#like. its not fair that whenever i have a medical problem i still have to come to work

[nedsseveredhead]

in a real big This Isnt Fair kind of mood rn

[aprofessionalwithoutstandards]

i don't ship demomedic on its own, but i like the demo/engie/heavy/medic dynamic. they are all chill and deranged at the same time. (wow i didn't intend for this to be THIS long but oh well, here we go...)

heavy and demo would relate to each other for their love of carnage in the battlefield. despite the others not being opposed to the bloodbath, both being on the front line grants them a view engineer and medic not often enjoy (that and a love strong drinks. the scot swears by his scrumpy but he won't turn his face from the vodka the bear sometimes indulges)

demo and engie would talk about chemistry. how things go boom and how to make them go boom even better. they also tell each other the wildest anecdotes about the weird jobs they've had in the past, but to be fair, the four people in this relationship are the best storytellers of the group so the other two don't have nothing to envy

demo and medic would rant to each other whenever they're told they can't do something. "can you believe engineer said i cannae build me bombs inside!" "that's preposterous! heavy told me i can't keep BLU spy's head in my fridge no longer, so i understand you." when they are separated they have some common sense, but there's something about this two together that just eliminates it

heavy and medic would discuss more philosophical and artistic matters. they love reading books together and making little discussions as if they had a book club. they tried to get the others to join but engineer can't sit through a book and demo has a similar problem (also medic can't resist experimenting on the big guy, but come on, who can blame him)

engie and heavy would talk about mechanics of weapons. it takes time, but in the end, engie is allowed to touch sasha (though he is explicitly forbidden from modifying her. he's still working on getting to do that) heavy loves engineer's cooking and the other will indulge him whenever he wants

medic and engineer would collaborate to make mad science experiments. medic just has mad scientist syndrome and it appears to be contagious, luckily only to men in stem since heavy seems to be mostly unaffected (and therefore acts as the voice of reason the most times). they are really workoholic so whenever they get in the mood™ the other two will have to check up on them regularly to assure they aren't working themselves to death

i have the temptation to make this even longer by analyzing heavy x demo x medic engie x demo x medic and heavy x demo engie on its own, but this is already too long so...

NOO UR SO RIGHT THIS IS SUCH A THING... exactly there r so many possible combinations and dynamics u can do with these hat men and every time it is entertaining without fail

[thessalian]

Thess vs Backlogs and IT Issues

Well, if this is the setting for the next two weeks, I'm in deep shit.

Scruffman, our office manager, is on leave for the next two weeks. I had a feeling that things were going to get a little ... problematic. Goblin has a "when the cat's away, the mice will play" mentality and has a habit of chatting in her usual "I Hate Everything" way whenever she gets the change - read: "when Scruffman isn't at his desk". This monopolises the time and attention of everyone in the office, so less work gets done. That's not even counting the whole thing where Temp will dodge all the longer work - with Violet on long-term medical leave, that still leaves me to do the lion's share of it, because Milady tends to take over Scruffman's duties when she's away and so she's busier than usual for the next two weeks (when not sucked into Goblin's Grumble Vortex)

In addition to this, we had some changes to our transcription software recently and it has not been particularly well implemented. Having to tag our typing with our initials is bad enough, but the window on which we have to do so is slow to come up at the best of times, so that's a fair chunk of time wasted. Again, that's under the best of circumstances right now.

Logged in today and the queue was at 375 and climbing. We were backlogged as far back as Saturday (because of course the various doctors and techs are still coming in on the weekends), and all the ones left from Saturday were - you guessed it - the long and complicated bullshit that Temp doesn't want to touch. But yesterday's typing was effectively untouched when I logged in.

The queue when I logged out for the day was approaching 400. Barely anything got typed unless I typed it (except for seeing Milady take one fifteen minute long monstrosity, for which I am very grateful because I got something like three 10+ minute bits of dictation on top of the ones that don't take long to speak but do take long to type because of having to deal with the formatting - it's a thing). Most of the urgent cases got done - but not all; the longer ones of those were left behind as well when I logged out. I just hadn't noticed because I was busy with all the long dictation and the stuff from the more difficult doctors and techs. I barely saw anything taken out of the queue, and when I did, it was in bits and snatches of shorter pieces of work between the longer, complicated stuff. And like I said - not that much of that got done either.

Of course, some of this might have something to do with the transcription software, which was at its worst today. It crashed seven times, and hung for at least five minutes a dozen more times over the course of the day, at least for me. It's possible that people got slowed down because they were having the same problem, but I don't know because no one keeps me updated when Scruffman's not around. I'd bet good money that they didn't try to talk to IT about it and just used it as an excuse to relax and futz about all day, but at least it's sort of an excuse. Ish. Kind of. I mean, I was slowed up, but I wasn't slowed up that much...

If we're still in this mess when I log in tomorrow (and I honestly expect it to be much worse tomorrow), