst from the exertion it takes to propel beyond his top speed. The castle is near – it is completely foreboding and looks to be abandoned, sitting atop a dried moat. A wooden, chipped drawbridge is already down, so he makes for the inside – at least it’s good enough shelter to avoid the Darksides.

The bridge falls apart just as he enters the castle. He immediately collapses onto the floor, wheezing as hard as the pig he heard in the swamp. His whole body shakes from such adrenaline, and for a moment, he’s too weak to pick himself up.

He can at least roll over, surveying what is waiting for him on the other side of the dry moat. Nothing. The Heartless chasing him are gone, as if they were never there to begin with. Just a vast, empty space of dirt. But now, there is no bridge to allow him to go back. The moat is deep and steep enough that it’d be impossible to climb out of.

“Damn it,” he says, his breath too shaky. “I lost the rabbit.”

He allows himself to rest until his breathing starts to slow down. There is no way to go but through this castle. It is dim, and despite that there is no moon outside these walls, there is a faint light that seemingly comes from nowhere, just enough to see what is around him. The castle itself is old-fashioned, built out of stacking stones together, and it is in dire disrepair. Some of the walls have crumbled, and the stairs leading to the upper floors are now large dirt heaps. Tapestries and flags are shredded to pieces. It is just as lively as a tomb.

Eventually, he manages to stand, and casually walks through the hallways. Dust poofs upwards with every step he takes. A door slams.

He whips around, and sees a door sliding across a wall, as if it exists in a separate plain of time and space. It stops in front of him.

He’s exhausted, and despite that he doesn’t want to follow whatever guided tour the Realm has prepared for him, he’s desperate enough to play the game. Just to do something. Anything to keep him from getting bored.

He opens the door and it leads to a solid wall. The door then slams shut and slides away.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?”

Another door slams. Several move around – the ones in the upper floors where he cannot reach are just there to taunt him. The ones on the lower floor move so fast, there isn’t a point in bothering with them. So he ignores them, until he finds himself a stationary one that he is sure hasn’t moved anywhere.

It is locked. Then, as if to mock him, it slides away. 

Walking through the castle is a trek of ignoring all of the closed doors, and he bides his time in exploring large passageways. Wagons, haystacks, wooden tables, ceramic mugs – all have been left behind by whoever used to run this place, all worn out and overused. He wonders if the castle was in this condition when it still existed in the Realm of Light.

But most places in the castle are out of bounds to him, either leading him to a door that leads nowhere, or a door that moves away when he gets too close. Essentially, the Realm makes itself clear – there is only one way to go, he just has to find it.

And he sees it – an open door, with a visible hallway beyond. Finally.

When he approaches it, it slams in his face. He opens it, and there is now a solid wall instead.

He normally would never describe being played around like this as heartbreaking. But now, the need to get out of this castle is the same as the need to eat in order to stall death.

He fights the desperation to beg the Realm to let him go.

“I need to stay strong,” he says to no one in particular. To himself. To the Realm.

How he wishes he could talk to somebody.

“I can’t give up. Maybe there is another passage somewhere that I haven’t seen yet.”

He walks down a hallway he’s sure he’s been through before. But where else can he go? Several steps in, the floor disintegrating beneath him. He lands on stone below with a thud, his armor the worst kind of cushion to break the fall.

But at least the soreness is more bearable than the headache. This lower level is darker, the hallway more narrow. On the one hand, it’s new so it’s at least something for him to do. On the other, what lies ahead of him now is a stairway that spirals downward, which isn’t the direction he hopes to go.

With no other choice, he climbs down, and they eventually open up to a large room – the first room in the castle he’s ever been able to enter. He cannot see enough to tell what is inside, but it looks terribly messy, the floor full of stacked objects. There is a throne on the opposite wall, and near it a massive, steel, heavy-looking black cauldron.

Upon closer inspection, there is a body sitting on the throne. A ferociously tall man, dressed in a red, hooded robe. At first, Terra thinks that he’s looking at decoration on the throne, fashioned to resemble antlers of a stag. Until he realizes that it isn’t the furniture with poor taste, but the man. The man has horns.

This isn’t a man. Terra takes a sharp inhale, a memory from years ago creeping into his conscience. As a boy, he used to be obsessed with reading books about all sorts of dark tales and magic. One in particular is the most famous failure for Keyblade Masters in all history: the fall of Prydain, a world that enveloped itself in darkness and has been banished from the Realm of Light for centuries.

This is the body of the Horned King, a skeletal being who is the reason for that fall. His undead army rose to take over the land, and there were so many deaths that the world had no way to survive on its own light. Terra has read enough of these books to know exactly how the Horned King was drawn, and his familiarity is unmistakable. The skin on his face is so thin that it sticks to every fold in his skull, is fingers scaly. He is a legendary fiend of darkness, recorded by Keyblade wielders who have been defeated in their attempt to save this place again and again. For too long, Prydain has been missing. Eraqus used it as an example in his lessons as the worst-case scenario to happen to a world when a Keybearer is unable to do his job.

To think that Terra has stumbled into such a domain is a danger that is technically undefined.

He immediately steps backward in an attempt to get out of the room. There is a crunch. The mess he has stepped on – no it isn’t a mess, it is a bone. A skeleton. The room is riddled with them.

The Horned King stirs in his chair, growling. The sockets of his skull slowly glow a bright red, as though he’s been asleep and has just been disturbed. And he unleashes a nasty snarl at the sight of Terra.

A puff of green smoke bursts from the black cauldron, almost as if on command. It spreads over the mass of skeletons like a noxious gas, and soon enough, they all twitch with sleeplessness.  First Heartless, now the undead.

Terra summons his Keyblade and begins to chop away before the ones near him get a chance to stand straight. Damn the headache, damn the tiredness – he needs to survive. The Horned King bellows, and his skeleton army follow suit.

Their old weapons of war don’t cause much damage to his armor, but that isn’t the worst danger. What is most imperative for Terra to avoid is to be surrounded and be swallowed by them. With his Keyblade, he strikes the ground, shaking the walls so much that dirt drops from the ceiling. He strikes again, and stone collapses on top of a group nearby.

He makes for a different hallway, hoping to find an exit out of here. Away from the power of the cauldron, which has its mist covering the entire room by now. Away from the skeletons that are chasing after him, swinging their swords so lazily that they swipe at the walls. There is a door.

“Please let it lead somewhere.”

It does, to a hallway full of skeletons waiting on the other side for him, crawling over each other to get to him. None of their eyes glow like Heartless do. Perhaps it is the power of the cauldron that made them immune to being swallowed up by the Realm. Maybe it’s because they have already died and the Realm has no use for them.

Either way, Terra is now surrounded, the skeletons clawing at his helmet, pulling at his cape, dragging him down to the floor to subdue him. To drown him. To crush him.

A swing of his Keyblade onto the ground and it sends the ones closest to him flying. He moans in pain from the use of it, the helmet practically locking the agony inside.

“I can’t lose to Xehanort now,” he yells to himself.

More of them come. If light is too taxing in a world of darkness for him, then perhaps powers of nothingness will do.

In his mind, Terra wills the particles in the air to combust, exactly the way Xemnas does it. He allows himself to really feel how annoyed he is at his situation, until he’s ready.

“Get away from me!”

Several bombs of energy explode in the air, destroying some of the skeletons and sending others away. But his body also reacts to the bombs, and like catering to his need to keep a far distance from his enemies, Terra flies backwards – and stays afloat.

Xemnas’ telekinetic powers apparently also lend themselves to levitation. Except Terra cannot control it, and this is the worst timing to learn. He continues to float backward as if there isn’t any gravity to slow him down, hordes of skeletons committing themselves to a futile attempt to grab him from below.

“Wait, wait.” He flails his arms around, trying to grasp at anything that will stop his levitation, his fingers merely brushing on the wall. He digs his Keyblade into the stone, suspending him in midair so he can finally land on his feet, the creeping mist of the black cauldron disturbed by his landing.

There are still the skeletons to deal with. 

And they are powered by the magic of the cauldron. Maybe if he disturbs it…

Using the explosive energy of nothingness, he casts aside all of these shells of former humans, trying to make his way to the cauldron. It’s easier than he anticipates, considering how light-weight they are and that their tattered armor cannot handle being attacked by Xemnas’ powers.

The Horned King roars when he nears, his army of undead suddenly skirmishing to ambush Terra. This at least tells him that he has the right idea.

“In your despair, as you face what ails you most, you will perish,” the Horned King says, his voice an echo.

Terra scoffs. “How dramatic.”

His Keyblade glows with a bright light, and he strikes the ground. Cracks form and make their way to the cauldron. Then he sends out one of Xemnas’ explosions to keep fiends off of him. He strikes the ground again to force cobblestone into stacks against the cauldron, the foundation underneath becoming unstable. Another one of Xemnas’ explosions for self-protection.

Summoning the energy he has left, his Keyblade glowing even brighter, he hurls a shockwave strong enough to topple the cauldron over, spilling its acidic contents all over the room. Fire that burns nothing but green swallow the area, escalating in height to such an extent that even the undead soldiers are unable to survive its flames.

The Horned King desperately barks in a language Terra doesn’t understand, but no matter. There is enough chaos to slip away. The King and his stupid army can continue to rot in this Realm. He stumbles out of the room, the flames burning brighter and threatening to take him with them. It emits a bright enough light to illuminate a new door further down, and at first he struggles with the handle in his panic. It opens. A staircase.

“Thank goodness,” he says painfully, clutching his side. Shutting the door behind him, he seals it with his Keyblade, despite how exhausted he is. The flight of stairs spirals upward, continuing on and on. It’s an incredibly high tower, but hey, at least he’s away from that horrid room.

At the top is a large room, with a tall mirror leaning against a wall covered in a tattered, taupe carp. Shelves of vials are on one side of it, and weapons are displayed on the wall on the other. Chests litter the space. There is a window with multiple diamond-shaped panes showing him the wasteland outside. There still aren’t any Heartless lurking about – at least not right now. A single forest grows behind the castle, though it’s too dark for him to see how far that stretches.

He sits on the floor, catching his breath. At least it’s quiet. And relatively safe.

Though he now has to find a way to escape this tower. He has to endure, to find her.

“Aqua,” he says groggily, “just hold out for me a little longer. I’m almost there.” He doesn’t know why he said that. He doesn’t actually know how much time he has in this place, and whether he’ll have enough of it to finally set her free.

Four taps on glass, like a knock on a door.

Immediately he looks toward the window, expecting to see a Heartless hovering outside. Nothing.

Four taps on glass. It’s coming from the mirror.

Whoever is behind it, or inside of it, wants his attention.

His throat grips. A part of him feels that he shouldn’t look, no matter what. His life is already enough at risk. And yet, he’s alone in this room, and as long as the mirror is there, it is an unknown danger, which is worse. It pains him to stand up, but he shuffles his feet enough to approach the mirror, his hand slowly reaching to grab the tarp.

He takes a breath while the fabric is gripped in between his fingers, stalling the exposure. Four taps on glass, this time louder.

He pulls it away. He had expected to see a Heartless, or maybe a twisted version of his own reflection that can act on its own. Maybe one of himself, with gold eyes and white hair.

But it is her.

Aqua’s face is deadpan through the mirror, her eyes as hollow and reflective as glass itself. “Did you come here to save me?” she asks as she steps through, like it is a doorway.

Her voice is robotic and sinister.

It sounds like her, yet it doesn’t. It mimics the same tenor, the same melody that he would hear out of the real Aqua. Which he hasn’t heard in years.

He knows she isn’t real. Yet hearing her voice nearly sends him to tears.

“Aqua,” he says immediately. “No, you aren’t- I can’t believe it-”

“What makes you think I want to be saved by you?” There is a Keyblade in her hand, but it’s warped, fizzling in and out of a black fog and he cannot recognize it.

“You aren’t real,” he summons his own, anticipating a fight.

And a terrible fight it is. The phantom clones herself, warping in and out just to tease him. To send him cheap attacks. To confuse him. He is suddenly surrounded by many Aqua’s, until there is only one. And then there are many again. She comes close to him, enough to nearly touch his visor with her lips. Enough for him to see his own reflection in her glass eyes. Then she disappears so another can hit him from behind.

Which is his greatest weakness – seeing her like this. It nearly makes him unable to swing his own weapon against her body. He keeps telling himself she is a fake, but it’s hard to believe. The phantom moves like Aqua. Dodges like Aqua. Casts spells like Aqua. How many years has he spent sparring with her, and let it be damned if this thing can read his memories so she knows exactly how to react to his movements.

“Don’t you think I deserve to be with someone better?” she asks before another attack. Her magical blows are so devastating, even when he blocks them, that he’d rather give up than to keep trying to survive them. He’s too tired.

And her voice hurts, too. She asks this question as if she knows how he truly feels, but is too afraid to say it himself. As if admitting it would mean absoluteness. Aqua does deserve to be with someone worthy of her. Yes. But if he agrees out loud, then that truth is bona fide.

“You aren’t real,” he says louder. He cannot get sad now. He cannot give up now. He raises to strike, and she blocks. For a ghost, she is incredibly strong.

She counters and hits him directly with an electrical force, as though harming him means nothing to her.

“I don’t want you,” she says, her voice keeping its steady directness while being disquieting all at the same time. As if what she is saying is a matter of fact.

He is on his knees. “I know already,” he says, upset enough to produce tears in his eyes. “Please, enough.”

She raises her mockery of a Keyblade. “In your despair, as you face what ails you most, you will perish,” she says. She swings with a dark force so massive, he is sent flying, crashing through the window.

He falls from the tower, traveling miles as he speeds closer and closer to the ground. He tries to summon his latent powers of nothingness, trying to get them to halt his near-inevitable crushing fate. But nothing is slowing him down. “Stop, stop, STOP!”

Mere inches from the ground he finally halts, hovering above the ground in a suspended levitation. Learning this power is going to take some getting used to. Terra swings his arms around, but it only forces him to awkwardly spin in the air.

He lifts a finger into the air, as if to command. “Put me down, gently.”

The power simply drops him, and all of his muscles take the shock inside the hard shell of his armor as he hits the ground. It’s ridiculous how sore he is right now.

Groaning, he drags himself to sit on the precipice of a boulderstone. The amount of sweat is massive, the heat unbearable. He has come a long way, and it has been nothing but near-death experiences, frights, and doubts.

Doubts.

It’s not that he doesn’t know already that the Realm of Darkness will give him no comfort. But he silently begs for anything to relieve the heat. He pulls the helmet off, and – as to be expected - it doesn’t make him feel any better. There is no breeze to cool off the sweat, and no amount of oxygen to help him breathe any easier. If the Realm is playing with him this much, and has such power to control where he is heading, how is he ever going to get to her? What if the both of them wander around the Realm, traveling in opposite directions, where they never find each other, for the rest of time?

Does it mean that all of his attempts are futile?

Does it mean she truly doesn’t want him here?

In all honesty, Terra hopes that his wishes have a place in the light. That he can return to the Land of Departure, and share the thrones with those closest to him. That he can watch the light of the sun through the colors of the stained glass, and study them well enough to remember their patterns this time. To search for his own way to become Master. To watch Ventus rise to that status, and see him grow to be a man. To have Aqua share his bed. To wake up next to her every day, and hold her close to him. To be in awe of her presence and accomplishments. To be wanted and welcomed back into his family. To be home, where the sun is so bright, it illuminates everything in the academy.

The Horned King’s castle doesn’t stir, but merely stands tall as it probably has for hundreds of years now, looming over him. There is not a single star in the sky of this fallen world. Terra is completely alone in this wasteland, not a sound to be heard. Not a rock tumbling by. Not a leaf dancing in the wind.

But the rabbit is here. It pants heavily, as if it has been frightened out of its life. Its nose twitches, and its ears are pressed against its head. It hops closer and closer to Terra, as if to seek some comfort.

“I know,” he nods in agreement. “This place sucks.”

At least this is better than having only himself to talk to. Or that phantom.

“I can tell this place is trying to punish me, and I can’t say that I disagree with it,” he says. “I’ve become what I said I wouldn’t, and I can’t imagine that she’d ever accept me as I am. I wanted to be someone worth her attention. But to be the cause of her suffering…

“I know what I want isn’t important. What I need to do is to find her, but I haven’t-” He takes a deep breath, the headache getting worse. “I honestly don’t know to survive this. I don’t know how I could ever make it better for her, and that scares me. I don’t know if I’ll ever get another chance to prove myself, or be forgiven. I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to have a good life in the future. I wish this headache would go away, I would give anything-”

He holds his head, taking breaths until some pressure is relieved. But it lingers. Not that it compares to what Aqua has been through, considering the insanity he has just witnessed. Even if the powers that be decide that he will never have a decent future, she still needs help.

“I can only just stand up, carry on, and walk forward. Even when it’s hard, or when I think I can’t go on. If I just continue to do something about my situation, then something’s gotta give, right? Something has to happen?”

The rabbit slows down its own breathing, traveling in uneven circles, as if beckoning him to follow it.

“Maybe I’m just looking for hope where it doesn’t exist, but I needed to get that out of my chest. Thanks for listening to me,” he says with a small smile. He puts his helmet back on, and pushes off his hands to stand up. He is completely sore and tired, and every step he takes is a bit of struggle. His feet practically beg for him to rest.

This time, the rabbit waits for him to catch up to it, stopping every once in a while for him to approach. They go through the forest, which is the foggiest place he has beenin this Realm so far, but just as quiet as all the rest. The trees here are so tall, he can’t make out any branches. There are no roads or trails. Nothing to help him discern a sense of direction. Just thick trunks that sprawl out every which way. If he gets lost here, he can certainly walk a never-ending labyrinth.

It’s eerie almost, but he nearly makes the fog out to be a portal of its own, a system separate than the rest of the Realm, like a blanket that is covering him from the darkness. With the bunny staying so calm, Terra doesn’t get the sense that danger lurks here, even when he cannot see far ahead of him. With each step, he focuses on relaxing different parts of his body – his mind, his arms, his knees, his neck – as a way to build up the energy to continue forward. He’ll stay sharp once the rabbit gives him reason to.

As long as he keeps going, something’s gotta give, right? Even when he knows, deep down, how it will end?

It doesn’t take long until the forest opens up to a wheat field, tall grass stalks swaying in the wind.

Wind.

Yes, it exists here. It’s very gentle but it coaxes the wheat to respond. Stars shine up above. A great distance ahead of the fields are these menacing electrical towers, but neither of them are connected by any power lines. They are illuminated by moonlight.

Which is the first sign of natural light he has seen. When he looks downhill, far beyond the wheat, beyond a field of grass, beyond rock formations, is a small beach where the moon nearly sinks itself into the water. It’s quite a walk from where he is standing, but he can see nonetheless.

A trail lies ahead of him. And the rabbit is gone.

“Not again.” He jogs forward, bending over to see if he can spot it in between the stalks. “Come on, where are you?”

No sign of it. Terra’s jog hurries into a run, his armor clamoring from all of the movement but he doesn’t care who listens. He needs his guide. And truth be told, he just can’t stand to be alone anymore.

It isn’t until he nearly runs into something that he skids to a halt. And his breath stops. And his muscles tense up.

She has her Keyblade out, holding it ahead of her in a defensive stance. Her eyes are wide in shock, her hair short, her face still young even after all these years.

The Keyblade in hand is his Master’s Defender. Aqua waits for him to make the first move, her eyes narrowing in anticipation.

Aqua. Her eyes are expressive this time. He can see that she anticipates everything to be a trick, quickly trying to analyze when he’s going to snap at her. He can basically see the wheels in her mind turning.

“Aqua…”

She shudders as she blinks, as if she cannot believe what she is hearing. She only lowers the Master’s Keyblade by a small margin. “Terra?”

The phantom may be a good mimic in everything except the feeling. But this is her. He can drop to his knees and sob until he dies, but at least he can die knowing he has done something right. And despite it all, his heart pounds so heavy it will keep him alive through the release. It’s her.

“Aqua, it’s really me.” He dismisses his armor to show her. He doesn’t know how sorry or tired or in pain he looks. He doesn’t care. “I’m here.”

Her eyes flicker at the sight of him. They glass over with tears, but instead of letting them fall, she dismisses the Keyblade and bolts to him. To take his hand in both of hers, squeezing them until she’s satisfied that they’re real. Her fingers are cold.

Before he can say anything, she looks into his eyes and searches them. “It’s really you…” She closes the gap and throws herself around his shoulders, holding him so tightly as if letting any room to breathe in between them would mean he would just be wiped from existence and she’ll lose him again forever. Like he’ll burst as a figment of her imagination.

It’s the same for him, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer - because to let her go would be to let her slip through the ground and he’ll never see her again. To have her in his arms is to resurrect an old life: he’s been living a second one all this time – a lie, really - completely cut off from everything that gave him his identity. But now he’s home.

The exposed skin on her back is freezing cold, and he brushes his fingers against it to comfort her. Takes turns to wrap his arms to give her warmth. Runs his fingers through her hair and rests his mouth on the crown of her head. She smells like dust, not quite clean yet not dirty, either. As if time has stopped for her, too.

She digs her face into his neck, her tears falling down and spreading onto his shoulder. His strong Aqua, who hasn’t cried since her parents’ death, weeping into his shirt until it’s soaked. And he lets tears fall too, into her hair, because there isn’t a feeling like knowing he’s whole again.

“I’m-” This is the hardest part – to be bare. When he has been keeping something in, or lying about something else - now he has to expose himself. To finally say something that is as true as the softness of her body.

“I’m sorry it took so long to come see you,” he says, knowing it just isn’t enough after what she’s been through. Knowing how possible it is for her to reject it. “I don’t have an excuse. I should’ve done something sooner. I should’ve-” The phantom’s words pass through his mind. “Please don’t hate me.”

She brushes the hair strands at the back of his neck, her breath stabilizing. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispers into his ear, her voice breaking a bit. “It’s been so hard. I’ve missed you so much, Terra.”

Terra’s favorite stories growing up always have a hero taking off on an adventure, rescuing those who need help, defeating malicious entities that seek to wreak havoc. And yet none of those stories made him understand how much of a struggle it would take to endure such a feat. He’s lived his life not really knowing what made those heroes who they are. To hear her forgiveness is when it clicked. They are heroic because it justifies their existence, as much as hearing her relief justifies his own.

“I’ve missed you, too, you have no idea how badly.” Hearing this makes her stir, as if it means the world to her.

They rock back and forth in their embrace, neither making a move to separate from the other.

“I thought that no one wanted to come find me.” She sniffles.

His eyes snap open at such a strange statement. He has forgotten where they are, and how much danger they are still in. Surrounded by wheat stalks as tall as they are, with a faint moonlight meters away.

Terra finally lets go of the embrace and moves her to face him. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, sounding incredibly tired like she’s on her last leg. She has one firm grip on his upper arm, as if terrified of letting go. “It’s this place-”

“It gets to you,” he nods, holding a hand to her face, wiping the tears falling out with his thumb. It’s strange seeing her cry.

The tears that keep flowing are stragglers, her eyes abused by such sadness. Her hair is slightly frizzy, the bags under her eyes sag too much, and her face is so relaxed he can tell she probably doesn’t know how to smile anymore. Not to mention that her skin is paler than he remembers it to be.

And he realizes they’ve been gazing at each other for some time without saying anything. He should really say something. Profound. Or honest. Something heartfelt as he continues to hold her face. Anything.

“You look terrible,” is what he settles on.

Her eyes flicker and blink for a moment, registering what he has just said. The edge of her mouth twitches, like it’s an alien movement. Her brows furrow in confusion, but then release into contentment. She chuckles, and it sounds worn out. Small at first, and she pauses. Then she giggles again, her hand reaching to hold his wrist.

“Terra,” she says in between tiny breaths, as if this is all too taxing of an activity. “I don’t remember the last time I laughed.”

If he can come face to face with Kingdom Hearts, to meet his mother for the first time, to see the Master again – he’ll tell them there is finally a good reason to keep him alive.

She smiles and it reaches her eyes. Leaning into his hand, holding it between her cheek and her own, she gives him a sympathetic shrug. “I’m sorry you’re now stuck with me in the darkness.”

“As if being stuck with you is such a bad thing,” he says through a scoff, and then regrets it. He shouldn’t make light of her suffering, and yet he can’t help but feel that it would have never been so difficult for her if he was here with her the entire time. “Either way, I opened a Door to Light here. I’m getting you out.”

The smile fell, and her eyes widen. It’s clear she doesn’t believe it at first, but she knows him well enough to understand that he’d never lie to her like this. He’s excited, grinning as he watches her contemplate his message.

It’s like giving someone a surprise gift, eagerly waiting to see their joy when they open it. He nods at her, nearly in laughter as she starts to smile. “It’s true,” he says. “You’re leaving this place.”

She leans toward him, placing a hand on his chest. “Now?”

“Yes.” It doesn’t matter how many times he’ll have to say it. He’ll say it as often as he needs, just to make sure she understands. Just to see the sparks of eagerness in her eyes.

“And we’ll find Ven?”

What is supposed to be a sharp inhale he manages to slow down so he doesn’t seem flustered. Xehanort is listening. But he can’t let her know yet that there is danger. Not now. He holds her by the biceps, and reassures her in a way so he can change the subject. “Definitely. We’ll all be together again soon. But first we have to get you out of here. We can talk about everything later.”

She clasps his palm with hers, and squeezes tightly. The look on her face is indescribable, like someone who has been on the execution block has just been told that her future is guaranteed safe. “Lead the way.”

So they jog together, hand in hand, like they used to do as children. Every excursion through the mountains, the caves they explored, the creeks they discovered - they were always to be conjoined through their hands. This habit hasn’t faded in the years they have grown together, and while they are old enough that they don’t have to follow such a strict buddy system anymore, the hands will still come together in the most uncertain moments: when they get lost; when visibility is poor; when they are scared; when it rains hard; when they are traversing dangerous terrain – very much like the Realm of Darkness, when being separated could mean a permanent eternity apart.

“Do you know how we’ll get out?” she asks.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to trace my steps back…” The Realm might as well have changed the layout by now, hoping to keep them in. “But I have friends waiting for us. We’ll be okay. I’m thinking I’ll just conjure a door from within, out of the darkness around us. It’s how I got in, anyway.”

She barely pauses before replying. “I have a friend waiting for me at the beach. I told him I wouldn’t take long in my routine walk.”

Terra chuckles to himself. Making friends in the Realm of Darkness. Of course, that’s so Aqua. “We’ll bring him with us. Don’t worry.”

They head downhill, through the shorter wheat stalks until they reach grassy foothills that level off as the beach gets closer.

Aqua grips his hand and keeps herself still, nearly yanking him backwards. “Terra, wait.”

The caution in her voice is loud. But there is nothing around them. “What is it?”

A rumble, which is soft at first but creeps ever closer with a sickening speed that makes his hair stand on edge. The ground shakes like it wants to throw them off their feet. Through it bursts a pillar of Heartless, squirming all over each other and spiraling as if to act as one tremendous force. The darkness emanating from them is massive, and without his armor, Terra feels the nausea overpowering him. This tower can’t be an easy one to defeat. He wraps his arms around her, for protection.

“Aqua,” he warns, hinting that the best course of action is to run.

“We have to.” She pushes through his elbow, summoning their Master’s Keyblade and beginning a sprint, ready to attack. Determined. Quick to react. Aqua. She reacts to this thing with evades that come so easily to her, she must have been fighting it for quite some time now.

Which means that running away won’t do a damn thing for them.

The tower has a sickening exertion to its attacks, easily breaking through his reflecting barriers. Since it keeps itself suspended in the air, his grounded techniques aren’t much use.

But she’s spectacular. Like a swan flying through the air, summoning trails of ice to skid and keep up pace with the enemy. She has built herself to be a Master in ways he has never expected, with choreographies that resonate with resistance and endurance. She dances with the light that shines through the Keyblade, building power until she and the area around her is bathed in it, with a force so blinding, and yet so beautiful, it keeps the tower at bay.

Sometimes.

As mesmerizing as she is, she shouldn’t be fighting this alone anymore.

He scurries to place himself under the Heartless tide, lifting his free hand up into the air, and focuses on the air pressure in between. Making all those particles combust exactly the way Xemnas would do it. With every explosion that comes, let there be another, until they swallow each other… until the tide has to pass through massive destruction when it travels, because it’s too late for it to turn around and avoid it anymore. With her in the air, she skids across ice suspended in the air and attacks with shockwaves from above – the two best friends squeezing this monstrosity right between their blows.

It retaliates – against her. She falls to the ground and rolls, and he stops his work immediately. Sliding over to her, he anticipates the tide as it turns and lunges toward them, which will probably take them both in one clean sweep.

He raises his palms from the ground up, summoning a barrier of nothingness as it stands tall and erect, and holds it as the tide crashes into it. Electricity separates some of the Heartless from one another, but it’s a terrible wall to keep up. The tide itself is too heavy and it nearly breaks it. He feels her hands on his biceps, leaning into him, as if to help him keep it up. He focuses on spreading those electric waves, to keep hurting this menace.

It backs off, and he can relax – for now at least. It circles back for another go around, and the thought of it even coming after her – that’s it.

He commands his Keyblade to warp and expand, setting itself as a canon that he props onto his shoulder. It will take all the energy he has in him, and he’ll probably won’t be able to walk anymore in this state when Xehanort wants to break free so badly, but it will do. For her.

The canon conjures a piercing, fiery light within, and with a yell, he exerts all of it into the tide, effectively breaking it apart and scaring it away, leaving the seldom welcomed stillness of quiet. He collapses onto his hands, his headache threatening to split his skull into two, as he whispers to himself that he’ll be okay. The pain will go away. He just needs time. Keep awake. For her.

Aqua crouches next to him, holds him by the forearm and gives his palm a gentle squeeze.

“That was impressive,” she says. He tries to retort that he’s learned new things along the way, but his heaving is still too much. “You okay?” She touches his face and he leans into her hand, nearly kissing it but stopping himself short, rolling his lips inward as he tries to practice self-control.

He takes several breaths until they slow down, and she patiently waits for him. She seems calm, collecting herself so quickly after such an intense fight. To think she has been doing this for twelve years and he can barely manage one night. That he succumbs to weakness in this place so easily.

“You’ve always been stronger than me,” he says with a chuckle that hurts. Not from the soreness, but from admitting how much better she is than him at everything.

“Terra, please,” she scoffs, massaging his forearm. Her voice is tired. “When we would arm wrestle, I always had to use two hands.”

“You even pushed with the weight of your entire body. You’d still lose.” He smirks, and she grins back. How grateful he is that they can talk as if time hasn’t passed for them, teasing each other like the Mark of Mastery Exam has never happened.

He should really summon his armor right now, with such a massive headache looming over him. But her touch – he can’t pull himself away from it. As if the grace of her fingers is the mark of light, melting away his concerns and dulling the pain throbbing in his scalp. He leans forward close to her, nearly touching her forehead with his. Even when it’s this dark, looking at her is the most calming feeling he could ever experience. She’s brighter than the moon. At least to him.

“There’s so much I want to tell you,” he says, wondering if desperation is making him choose this moment to confess. “We have to talk. About what happened. About us…” With that last one, his voice hitches. It’s terrifying, more so than the Heartless tide, to talk about where the two of them stand. “About the Master.”

She flinches at the mention of Eraqus, closing her eyes and taking a breath to calm herself. “I know. We have a lot to catch up on. But… I want to do it with a clean mind. Away from the darkness, you know? I just don’t want to spend another minute here. Please…”

That last word comes out as a whisper, her eyes pleading. She grips his arm tighter, and he realizes that she needs constant reassurance, as if she still has a hard time believing she’ll ever leave this rotten place.

He bites his lip, wanting to kick himself for being so selfish. “Of course, your freedom comes first.”

A relief passes over her as though she’s been anticipating bad news and has been given mercy instead. She throws his arm around her shoulders, having him use her as support in order to stand up.

“You’re going to love Traverse Town,” he says, noticing as they walk together that she again has a small smile to face, her cheeks plumping. He rests his head on hers, and she gives him a gentle nudge.

“Where?”

“I came from there. It’s a beautiful city, the kind you’d want to take a vacation in. The cuisine is delicious, and they have these colored lights that shine every night…” It’s perfect. When she’s free, she’ll eat. And sleep, most importantly. And by those beautiful lights that switch between color and white, he’ll give her gifts. Or if not, just laughs. Then he’ll tell her how he feels, and hope for the best.

The sand makes it harder to take steps, but she keeps a solid support for him. The waves here are gentle and unimposing. He can’t believe there is anything that is this placid in this Realm, but it sounds relaxing. The moon hovers just above the horizon, nearly swallowed by the water. It is so bright, it might as well be its own door to the other side. Funny, two days ago he stood on a beach in Destiny Islands, wishing that he could take Aqua to see the ocean. They might as well be gazing upon opposites ends of the same body of water.

She leaves him to sit on a boulder, but their need to touch each other lingers so much that they only let go when both of their arms are outstretched, her fingers gliding off of his. A man a short distance away in a black cloak sits, watching the waves dance. She tells him that it’s time to go – they can finally be free. Her friend is here. They’re going to be okay.

She keeps taking desperate glances back toward Terra, as if he’ll disappear in between. And yet, a small smile never leaves her face.

From the sound of the man’s voice, he is older, and he begs to be allowed a wee bit of time to stand up. For the sake of his back, he’s been sitting here for far too long. He leans on her for support until he’s on both of his feet, and then turns to face Terra.

“That man,” he says, his deep voice getting slightly louder, as if to caution her of an enemy. “We mustn’t go with him.”

That voice. A blonde beard. Terra shivers, and the muscles through his arms tense.

Ansem.

He doesn’t know why he knows that name, and he’s too scared to try to understand.

Aqua tries to reason with him, tries to say that this is a friend who has grown up with her since childhood – but Terra wonders if she’s fooling herself just as much. Maybe the headache that keeps coming back will always be inevitable, and he’s just delaying what will happen. Witlessly.

“A clever trick to play on a vulnerable girl, Xehanort,” Ansem spits, holding her arm as if to try to keep her at bay.

“I’m not Xehanort,” Terra mumbles loudly, his tongue unable to produce sharp enough sounds to articulate clear words. And it terrifies him even more. The headache roars and massaging his temples doesn’t work. His ears whistle so intensely, he’s afraid he’ll go deaf.

Aqua shoves the old man’s grip off of her, scampering towards her friend. “Terra, tell me how I can help you.” She holds onto his arms, trying to get him to sit straight.

He grabs onto her arms. Too tightly, maybe, making her jump. “I’ve left the door open for you,” he manages to say, praying that she can understand him. “Don’t give up. Keep going. We’ll be together-”

He yells from the pain, the headache spreading to his neck. The whistling stops, and all is silent. Eerily silent. He cannot hear his own breathing. Or the waves. Or her. He attempts to make sounds, feeling the vibration in his vocal chords, but he doesn’t know if he’s actually saying any words. Until the vibration ceases, and all commands to speak stop working.

She looks terrified. Brave Aqua, her eyes wide and her lips pursed, shaking her head as if denying what she is seeing. He wants to tell her that he’s scared, too. That she isn’t alone.

He digs into his pocket to pull out his orange Wayfinder, and presses it into her palm until she grabs hold of it.

He has to tell her. Somehow. He interlaces his fingers with hers in her other hand, holding it upward in between the two of them. Coaxing her to come a little closer. He cups her cheek, leaning forward to kiss her on the forehead. And he stays, letting his lips feel her skin, breathing in her hair, relaxing as much as possible as he savors this moment for as long as it can last.

Until he cannot smell or feel the sensation in his lips or fingers anymore. He opens his eyes. At least he can still see.

The pain, it has also completely subsided, his whole body going numb. No more headache. No more soreness. She gazes into him, moving her mouth to say something but he can’t hear what.

He doesn’t like the look she is giving him, and he can’t apologize or ease her worries. He searches the beach, looking for any sign of hope. Any sign of light.

And there, he sees it. A bird with a short beak, waddling on the rocky shore, though its reflection can’t be found in the water. It shines a soft, white light, just like the rabbit. Its feathers ruffle, a crown briefly standing up before it shakes itself calm.

A cockatoo.

Ven, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be asleep.

Sleep.

It sounds so welcoming right now, to let the exhaustion take over and he can then heal. Not that he has a choice in the matter. It will take him over, letting him drift into ecstasy, the best slumber he’ll have all week. The last image he sees is the cockatoo flapping its wings. He falls, unable to feel himself hitting the ground. Just a never-ending drop, and it’s blissful.

I didn’t get to tell her how I felt about her. That’s fine. I’ll do it when I wake up.

A/N: NO IT ISN’T OVER. I’ll say it one more time, but there is a sequel to this. It wasn’t planned that way at the beginning. But after so many internal debates with myself over the summer, I’ve decided that it was just so much more organized to split my story in two. This was always the halfway point. The next chapter literally picks up where this leaves off.

That being said, I want to thank my readers from the bottom of my heart. It’s such a strange thing - even though the story isn’t over, I am burying my baby under this title, which has stuck with me for almost a year now. It is like creating a void, and I hope that the sequel can fill it. For all those readers, who have been with me since the beginning, who have discovered this somewhere along the middle of its journey, and who have just joined on the adventure - but especially to those who have stuck it out to the end, THANK YOU SO MUCH. Your support has kept this girl alive. Literally.

As for the sequel, I’ll see if I can salvage what I can from KH3 to adapt to it. “A Powerful Enough Dream” will simply be a very divergent AU. I’m sure some of you are wondering what that would even look like, especially since I maintain the position that I wish Aqua fell to darkness out of her own volition. I posted a preview called “Sonne” on AO3 exclusively to show what that looks like!! (I’m sorry I won’t post links directly to this, I’m scared that Tumblr is going to hide my post). If people are receptive enough to “Sonne,” then I’ll consider continuing this story.

For those of who are disappointed that Terra hasn’t met Dark Aqua (which I have warned that I wasn’t going to go there with this story), I have written a new fic called “The Ocean On His Shoulders” that honors that. <3

[akar0ku]

Right now I’m working on a 100 theme challenge and a 30 kink meme, both for Radiata Stories. The first one I’m trying to get a variety of stuff and am trying to stock pile about 25 fics at a time before posting them over a 25 day period. The kink meme is just for fun and to give me a break since I’m not taking it to seriously. It’s also 100% self serving sooooo I’m just gonna dump a bunch of smut for my favorite character everywhere. If you haven’t guessed this is a part of the kink meme.

p.s. I’m seeing if I like posting the whole story to tumblr better than just sharing the AO3 link. Here’s the AO3 version if that’s easier.

Prompt 1: Cuddling

Summery: Jarvis and Jack find navigating the aftermath of a hook up to be both awkward and a little more guilt ridden then they thought.

Warning: Implied underaged sex, also I did a poor job following the prompt. Cuddling is literally the only one I had a hard time making a plot for, go figure.

Now he’d really done it. Of all the stupid things he had done in his life, in all the ways he had inadvertently fucked himself over, this really took the cake.

“You gonna be okay there?”

No, he wasn’t going to be able to talk his way out of this one. As soon as tomorrow hit, everyone would know. The kid would realize how messed up this was and tell everyone they worked with. Hell he’d probably go running to the castle guards over what happened.

“Um, Sarge?”

His life was over now. They’d throw him in the dungeons and leave him there to rot for eternity. He’d forever be known to the world as a degenerate and a pervert. People would tell stories of him to their young ones, of how his wandering soul would abduct them into the night if they didn’t behave.

“So like, is the massive panic attack a common thing for old people after getting laid or is this just a you thing?”

“Aw, can it will you! You have no idea what kind of a predicament this puts me in!” Jarvis hissed as he rolled over to face his bed mate. A huge mistake when he was met with the sight of a young lean naked boy; laying on his side and propping his head up on an open palm, the blanket barely draped across his waist, and large innocent brown eyes staring at him like he was a chore...well the boy wasn’t so innocent anymore, no thanks to him.

“Right, should have guessed it was a you thing. What’s the problem? You seemed into this a few hours ago.”

“How do you NOT see the problem?! I’m twice your age. I just deflowered a damn child.”

“Last I checked I was legally an adult. Also don’t say deflower, I’m not some virgin maiden from a story book.” Jack argued, pouting in response to the older man’s choice of words.

“Well you certainly weren’t experienced by any means.” Jarvis couldn’t help scoffing. He took a small amount of satisfaction in how Jack’s face practically glowed red in the dim light.

“Still doesn’t change that I’m an adult…”

“Hardly!”

“Hey I’m trying to help you feel better!”

“Fine! So maybe I’m not going to jail but people are still going to give me dirty looks. Plus I’ll lose my job now. You’re still my subordinate remember.”

“You’re saying that like we have to tell everyone.” It was probably the most observant thing Jack had said since they met. The thought honestly hadn’t even occurred to him.

“You’re not going to tell anyone or make some story about how I forced you into this?”

“No, why would I want to? Even if I did, who would ever believe that you could MAKE me do anything.” The look on Jack’s face was a mixture of confused, annoyed, and blissfully ignorant. The kid had no clue how precarious the situation was or how easily he could screw him over. Though despite their bickering, Jack had never proven to be the malicious type, not to his coworkers at the very least.

“Don’t paint your flagrant disobedience as a positive quality.” Jarvis huffed. Contrary to the scolding nature of his words he was very clearly relieved.

“Whatever, so what do we do now?”

That was a good question. Typically the people Jarvis brought home left not long after the fact, or if they did end up staying he had no perception of it, usually winding up passed out and waking up long after they had gone. He realized with some degree of embarrassment that this is the first sober hook up he’s had in a long time. Digressing, the sun wasn’t fully set yet so it was kind of early for them to go to sleep. Kicking the kid out seemed a bit crass and cold hearted though.

“Dunno, what do you wanna do?” He supposed he’d just roll with whatever the kid wanted. A part of him wanted Jack to stay...but the thought of vocalizing that felt awkward and needy.

He watched as Jack averted his gaze and stared upwards towards the head of the bed. The look of uncertainty was alien on his usually confident face but clearly showed that the boy did indeed have an idea of what he wanted but was struggling to spit it out. Eventually the boy moved to crawl across the short space separating them. He nuzzled his face into the older man’s bare chest, wrapping one arm around his torso and struggling for a moment to find a place for the other before settling on leaving it awkwardly curled between them.

Despite being well toned, the boy’s body felt oddly small and out of place against him. It’s not the filled out body of a fully grown man yet but he can't really compare it to the feeling of a woman either. His stomach churns when he remembers it's the build of a child, just entering into the realm of adulthood. He knows Jack is of age and is certain he won’t say anything, but he wonders if his conscience can handle keeping this between them. He hasn’t always made the best choices in life, but he wanted to believe he wasn’t so unscrupulous.

“Please stop it with the moral crisis. It’s making you tense up and I’m never going to get to sleep with you making things so heavy.”

...On second thought, why exactly was he feeling so bad about what he’d done to this brat? Whatever, if the kid was going to act so cocky and like he was doing him a favor by staying then he was going to reap what he wanted from this while he could.

He grabs a hold of Jack and rolls onto his back, bringing the younger man with him so he's laying against his chest and straddling his waist. The indignant yelp from the brunette is worth a good laugh and for the moment he’s almost completely forgotten about the guilt he had been struggling with moments ago.

“What? You ready for round two already?” Jack's tone is intended to be snarky but the red flush across his face and the slight waver in his voice clearly betrayed the mix of excitement and nerves he was trying to cover up.

“Tsk, I wish.” As if to mock him, his still overly sensitive cock gives a sad and painful twitch. “I’m not young enough to go at it so soon. You’re just going to have to settle with cuddling.”

“Didn’t think you were such a cuddle bug, Sarge.”

Jarvis knows his face is burning red at the accusation and he covers it with his free hand to hide the fact from the snickering teen. It doesn’t help either that the brat keeps referring to him in that casual honorific.

“Yeah, well I never knew you were such a pervert.” He says to draw attention to the the obvious erection he can feel twitching against his stomach. Wait the kid was seriously ready to go another round? Jeez, if only he were about a decade younger.

Jack’s laughter stops rather abruptly and when Jarvis pulls his hand away to look, he sees Jack’s face burning equally as hot. The flush is clearly not from embarrassment though, he can recognize the look Jack makes when he’s thinking hard on something from a mile away.

“You know…” Jack starts, pushing himself up with his hands against Jarvis’ chest and smirking down at him in a way that Jarvis can only guess is intended to be sultry. “I could always...I dunno, be the one...to...” Jack doesn’t need to finish the sentence for Jarvis to catch on to what he’s trying to ask. The rapid shift from cheeky confidence, to apprehension, and finally sheepish uncertainty makes it even clearer. Jarvis can’t help the patronizing smirk pulling at his lips or the laughter bubbling up from his chest.

“Hey! Stop laughing.”

Jarvis’ barely contained snorts escalated into full on laughter the moment he’s been called out. A part of him feels bad, the boy’s face is so red, he’s surprised his head hasn’t blown up and he could already feel the new erection wilting fast against his stomach. He really shouldn’t be laughing at the fumbling of a sexually awakened teen...but it was just too funny.

Now rife with embarrassment, Jack sunk back down until he was laying flat again. He glared off to the side, a pout on his face and his chin resting against the other man’s still heaving chest. The first thought that came to Jarvis’ mind was that of angered puppy that just had its ball taken away. He had to admit, it was kinda cute and fitting to the boys temperament.

“Nice try,” he ruffled the teens hair with a bit more force than was necessary, earning a disgruntled groan. “But no.”

Jarvis didn’t pay much mind to the younger's continued pouting and settled back into the mattress, keeping one arm firmly wrapped around Jack’s waist while throwing the other up over his head. He busies himself with tracing formless shapes into the younger's back, finding it oddly hypnotic to the point that he’s starting to doze off.

Jack must have found something soothing in the action as well, eventually easing out of whatever indignation he was feeling. He shifting so his cheek was pressed against Jarvis’ collarbone and hooked his arms underneath his shoulders.

Jarvis closed his eyes and savored the intimacy as he started to drift off.

“Hey…” Jack’s voice brought him back from the edges of sleep, making him hum in mild annoyance. “You’re not uncomfortable like this?” He shook his head ‘no’ in reply. If he were honest, he kinda liked the reassuring pressure of another person's weight pressing into him.

“Kay…” A long pause stretched on before Jack admitted with a slightly nervous chuckle. “This is kinda nice, actually.”

Jarvis snorted in amusement. He brought his free hand back down and affectionately combed his fingers thought messy brown hair. The action seemed to elicit a different response then expected though, bringing a sad sigh from Jack’s lungs.

“You still regret doing this?” Now that was a question that had some weight to it. Enough to fully jar the older of the two out of the half asleep state he was in. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, struggling to figure out exactly what to say. Here he had been feeling sorry for himself and worrying about the repercussions of his actions, he hadn’t really thought of how Jack could interpret that on his end. It hadn’t occurred to him that maybe Jack was looking for him to show some sign that this was something he had wanted as well.

Did he really regret what he had done? He thinks back on all the times he had caught himself staring for a little too long. The occasions where he felt confusingly overjoyed and shamefully embarrassed to the point of anger when the young corporal would occasionally drag him home when he’d had a few too many. All the moments he’s denied that maybe he felt something a little more than just distaste or at the very least amicable annoyance towards Jack. He’s pretty sure there’s substantial enough evidence to prove he’d do it again if presented with the situation all over. Maybe it’s about time he actually started looking into the nature of whatever attachment he’s been feeling lately. At the very least he needs to admit he’s physically attracted.

“I just feel bad I was your first. You honestly could have done better.” It’s not until he speaks it that it fully dawns on him what had make him so upset earlier. He’s sure if Jack had been more promiscuous by this point he may not feel as torn about the situation.

“Is that really it?” Jack looks both relieved and incredulous. “I already told you, I can make my own choices. So stop feeling bad.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jarvis chided, not fully convinced that Jack wouldn’t change his opinion sometime down the line. “I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it now. Just do me a favor and remember how adamant you were about making your own choices before you decide to report me down the line okay.”

“Stop saying that!” Jack pushes himself back up again, this time glaring down at Jarvis with that angry puppy expression again. Again Jarvis feels laughter bubbling up from deep in his chest. God, when did he have such a soft spot for the kid. Must be some post sex magic heightening the already dubious attraction he’s been harboring.

“Just get back down here and shut up already. You're so needy.” He doesn’t really want to get too involved in the topic at the moment. He’s tired and all he really wants is to bask in the warmth of post-coital intimacy before he winds up falling too far into a guilt trip again.

“How is that being needy? Plus you're the one smothering me right now!” Jack fought against the arms pressing down into his back, but the effort was fruitless as he was simply squashed down into the other man’s chest. The only thing Jack could do at that point was glare and stick his tongue out, an action reciprocated by the second of the pair.

“See, now who’s acting like a kid.” Jack mumbled, almost getting cut off with a stifled yawn.

Jarvis doesn’t even bother with a rebuttal, instead running a hand through Jack’s messy hair, down the length of his back, and repeating the process as if the boy were little more than a tired pet. He watched as Jack struggled to keep his eyes open before eventually succumbing to his fatigue and finally drifting off.

It’s a sweet sight. One that does little to assuage the guilt that’s fighting to rear its head again. He tries with all his might to swallow it back down and has some success. But he can’t get over the fact that this was the boy’s first experience. He’d forever look back on this and even though he’s okay now, there’s little doubt Jack would eventually regret it. There’s nothing special to be had here, just a casual hook up and nothing more. Regardless of what happens further down the line, this instance was driven by little more than lust.

“Too tight.” He hears Jack mumble in his sleep and he realizes he’s stopped petting the sleeping brunette and has been clutching him to his body far too tightly to be comfortable. He eases up on the pressure but doesn’t release his hold. Again he focused on the pleasant feeling of being intimately close with someone, on how warm Jack’s body is, the gentle pressure of his chest expanding as he breathed, the tickle of unruly hair against his neck and face.

It seems to work for the time being. At least well enough that he can start feeling the fog of drowsiness overtaking him again. He supposes he’ll worry about it tomorrow instead, there’s not much he can really do about it now anyway.

[fellintotartarus]

Camp Saving Grace

This is the fic I wrote for the @pjofemslashminibang! My partner was @fuvkingmagnus, who did the art for this.

words: ~5k

Reyna sighed with satisfaction, holding up the final finished product for the rooming lists. She knew some of the returning campers very well, and she made sure to put all the friends together, but not the ones that would cause trouble. There were a couple troublesome pairs; there were the Stoll brothers, always causing some prank or another. Reyna hated keeping them apart, but they were little rascals and they’d probably find their way into the same cabin anyway. She made sure all the enemies were on opposite ends of the camp grounds, so they didn’t even have to share a bathroom. At the bottom of the paper, she signed her name in her neat, loopy cursive: Reyna Avila Ramirez-Arellano.

Reyna walked up to the head counselor’s cabin; her home for the next month. It was only slightly more luxurious than the campers’ cabins. It had her own bathroom, and two queen beds (one of which she wouldn’t be needing) and a small desk. She placed the papers on her desk to use for reference later. She looked at the clock and sighed. She still had 4 hours till the kids arrived by bus.

Reyna stepped out onto the porch and took in the sight in front of her. This was her favorite place in the world as kid, and it still was today. Camp Saving Grace for Underprivileged Kids was her home from the ripe age of 5 years old. When she and her older sister Hylla were orphaned, they spent almost all the time here. Now she did so as head counselor. The year-round option had been closed off the year Reyna turned 15 and her sister 18, but, now at 21, she still spent all of her free time possible alone in the Long Island woods (with the owner’s permission, of course).

The U of cabins sprawled out on the main lawn, all uniquely painted and decorated. All this was done by the campers the first year that the camp was open, in Y2K, the year of bad fashion choices, which was displayed in some of the cabins. Some cabins reflected the early morning light, leaving little sunspots on the dew bathing the grass. Others were wildly painted, faded a lot over the years, but still drawing a lot of attention. There were 12 cabins total, each containing 3 pairs of bunk beds. It was hard work sorting all the kids this year, but Reyna managed it.

The owner of the camp was the nicest man Reyna had met since Puerto Rico. She barely knew about his life, but she did know that he was generous. She had heard less than pleasant stories about him, but she preferred to remain in her bubble of ignorance. She knew he had two kids, but she didn’t know about them or anything, for that matter.

Reyna took a deep breath and went back inside for a quick nap, relishing in the familiar smell of the sheets. She was lulled into sleep by the sound of insects chirping outside.

Reyna woke up tired, and she immediately knew she slept too much. There was a shuffling and a curse, and Reyna snapped her eyes open, looking for the threat. Before she knew it, she had pinned down a short haired, petite girl, with, wow, a lot of muscle.

“Oh my god, let me go!”

Reyna’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Who the hell are you?”

The girl straightened up, as much as she could when she was pinned down and said, “Who am I? Who are you? I own this place!”

Reyna gave her an even more advanced look of confusion and the girl rolled her eyes. Reyna was promptly flipped over so they were both lying on their backs. A faint memory tickled the back of her head, as if she were trying to remember something, but couldn’t.

The strange person stood up. “Thalia Grace? Daughter of the owner? Damn, you’d think I’d get some cred with the head counselor, but I guess not. Reyna right? The one that’s been here forever?”

Reyna shot Thalia her perfected steely glare and nodded curtly. So, that’s where she knew her from. She wasn’t much for words, and this Thalia was speaking all too much. “So, what are you doing here? And why are you tripping over my boots like you’re drunk?”

Thalia looked exasperated. “It would help if you didn’t put them at the entrance of the cabin. And it’s a long story.” She sighed and rubbed her head nervously.

Reyna just stood there and tapped her foot with a cocked eyebrow. If this girl was just going to barge in and disrupt her perfect summer, she was going tell her why.

Thalia sighed. “Fine… I may or may not have gotten in trouble, and my dad may or may not have told me that this was the only way to get my car, phone, laptop, credit card, you name it back. So here I am. Co-head counselor.”

Reyna’s eyes shot open wide. Co-head counselor? That’s not how that worked. That defeated the purpose of a head counselor. No way.

“Hell no.” Reyna whispered, half to herself.

“Um, hell yeah.” Thalia insisted. “You are not going to get in the way of me getting my life back.”

“Well, you’re not going to get in my way of making this the perfect summer for these kids.”

“Well, you’re…” Thalia looked at a loss for words. “Look, whatever. Can we at least pretend like I’m doing stuff? That way Dad will give me my stuff back and you can give these kids the summer they’ve dreamed of.” She said the last part sarcastically.

Reyna sighed. She might as well just come to terms with this. “You can’t just take the credit. Do at least some stuff. Convince the kids that you do stuff. Just don’t—” she waggled her finger, “—don’t mess up any of my plans. I spent months on these plans.”

Thalia pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes, and shook her head. Reyna noticed a small tattoo of a crescent moon on her right forefinger; it was cute. Thalia said, “Sure, yeah, okay. I can, uh, make some announcements? And carry around a clipboard!” She said the last part as if it were a revelation and she deserved a Nobel Prize.

Reyna threw her arms up and said, “Great. Well now that that’s figured out, I have to get ready for the kids.”

Thalia’s eyes went the size of saucers. “They’re, like, 5 minutes away. I was about 20 minutes ahead of them. So…”

“Shit,” Reyna cursed, before running out, rather haphazardly, to meet the little rascals.

♥ ♥ ♥ 

             The entrance to Camp Saving Grace was somewhat extravagant. Reyna had been told by some of the campers that it reminded them of the Jurassic Park gate. That was a stretch.

             It was large and stone, a sort of a large arch. Once sleek and silver gas torches that lit at night left dark scorch marks on the rocks above them. That was probably the part that reminded the kids of Jurassic Park. A large wood sign at the top, worn at the edges and with water lines streaking down the letters, read “Camp Saving Grace” and then smaller at the bottom, “for Underprivileged Children.” It was magnificent, once upon a time.

             The buses full of kids ages 8-16 rolled through, and Reyna and Thalia waited, Reyna collected cool, and Thalia with sweaty palms. The buses were beat up after so many uses, and the sound coming from them sounded like an old man with one lung walking up the stairs.

             “Damn. They’re gonna die soon,” Thalia whispered, as if reading Reyna’s thoughts.

             “Shut up,” Reyna whispered back. She sighed. “Prepare for takeoff.”

             The kids got off the buses in mad fury; the younger ones off first because they always sat in the front, and the teens, few and far between, off last, with their earbuds in and their brains tuned out.

After everyone was settled in a clump with their bags, and after some of the older kids that had been around awhile exchanged hugs with Reyna, the two head counselors rallied for attention. Eyes locked with eyes and the summer began.

“Listen up, guys! I know you’re super excited for this summer to start, and I am, too, but there’s just some stuff we need to take care of before we can kick back.

“Okay! Heads of cabins! These are the people that have been here at least 5 years and are also one of the twelve oldest. I have Katie in cabin one, Jake in cabin two…” and so she continued until all of the cabin counselors knew where to go.

All the while, Thalia was just standing there with a stupid, fake smile on her face and rocking on her feet. Reyna tapped her on the shoulder and handed her the clipboard and whispered in her ear, “I’ll introduce you, and then you read what’s on that. Got it?” Thalia nodded.

“Okay, kiddos, guys, ladies, people, whatever you like,” she started. That was her line with the kids. They gave her shit the first year she was head counselor for not being inclusive of the ladies when she would say “guys,” and then she changed to “kiddos” and the older teens weren’t happy with that, and eventually it turned into the inclusion of all the kids, non-kids, ladies, men, and non-binary people of the camp. “This is Thalia Grace, she’s the daughter of Mr. Grace, the owner of this camp, and she’s here to be our co-head counselor! Now she’s got a few announcements on cabin rooming.”

The crowd of 72 kids started buzzing as soon as she said that. This was the good stuff. This would determine whether they would have a life for the next 4 weeks.

“Just read what’s on the list, okay?” Reyna muttered to Thalia. Thalia nodded quickly and brushed off the comment. She scanned the list with her eyebrows furrowed and her lips pursed. After a second though she just sighed, looked up, and said, “Go pick your cabins!”

Reyna gasped in horror as the young campers yelled in triumph and took off running toward the cabins. The older ones looked at her in confusion; they knew she didn’t work this way. “Everything has a place and everything in its place” was her life-long, or rather, summer-long motto.

Reyna wheeled on Thalia with furious eyes, which seemed to creep the hell out of Thalia.

“What the hell did you do?!”

Thalia sputtered for an answer, and eventually came out with, “I didn’t think it would matter?”

Reyna pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled loudly.

“I have to fix this.”

Thalia answered, “Or you could leave them be? They look like they’re having so much fun.”

She was right. The kids looked like they were having the time of their lives. She sighed. It’s not like the Stoll brothers wouldn’t’ve ended up in the same cabin anyway. They always found a way to trade or sneak in together or something.

“You’re right. I’m just going to let the counselors know, so they don’t freak out like I did,” she sighed. At this, Thalia let out a chuckled. She had a nice laugh. Reyna smiled and took off running.

♥ ♥ ♥

That night, after everyone was settled in their cabins for the night (“Lights out isn’t gonna make them sleep, Reyna.”) Reyna helped Thalia put sheets on the spare bed in the head cabin.

“Sorry I didn’t do this, I just wasn’t expecting you,” Reyna hurriedly explained.

Thalia snorted. “I guessed.”

“So, I guess we should come up with a shower schedule? The hot water doesn’t last long enough for two showers in a row. How often do you wash your hair?” Reyna’s eyes drifted up to Thalia’s short pixie cut, but not the “can I speak to your manager” kind. More of the badass “mess with me and you lose teeth” kind.

“Uh, I wash it every day, but my showers are never longer than 5 minutes ‘cause it’s short,” Thalia replied and rubbed her hair. Reyna really liked it. It was tough, but still feminine, and her black hair just framed her shockingly blue eyes so perfectly…

Reyna snapped out of it. She couldn’t be thinking like this. Not after what happened last time she liked a girl.

“Earth to Reyna?” Thalia waved her hand to get her attention.

“Sorry, I was just… uh, anyway, that bathroom schedule!” Reyna tried for a smile. It probably came out looking more pained than anything. “I wash my hair, like, every other day, and I need to take a short shower in the morning to wake up, or I don’t function right.”

“Cool, so then I’ll shower at night and you shower in the mornings, “Thalia smiled, and hers didn’t look like she was being eaten from the inside out.

Reyna went into the bathroom to change into her PJs and brush her teeth. When she came out, the lights were off and Thalia was laying in her bed playing something on her phone. Reyna sighed and got in bed.

“Lights out, I guess,” she muttered as she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep.

♥ ♥ ♥

The first week of camp flew by, and it consisted of only one crying child. Reyna considered it an accomplishment.

The Sunday that marked a week since the kids had arrived, she had an afternoon off. She bargained with Thalia to oversee everything for just three hours so she could take a well-deserved nap.

Just as she was dozing off, Thalia came bursting in, panting and covered in mud.

“Ok so you know how you were all excited with the record of only one crying kid the first week?” she started. “We now have 4 at the same time.”

Reyna groaned into her pillow and replied, “What happened? Can you not keep an eye on them for, like, 2 seconds?”

Thalia said, “I know, I know, I’m just not great with kids. Also, it was the Stolls.”

“Great.”

The Stolls were brothers that looked so much alike and were so close together in age that everyone thought they were twins. They were troublemakers, to say the least.

Reyna got out of bed and ruffled her long hair. She liked to wear it long because she might not care much about fashion, but she loved how badass she looked in long plaits. Thalia was gaping.

“What are you looking at?” Reyna asked.

Thalia turned red. “Oh, I just, uh, have never seen you with your hair down, I guess.”

Reyna thought about it for a second. It was plausible; she wore her hair in boxer braids almost all the time. Why Thalia was staring like that, though, was beyond her.

“Let’s walk and talk. What happened? What was the prank?” Reyna said as she slipped on her boots and put her long-ass hair in a haphazard ponytail.

“Well, they set up a mud bucket above the door of cabin eleven, and four of the 8s walked through at the same time. Then they set a piglet loose.”

“Where the hell did they get a piglet? And how did you get muddy?”

Thalia stiffened a little. “All the girls wanted hugs after they got slopped, sadly. I was victim #5.”

Reyna chuckled and picked up the pace to get those little boogers in trouble.

♥ ♥ ♥

Two days later, Thalia was lying in bed after not asking to borrow Reyna’s laptop.

“Come on, I just need to check my email,” Thalia had said after Reyna came out of the bathroom only to find Thalia with her laptop and a cara de ‘yo no fuí,’ as her Puerto Rican family would have said.

Reyna sighed and said, “Fine, just don’t tell your dad that I let you. He would fire me.”

“Uh huh,” Thalia replied, distractedly. Without looking up from the computer, she muttered, “I also need to check my Instagram, Twitter, and Tumblr.”

Reyna raised her eyebrows and sarcastically said, “Okay, and not Facebook?”

Thalis looked up from the computer, stared at Reyna, and whispered, “Facebook is dead, Reyna. Did you not go to the funeral?”

“I am amazed at your lack of picking up sarcasm,” Reyna said.

Thalia laughed and replied, “And I’m amazed at yours.”

Reyna’s brow furrowed and then shot up.

“Hey!”

The laughter could be heard all the way in Cabin 12.

♥ ♥ ♥

Over the span of the second week, Reyna and Thalia became closer. It was mostly sarcastic jokes and little giggles her and there, but there were some awkward, longing stares that made Reyna’s skin crawl. Why the hell was she being so weird? Thalia was nice, sure, and pretty, sure, and…

Stop.

Reyna shook her head. There was no way this could happen. Thalia probably wasn’t into girls and then she would be weird and tell her dad and then Reyna would get fired and have to live on the streets and die alone.

That was some odd forward thinking. She shook it off.

She wasn’t ready for this again. Granted, the last time she liked a girl, she was 5 years old in Puerto Rico, but it was the reason she and Hylla moved to the States… alone.

“Are you okay?” Thalia said with concern, snapping Reyna out of it.

“Uh, yeah, why?” Reyna replied, blinking the thoughts away.

Thalia meekly pointed at Reyna’s cheek. There were tears streaming down her face.

“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry, that’s kind of embarrassing,” Reyna murmured and hurriedly swiped at her cheeks.

“No worries. You wanna talk about it?” Thalia muttered softly so as to not let the kids hear.

“Maybe later, in the cabin.”

Thalia nodded and turned around to address the kids.

“Ok, guys, I know you guys have an annual “halfway done” party to commemorate the first two weeks gone. Reyna’s not feelin’ it right now, so I’m gonna help you guys plan the activities for this Friday.”

Reyna shook her head. No way was she going to let this hell-raiser take control of the “halfway done” party. She opened her mouth to speak, but, without turning around, Thalia put a finger on her lips and continued talking.

“Reyna’s plans have boring stuff, like a movie night with Finding Nemo, and some chess lessons. Boring, right?” The kids joined in a chorus of yeahs. “Right, so, instead, we’re going to have water balloon fights and a pie eating contest followed by a killer dinner. Sound cool? Great.”

Reyna and Thalia walked away, Reyna sputtering in disbelief and Thalia with a grin on her face.

“They like me, right?” she inquired while having a smile to rival the sun.

Reyna, finally having regained the power of speech, replied, “Yeah, but you messed up my plans! I had those perfect!”

Thalia came to an abrupt stop and turned around. Reyna crashed into her back and her hand came in contact with Thalia’s butt. She promptly blushed profusely.

“Chess lessons? You thought that would interest them?”

Reyna’s voice got high and defensive. “I know what I’m doing! I’ve been head counselor or counselor of these kids for years!”

“Answer my question.”

“I put the chess lessons in there to keep them in check. If they have too many fun activities back to back, they go crazy. By putting in half an hour of chess, they calm down enough to allow wiggle room for them to get excited again. You try taking care of them after 3 consecutive crazy fun activities!”

Reyna took a deep breath. Ranting was not her favorite thing to do in the world, but it got her point across when she needed to.

Thalia stood there slack-jawed. She sheepishly looked down and answered, “I guess you do know these kids pretty well.”

Reyna whipped her ponytail and began walking toward their cabin. As she looked back over her shoulder and said “You better believe it,” she could almost be certain that a red-faced Thalia was staring at her back side.

♥ ♥ ♥

Reyna was sitting on her bed on her laptop when Thalia came out of the bathroom drying her short hair with a towel. She trained her eyes on her screen in order to not convey any emotion to the other girl. Her eyes began to water and she gave up, taking a big breath. She felt the bed dip at the end.

She looked up and Thalia was sitting at the foot of the bed, looking at her with concern.

“What?” Reyna said, looking back down at her screen.

“Do you wanna tell me what happened earlier?”

“With what?”

Thalia sighed and said, “You know… the crying.”

Reyna shook her head. “Not really.”

“Are you sure?” Thalia pressed.

“Yes.”

“Quite sure?”

“Yes.”

“Really, really, very, quite –”

“Fine. If it’ll get you off my case…”

“Yes, it will.” Thalia said firmly.

Reyna took another deep breath. She considered it. It wasn’t like she didn’t remember; on the contrary, she remembered it like it was yesterday. But she didn’t know if she wanted to tell Thalia. The girl was practically a stranger. Over the past few weeks they’d slowly become closer, but they still knew nothing about each other.

“Reyna.”

“What?”

“Tell me.”

“Jesús, you’re persistent.”

“I was born in Puerto Rico, where my dad raised me and my sister by himself. On one of the first days of kindergarten, I saw this one girl. She was so cute. She had this long, long dirty blonde hair, which was kind of exotic in Puerto Rico. Everyone was un frijolillo. She was really cute to me at the time. I already said that, didn’t I? Anyways, all the boys had little crushes on her. I really wanted to be friends with her. And you know how kindergarteners are, so I was friends with her within 2 days. She became my bestie. But I just didn’t feel like it was enough, y’know? So, one day, while we were on the playground, I kissed her. She didn’t get grossed out, in fact, she really liked it, too. We kept this up for about a week, going behind trees on the playground and kissing. Basically, just baby kisses, y’know? Little pecks on the lips. Then, one day, this kid saw us. He told on us and our parents got called. My dad was furious, calling me a lesbiana, and I didn’t even know what that meant. He kicked me out. Literally. He kicked me out of the door onto the street. I was 5. My older sister said that if I was gone, she was gone. She packed our bags for us while I waited at our favorite park and then we hitch-hiked to the docks and stowed away on a boat headed to Florida. We got caught in Tampa and got sent to foster homes all over the East coast, and finally ended up in New York. We got sent here in the summer. It all happened in less than a year,” Reyna finished, blinking away tears.

Thalia had tears running down her face and her hands covering her mouth. Reyna just sat there, tight lipped and with red-rimmed eyes.

“Oh my god. How old was your sister?”  Thalia whispered.

Reyna looked down and shut her eyes. “Eight.”

Thalia just shook her head. Tears were flung off her chin onto Reyna in her emphatic response.

“How could your dad be so cruel?” Thalia whispered.

“Yeah. He was cruel. When mom died, he reverted to drinking. When he got drunk enough, memories from the war would come back to him and he would try to fight them. The living room would end up wrecked and Hylla and I would have to clean up.”

“But how do you even remember all this?” Thalia replied in disbelief.

Reyna took a breath and started, “My family, going back all the way to Spain in the 16th century, was all soldiers. We adapted, I guess, to become strong and to have the good qualities necessary for a soldier in the military. That included a good memory. I was born with a freakishly good one, even the doctors noticed when I was really young. I can remember all the way back to my 2nd birthday.”

“Holy shit, that’s a good memory. Do you remember what I was wearing when we first met?” Thalia sort of leaned in and whispered.

Reyna shut her eyes and laughed a little bit, relieving the tension and trying to remember. “Black short sleeves, tight cargo pants,” she trailed off and opened her eyes to Thalia was wearing the same thing. “Seems to be your outfit of choice,” she said with a snort.

“Yeah. The pants are really comfortable and they make my butt look pretty great.” Thalia smiled.

Reyna laughed and nodded.

Thalia raised her eyebrows. “So, you agree?”

Reyna wrinkled her eyebrows. “What? About what?”

Thalia chuckled. “That they make my butt look good.”

“Oh,” Reyna squeaked. She took a breath. She prided herself in always speaking her mind, one way or another. This made no difference. So, she shrugged and said, “yeah.”

Thalia’s eyebrows raised and her face went red.

“I don’t deny myself the simple pleasures in life,” Reyna said with a cheeky smile.

“Is that a quote?” the still-red Thalia asked.

Reyna smiled. “The Fault in Our Stars.”

“Oh yeah! Damn, I love that book,” Thalia sighed.

Reyna cocked her head in disbelief. “For real? You don’t seem like the type to enjoy sappy books.”

Thalia fell back onto the bed and sighed. After a second, she replied, “John Green is an artist.”

Reyna fell back next to her. “I know, right? What’s your favorite book of his?”

“Looking for Alaska. It’s brutally honest and I love it. What about you?”

“The Fault in Our Stars. It’s the only one with even a remotely happy ending, although I haven’t read An Abundance of Katherines.”

Thalia snorted and said, “Oh, that one’s funny.”

“I guess I’ll put it on my list, then.”

They lay there in silence for a while.

♥ ♥ ♥

When the day of the party rolled around, Reyna was oozing stress through every pore of her body. Thalia was trying to calm her down with her already completed charts, lists, and a self-written note reminding her that she is amazing and can do anything she sets her mind to. Reyna nodded her head and started to calm down.

Thalia grinned and said, “You know who you remind me of?”

Reyna, furrowing her (perfect, Thalia noted) eyebrows, replied, “What? Oh. No, who?”

“Leslie Knope.”

“Who is that?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“What?”

“You’ve never seen Parks and Rec?”

Reyna shook her head.

“Well, man, you’re missing out big time. She’s this kick-ass lady that’s the Deputy Director of the Parks and Recreation Department of Pawnee, Indiana. Then she does this thing and becomes another thing, but that’s a spoiler so I won’t tell you, and we’re going to watch all of season one tonight.”

Reyna was smiling and she asked, “And exactly how do I remind you of her?”

“Oh! I guess I forgot to mention that part. She always has these binders and she’s super organized, and she decides everything with a pros and cons list. Also she’s hot.”

Reyna laughed, “That’s sweet, I guess…”

Then, with the full force of a hurricane, the kids came busting out of the cabins and into the commons. The tables had already been set up with coolers containing water balloons of all shapes and sizes. The kids reached in, digging their little hands around as many balloons as they could. They didn’t get far, though, before Reyna blew her whistle. The kids froze.

“Okay guys! Thalia’s going to read out the lists, accurately this time,” she said, shooting Thalia her meanest glare, “and then we’ll get started. She handed Thalia the clipboard.

As Thalia walked up to grab it, she said under her breath, “You know, I’ll never read the lists accurately.”

Reyna shrugged.

She was okay with it this time.

♥ ♥ ♥

That night, when the girls were binge watching Parks and Rec in the cabin, Reyna had to interject.

“Okay, so why is Leslie so hung up on Mark? It was, like, one hookup 6 years prior or something.”

Thalia laughed and nodded. “Yeah. It’s just a really hardcore crush I guess.”

“Also, Ann and Mark? Is this going to happen? Like, for real?”

Thalia just shrugged with a glint in her eyes, like she knew something but didn’t want to tell.

Of course, she knows, Reyna thought. She’s watched this show through, like, 10 times.

“Also, earlier you said Leslie was hot? Okay, she may be cute, but she’s definitely not hot,” Reyna added.

“No, yeah, she’s not that hot, I was just trying to hit on you by saying you’re hot.”

Reyna felt herself blushing under the backlight of the laptop. She turned her face to see Thalia, and her lips were met with another pair. The laptop fell off the bed with a dull thump, and Thalia was on top of Reyna, kissing her like there was no tomorrow. Reyna pulled away to take a breath and smiled. The rest of this summer was going to be good.

[entergamingxp]

Someone should make a game about: Bob Ross • Eurogamer.net

Leaves crackle under foot, and beams of light stream down from the canopy above as we amble towards another one of his favourite spots. Mud squelches and sighs, birdsong ribbons with the breeze, (Titanium) white clouds glance off the creek. We veer off track, and weave our way through the brush. Crouching, he comes to a halt in front of some bramble and I pull up beside him.

Gently, he places one hand on my shoulder and carefully peels the branches apart with the other. “Shoot, would you look at that rascal.” he says, as Peapod the Squirrel’s head pokes out from his shirt pocket. “That happy little mountain over there.”

Whenever I stick on Bob Ross, it feels like I’ve scraped the mud off my boots, hung up my coat and stepped into his quaint log cabin nestled in the woods. We’re going to relax and paint what we’ve just seen, perhaps have a glass of red and some stew afterwards. No matter who you are, what your situation, he’s just happy to share your company and it’s this, I think, which makes him special.

Originally aired from 1983 to 1994, Bob Ross’ The Joy of Painting guides viewers through a painting in a half hour burst made possible using a unique, easy-to-apply technique. The show came to a close many years ago, and yet Ross’ following has exploded.

Online streaming kick-started this resurgence. In 2015, Twitch hosted a nine-day Bob Ross marathon which introduced him to a new generation (it also helped cement the ASMR genre). The response was staggering, so much so, Netflix scrambled to add his show to its roster, and not long after, his family set up a YouTube channel which earned over one million subscribers in just one year. Despite no new show in over twenty years, he’s back in the limelight spreading joy, a fresh wind piercing through a dense smog of influencers.

Like so many others, I fell for Bob. They say love at first sight is when two eyes meet and there’s a magnetic pull, an inexplicable force drawing you closer together. Think this, but my eyes rolling up the deep trench in his pale blue shirt, tickling his beard, softening on his smile, swimming in his eyes, and zooming out to take in his perfectly spherical hair. The confident wield of the palette, the neat tuck where shirt folds into jean, heaven.

Then we paint, and the senses prickle. There’s the muted thump, thump, thump, like the tapping of a mic, as Bob deftly reapplies some colour to the brush. I relish the way he cleans it by striking it against the easel with a loud rattle, “to beat the Devil out of it”, and the mischievous grin which spreads across his face every time. Don’t get me started on the quick scrapes of his painting knives as he mixes hues. Bliss.

His voice! “Huuwisper light” as he’d say, and I couldn’t imagine a more perfect fit. It’s almost as if it’s finely tuned for the quiet life, massaged over years spent in the Alaskan countryside into a mellow rumble so soft it would be overwhelmed by the thrum of a city.

Well, I lost myself there. It’s easy to, when you’re talking Bob, and one suspects his demeanor is both a blessing and a curse. We foster such a fondness for his mannerisms, and his style, and his voice, his ‘Bob Rossness’, we might not take him seriously enough sometimes. I imagine he’d hate me saying this, but we mustn’t forget how skilful an artist he actually is.

“Let them have fun.” #bobross #quote pic.twitter.com/xuY0dWVBOP

— Bob Ross Official (@BobRossOfficial) September 27, 2019

Bob uses a wet-on-wet painting technique, or alla prima, as it’s otherwise known, which translates from the Italian to “At first attempt”. In simple terms, he’ll apply layers of wet paint on top of previously administered layers of wet paint to form an entire landscape in just one sitting.

It’s puzzling when you first watch him take to the canvas. There’s an assurance to his brush strokes as he swipes and blotches, but it’s practically impossible to visualise the finished product. In an almost mechanical fashion, you’ll see him select a two inch brush and whip a backdrop together, before producing a half-size round brush and pistoning it lightly up, then down. A thin line trickles through the centre of these smatterings, and suddenly, you see it – a “happy little tree”. Painting knives cut phantom silhouettes, but a quick scrape adds depth. The tips of bristles smash together colour, and a wipe smears. Steadily, a blur steps forward.

Many greats have used this direct method of painting as a way of swiftly capturing the spirit of a subject in the moment. There is often little to no underpainting, no pre-sketch, just a projection from sight and mind, where ‘perfect’ forms don’t matter. With alla prima the painter grants the paint liberty, and this brings wonderful expressiveness to realism.

Frans Hals, Diego Velazquez, and later, impressionists like Claude Monet and realists like George Bellows (among many others) all practiced this method to a varying degree.

Frans Hals, The Gypsy Girl, 1628; Claude Monet, Argenteuil, Flowers by the Riverbank, 1877; Diego Velazquez (who else m8?), Las Hilendras, 1655; George Bellows, Both Members of This Club,1909

Note how the brushstrokes are clearly visible in each of these paintings, first making us aware of their physicality, but also the artist’s. In looking at these dreamlike forms and figures, we can’t help but recall the old master who poured their vision onto canvas. A sense of liminality still remains, of these works hovering on the boundary between this realm and the creator’s, of fading in and out of existence as we take in each not so detailed detail.

This begs the question, what would it have been like to see these old masters in action? And how were their motions and mannerisms different, or similar, to Bob’s?

Watch Bob Ross and it’s like we’re peering through a window into the old master’s workshop, perhaps giving us a glimpse of what Velazquez’ or Hals’ techniques may have looked like. Through him, we’re able to see the machinations of painting, and the skill which goes into crafting a scene. In this way, he’s also a catalyst who elevates their work, and makes us truly appreciate their incredible mastery. But above all, he’s a gateway for everyone to freely express themselves and enjoy doing so.

I vividly recall a moment where Bob had fluffed some clouds into existence. Afterwards, he turned to the camera and whispered “They live in your fan brush”. Sure, we may never reach the dizzying heights of these greats, but he believes our own innate ability is more than enough.

from EnterGamingXP https://entergamingxp.com/2020/05/someone-should-make-a-game-about-bob-ross-%e2%80%a2-eurogamer-net/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=someone-should-make-a-game-about-bob-ross-%25e2%2580%25a2-eurogamer-net

[terryblount]

Crackdown 3 – Campaign Review

The past four months paint a bleak picture of the big-budget gaming scene as players had to endure a long series of major disappointments. Games that have been overstimulating our salivary glands for months – or even years – since their announcement only seemed to drive the wedge between publishers and us as consumers deeper and deeper. It was also no secret that long-time fans of Microsoft’s classic, Crackdown IP branded the third instalment as yet another game that missed the bar in terms of fan expectations.

It was therefore with a sense of wariness that I installed my review copy of Crackdown 3 since the current state of the AAA scene has been likened to a dumpster fire by many. Adding to my reluctance was the fact that I never played the previous games, which ruled out any sentimental attachment I might have had to the series as a whole. Ironically, Crackdown 3 turned out to be a game that I think was lambasted due to being a product of its context rather than a lack of quality.

“Quack, quack motherducker!” Apparently it is some sort of long-running gag in the series. Don’t ask me.

I am not saying that fans of this series have no reason to be upset; it has been nearly nine years since the previous game after all. However, as a player experiencing Crackdown 3 in isolation from its roots (and with curbed enthusiasm), I really had fun with it. It has no ambition to be original, nor does try to convey a compelling narrative, but what it can offer to players is a hearty sandbox experience that never tries to overreach itself.

Join the crew, Terry’s crew!

The game plays out in a world where super criminals have given rise to super mercenaries for hire thanks to an organisation simply called ‘The Agency.’ With the power of cybernetic and genetic enhancements, The Agency has ushered in a new age of peace keepers where a single ‘Agent’ can represent the military advantage of a one man army. As in the previous two games, The Agency has once again been summoned into a metropolis (called ‘New Providence’ this time round) where the power of corrupt bureaucrats has grown beyond the reach of the law.

This time the focal point of corruption lies within a super corporation named ‘Terra Nova,’ and it is up to Terry Crews… I mean Commander Jaxon and his squad to overthrow the establishment from within. In a style that is virtually identical to Middle Eath: Shadow or Mordor/War, the aim is not to kick down the front door and open fire on the person sitting behind the desk. Instead, Terra Nova must be destroyed using the one, true antidote for tyrants: Anarchy.

The leader of Terra Nova, Elizabeth Niemand. The final boss.

As such, the player will spend their time unleashing all kinds of hell on processing facilities, freeing the local resistance militia, and recapturing outposts all while mowing down masses of hired thugs. You do this until the commanders of each division get mad enough to face you head-on, at which point the opportunity presents itself to strike at the head of the snake. Once all of the lessor bosses have been blasted to kingdom come, the time will come to move against the leader of Terra Nova itself.

That weird feeling of Déjà vu

Shadow of Mordor/War is not the only book that Crackdown 3 has borrowed a few pages from. In fact, virtually all of the gameplay mechanics will feel extremely familiar to anyone that has so much as touched a sandbox or open-world game in the last ten years. Fans from Saint’s Row, Grand Theft Auto, Infamous and even Far Cry will all find something they instantly recognise within Crackdown 3’s gameplay mechanics.

Much like Shadow of War/Mordor you can even gather bits of intel on the bosses, and defeating one makes a path up to those in the higher hierarchies.

Still, the most obvious pedigree would have to be Just Cause 3 both in terms of how the game plays, and equally within the structure of the objectives. Crackdown 3 similarly puts you at the edge of the game’s world, and lets you tackle goals and activities in any order of your choosing. The player can spend an hour blowing up chemical plants manufacturing a green goop called Chimera, and then switch freely to liberating resistance soldiers who could offer additional support against the pesky local militia.

All that matters is results, and I never felt pressured to focus on one particular path. Yet, the thing is, I can list so many other games off the top of my head doing the very same thing, and this is perhaps Crackdown 3’s biggest weakness. Instead of being the stylish, next-gen, sci-fi epic that would be a more authentic continuation of 2010’s Crackdown 2, this game’s identity faces a real risk of disappearing beneath all of its more generic elements.

Why would you NOT want to play as Terry Crews!?!?!?

As I mentioned, there is not a whole lot going on in terms of the story which might make many of the tasks seem superficial, if not somewhat repetitive. The city of New Providence is small when compared to some of the dizzying, colossal sandboxes from modern entries in this genre. As such, you don’t exactly pick out an objective, stock up, and take a long trip to where you carry out your tactically-planned mission. You blow up one stronghold, before literally walking to the next one where you just rinse and repeat.

I can likewise agree with the haters that this game never fully realises its visual potential (without digressing into whether or not Crackdown 3 was visually downgraded). The world is characterised by that sterile feeling of a game engine more interested in keeping the frame rate up as opposed to depicting a lush, full environment. The developers, Sumo Digital, even removed those iconic, cel-shaded aesthetics that have always defined the visual identity of this series. This all adds up to a game that just does not have the eye-candy worthy of a nine-year wait.

I thought you said you liked it?

In spite of all this, Crackdown 3 really began to grow on me once I noticed several small, yet significant ways in which the game made an effort to keep things tight and polished. Even if the narrative fades into the background, and the gameplay never innovates beyond what is familiar to the genre, Crackdown 3 is still really good at what it does. The action is slick, volatile and it just works for a AAA title that you expect to have Terry Crews in the lead.

Good for crushing enemies or blowing up pumps!

Take the gun play for example. Here Crackdown 3 lays emphasis on the thrill of momentum and agility, so there is the option of an auto-lock on mechanic. Just bring anything into the gun’s sights, and the designated target will automatically remain locked on while you are free to jump and dash around the battlefield like a kangaroo on opioids.

It is not just purely for style though, since movement is a crucial defensive manoeuvre against the ruthless, hit-scanning AI. The game eagerly throws large numbers at the player once the fight begins, so those moves serve the purpose of making you an impossibly lively target to hit. Moreover, just one strike from the later bosses is enough to take a meaty chunk off your health bar, so getting good at dodging projectiles is anything but a wasted skill.

Agent + mining facility = flames.

The guns are also really fun even if the arsenal at the player’s disposal is not exactly vast. Each gun has been tailored for maximum efficiency towards a specific enemy type which prevents the player from just going in guns blazing. Chemical weapons are virtually useless against refinery workers in hazmat suits, but once you start bringing out the incendiary charges and explosive weapons, the fight suddenly shifts in your favour. This forms a welcome aspect of sub-strategy in addition to the already frenzy combat lighting up your screen.

On top of all this, just because I think Sumo Digital did not fully replicate the visual potential of this series does not mean the game is ugly. On the contrary, the environment is still unmistakably colourful and vibrant, and Crackdown 3’s physics engine is anything but shy when it comes to flashy, thunderous explosions. A distinctive visual style has also been worked into the vehicles and the architecture so, overall, the game is rather easy on the eyes.

Not much in the way of draw distance, but the game can be beautiful when it wants to.

Everything is more fun with friends… or not

Regrettably, I never got a chance to play the multiplayer so my apologies for not being able to comment on that. This is because, firstly, the upload speed of my shoddy internet will only end with me hurling my controller and, secondly, you need an Xbox Gold membership. Besides, in between Anthem and Apex Legends coming out within the same month, will anybody even be playing this?

It behooves me to mention that the multiplayer aspect of Crackdown 3 is called “Wrecking Zone” due to the physics-heavy gameplay mechanics. Much like Warmonger, which came out way back when PhysX cards were still a thing, the player is able to use super realistic, environmental destruction as an active advantage during gameplay. Feel like raising an entire building to the ground to flush your opponent out from hiding? Go for it. Feel like blasting a hole in the wall for a quick getaway? Sure!

Microsoft, however, does the physics calculations for you on the cloud, so you don’t have to stress about bringing the frame rate of your PC or Xbox One to its knees. Let me know how it is if you get a chance to play the multiplayer (or if you would REALLY like a review of it).

Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate

So the dissatisfaction of fans is not entirely misplaced, and I had a blast playing through the relatively short campaign, but where does that leave you making your way through this review? Well, my final opinion is that Crackdown 3 cannot be called a bad game in spite of a few superficial flaws. I am truly disappointed that they did not squeeze more of the sweet visual juices from the Unreal Engine 4, and Terry Crews was hopelessly underused as a leading character.

The agency car you can summon at any time. Once you earn some additional driving skill points it turns into a buggy.

Yet, I just ended up having so much fun because, again, this game just focuses on a near flawless execution of its core gameplay. The action and movement are based on an intuitive control scheme that will have you feeling like a total juggernaut in no time, and the environments make up for their lack in visual fidelity through the level of thought that has been put into their design. The more skilled I became at running and gunning, the more rewarding the overall experience became because the game had no trouble making me look like such a badass.

Crackdown 3 therefore makes for the perfect game to play over weekends when you just want to blow stuff up without having to sift through intricate narrative webs or plot twists. If you already have a Game Pass subscription, or you have a sweet tooth for the more anarchic flavour of sandbox games, play this as soon as possible. For avid fans of the first two entries and newcomers alike, perhaps waiting a bit until the price comes down would be best, but you might just end up liking it lot.

Fast and furious combat

Easy to master

Rewarding exploration

Collectable hunting

Voice acting and sound

Somewhat bland world

Limited story depth

Repetitive in moments

Mediocre graphics

        Playtime: 10 hours total. For the single player campaign

Computer Specs: Windows 10 64-bit computer using Nvidia GTX 1070, i5 4690K CPU, 16GB RAM – Played using an Xbox One Controller

Crackdown 3 – Campaign Review published first on https://touchgen.tumblr.com/

[lifeontap]

New Post has been published on https://www.lifeontap.com/bbc17-the-beer-industry-in-milwaukee-and-wisconsin/

#BBC17 - The Beer Industry in Milwaukee and Wisconsin

“Why is Dan covering the third session first?”

Well due to the cascading delays from the round of thunderstorms around the country, my flight’s crew was delayed so long that those same storms finally hit NYC. Hence, GROUNDED. The torrential rain not only caused a delay, but I found out later that my suitcase (and presumably most on the flight) were left outside for at least a few minutes. The seemingly never-ending downpour soaked every article of clothing in my bag…including the jeans I had intended to wear later that day. There was a silver lining in that none of the beer, packed ever so carefully, was affected.

For every Beer Bloggers Conference I have attended, I always had the pleasure of Julia Herz ( @HerzMuses ) to kick things off with poise, data, and new perspectives. I also missed the welcome from John Kimes of the Pabst Milwaukee Brewery which no doubt was full of energy and joviality. Many of my fellow bloggers covered this well via social media and blog coverage, so I will leave it to them.

After spending nearly forty minutes hanging up the wet clothes, carefully inspecting the beer, and using a hair dryer on my damp jeans, I hopped in a Lyft to head straight to lunch, hosted at the newly-renovated, former church — Pabst Milwaukee Brewery. I grabbed a few delicious bites care of Chef Rebecca Berkshire (those deviled eggs were AMAZING), a Biere de Mars, a Barleywine, and quick catchup/hello with previous attendees.

As I walked into the Great Hall, I feasted my eyes on the polished yet hearth-like appeal of the room. I saw more familiar faces as I scouted out a seat where I could plant myself and finally take a load off while listening to some interesting viewpoints that would paint the theme of my weekend: Milwaukee is a must-visit beer destination that should be better recognized for its role in American beer history, the brewing community’s attention to beer quality from grain to gulp, and their sincere commitment to hospitality.

#BBC17 Panel – The Beer Industry in Milwaukee and Wisconsin

  The Beer Industry in Milwaukee and Wisconsin

  The Panel

Anne Sprecher of Sprecher Brewing Company

Executive Director Mark Garthwaite of the Wisconsin Brewers Guild

Russ Klisch of Lakefront Brewery.

Kathy Flanigan from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, Moderator

  A Little History

While I will not recount everything said by the incredible panel, one phrase was consistently repeated that deserves mentioning. New breweries in Milwaukee (and Wisconsin as well) were “in the large breweries shadow” for quite a while. We first heard about how German brewing culture came to be present, and how Wisconsin communities mostly revolved around their hometown brewery’s beer garden. In 1836, the first brewery opened in West Wisconsin (the capital of Madison). A local beer history lesson would also be remiss if “Prohibition Tales” were not mentioned, which reminded me of Schell’s own stories told previously on The Session. Hell, even the baseball team in Milwaukee are Brewers (not just in name, as three collaborated on a beer for the park).

Fast forward to the 1970s, filled with the repeated woes of brewery shutdowns and consolidation by the Big Three. Looking back at this, one could draw many comparisons between Milwaukee and fellow beer city St. Louis. I was in awe to learn that out of the 76 breweries that remained at America’s low point, 11 of them were located in Wisconsin. Now there are 30 in Milwaukee alone! Mark correctly identified LL Cool J when he said to the room, “Don’t call it a comeback…we’ve been here for years.” I, or even huge LL fan Fudge’ems could not have said it better ourselves.  

The Craft Beer Scene

Russ and Anne spoke about the evolution of the local craft beer scene, as Lakefront turns 30 and Sprecher turns 33 this year. It was not until 2005 that investor money became plentiful. All craft breweries were start-ups who frequently would create “Frankenstein” systems out of old dairy equipment and whatever else they could get their hands on. Now as well as then, you need to have passion to get into this game.

Craft Beer has always been a disruptor to the American macro-breweries, but I did not know that they were an equal or bigger disruptor to distributors as well as the Three-Tier System. Mark was able to further explain that brewery licenses included wholesale and retail identities, which in essence bypasses our current legal setup for all alcohol. The word “dissonance” was thrown out, as while all wanted to extend the category, the level of trust to do so may not have been present. After hearing from other people over the course of the weekend, it appears that a new balance is being sought after by some. I would like to believe that many have the sincere interest of offering higher levels of quality and choice to the consumer, but previous news stories (outside Wisconsin) have shown that some will do anything to get market share and money.

The Wisconsin Brewers Guild (and other regional guilds) are banding their resources together to lobby for their rights, just as other interest groups do the same for distributors and retailers (the other two tiers). Some on the panel were concerned that the creation of additional guilds may dilute the power of the guilds. This trend will be another interesting one to watch not just in Wisconsin, but in every state.  

Festivals, Festivals and More Festivals?

Anne alluded back to the initial history remarks as well as their efforts to bring the beer garden back to the community. Sprecher works with Milwaukee County Parks and employs “traveling beer gardens” complete with converted old fire trucks armed with taps instead of hoses and such. They also sponsor programs like “Pass Me A Pint” and “Roll Out The Barrel Tour” to additionally support the local beer culture. Since Sprecher’s foray into this area, MillerCoors and other breweries jumped in and donated a lot of money as well. A key result: incidents of crimes have gone down in all parks where beer gardens are present.

Believe it or not, Wisconsin leads the nation in festivals…there are sometimes three a week! The biggest is “Great Taste of the Midwest”, of which Mark has been the Chair (it’s his last year). All panelists noted that “Festival Fatigue is a real thing” as is “Craft Beer Week Fatigue”; from April through September, all the brewers and authorized representatives struggle to attend and represent their brand at every fest. While everyone agreed there is room to do festivals well, each brewery needs to make hard decisions on which ones to attend. One additional constant is that all festivals (including charitable and non-profit) pay for the beer, and that it is never donated. Russ added, “if all brewers gave it, they themselves would become non-profits.”

Other noted comments on festivals was that some mandate that an official representative (brewer or owner) must be present for festivals, such as Glendale’s. Mark chimed in saying, “Personal connection” is important at festivals and wherever beer is poured. I cannot tell you how many beer festivals I have been to that the persons pouring do not know anything about the beer except what they have been told. For me, speaking to someone who brewed or helped with the process in some way is much more valuable. So has the novelty of festivals worn off? Not for the organizers obviously, who constantly push breweries with the promise of additional or enhanced exposure. Mark quickly quipped, “You can die of exposure.” Too true.  

Diversity and Craft Beer

All panelists mentioned grappling with this topic. I will be the first to admit that it is not easy to approach, but if we all agree to talk openly and honestly we can make real strides. The Pink Boots Society already does an incredibly service for women in craft beer, and actively encouraging and educating anyone interested should still be the focus according to the panel. Seeing more minorities and women at the helm of craft beer enterprises help provides role models and mentors for our future brewing generation.  

What’s The Biggest Opportunity for Wisconsin Beer?

Russ: More sessions, more fun beers, more education, more collaborations

Anne: Educational opportunities through Cicerone, Hop School, etc.

Mark: Collaboration across beer, wine and spirits (barrel-aging is just the beginning)  

Audience Questions

How should we review bad beer as a blogger?Two approaches were offered here: ranking and omission. If you rank all the rauchbier you have tasted and rank one at the bottom, you are in essence not saying it is bad beer. You are simply stating there are a bunch that are better. If I feel that a beer is not the best representation (accidental infection, questionable storage/transport etc.), I generally will not post a review. I also will reach out to the brewery directly with my concern, for which most of the time I am thanked for the notification. In the end each and every blogger or writer will need to be consistent in their approach.

Mixing beers/blending between breweries?A Schlitz/Pabst combo was mentioned, which obviously drew jeers from the audience. The panelists did not seem that excited or interested at this prospect, but some of us out here might not say no if one was handed to us.

What are the most popular tours now that there are more taprooms – will tours need to evolve?While curious people like bloggers and homebrewers (about 1% according to Anne) might be more inquisitive about recipes, setups and the technical end of things, most people go on tours to be entertained and sample beer. Most breweries and brewpubs seek guides who can relate to people, and work the crowd. The more unique of an experience, the more memorable and that will be key to evolving tours.

  Looking Forward

The panel offered various paths and/or opportunities for stakeholders in local craft beer communities to expand brands as well as the overall category reach amongst alcohol drinkers. Russ reminded all of us that the Nielsen reports on actual SKU purchases show that while craft has made waves, it is by no means a major portion of market share. As previously mentioned, bloggers and writers play a unique role in developing our local beer culture and we collectively need to step up to evolve and preserve it and its history.

  Cheers and remember:

Life’s a tap…drink up ’til it’s dry.

[nofomoartworld]

Fantasy Murals by a Hawaiian Street Art Couple Imagine a Sustainable Future

Images courtesy of Wooden Wave

Far from the mainland’s traditional urban graffiti canvases, Hawaiian artists Matthew and Roxanne Ortiz have developed a unique style of murals with a distinct set of concerns. Their murals and illustrations, which they create under the name, Wooden Wave, are designed to raise awareness about climate change and its impact on humanity’s future.

Roxanne tells The Creators Project that she hails from Lahaina, Maui, while Matt grew up on Oahu’s North Shore. Growing up in Hawaii molded the duo into people who love and appreciate the ocean and nature. The two first met in a painting class while in university. Matt majored in printmaking, while Roxanne pursued drawing and painting. Soon after, the two began collaborating on prints and paintings. Ten years on, they’re still at it.

“Growing up in Hawaii, we both developed a deep-rooted connection to the land and a strong love for the ocean,” Roxanne says. “We draw much of our inspiration from nature and because of this, we recognize how fragile our island ecosystem is.”

“The inclusion of sustainable technology and farming in our treehouse compositions is a lighthearted way for us to address some very serious climate issues,” she adds. “We hope our murals can function as entry points for discussion regarding the future of  energy and food production.”

For the creative duo, treehouses also represent the ultimate symbol of adventure. When they begin conceptualizing a project they try imagine a narrative: who might live in the treehouse and what would they like to have? When they painted a mural on a Waikiki hotel, Matthew and Roxanne added surfboards, a canoe, and a clubhouse in the the shape of a pineapple.

“We are always keen on maximizing the amount of fun that can be had in our imagined dwellings,” Matthew says. “Which is why we often include halfpipe skate ramps, surfboards, tire swings, and other playful details.”

The two say that they didn’t always paint murals. It wasn’t until they were invited to paint one for the 2013 POW! WOW! Hawaii mural festival that they even considered it.

Unlike most other artists who created murals for the week-long event, Matthew and Roxanne had no experience with aerosol. So, they stuck to what they knew—brushes and acrylic paint. While it was a big creative challenge to expand the physical scale of their work, once they did, they were hooked.

“When we begin a new project we both brainstorm initial concepts for each mural,” Matthew explains. “My strengths lie in drawing, so I sketch out these ideas and together we go through several rounds of revisions until the sketch is highly finalized. Because our murals often utilize a lot of linear perspective it’s important that we plan them out precisely.”

“Roxy focuses on planning the color schemes and paint mixing,” he adds. “Between the two of us she’s much more organized, so she often handles overall project direction. Once we’re in the midst of painting the mural we each tend to gravitate towards our favorite subject matter. I like defining the architectural elements while Roxy favors detailing the plants and other organic features.”

Matthew and Roxanne work out of a warehouse in Honolulu called Lana Lane Studios. They describe it as a “rad little hive of artists” where they thrive off the inspiration and encouragement that unfolds in the space. The internet allows them to connect with clients across the globe, whether it be for mural, design or illustration work.

The Ortizes are proud to be part of a vibrant Hawaiian art scene that continues to grow. The state’s art community is a diverse scene, including Native Hawaiian (indigenous) art, the tropical land and seascapes usually marketed toward tourists, surf art, as well as conceptual and contemporary art shown in local museums and galleries.

“The POW! WOW! Hawaii mural festival has become a global brand and has really helped to solidify the validity of street art here,” says Matthew. “The inaugural Honolulu Biennial will be kicking off in March, and later in the year we’ll be in a group exhibition featuring artists from across the Hawaiian islands and curated by the Smithsonian Asian Pacific American Center.”

Matthew and Roxanne note that another big motivation is inspiring the next generation of young innovators who will champion the ideas of ingenuity and environmental stewardship. For them, if they can get kids “stoked” on “sustainability concepts,” then it will have been a win.

Wooden Wave will be painting a mural this February at the 2017 POW! WOW! Hawaii mural festival. Click here to see more of Wooden Wave’s work.

Related:

How to Get a Legal Wall for a Mural

Sky-High Murals Reveal Hidden Poetry After Dark

A Modern-Day Cubist Examines Warped Beauty in His Murals

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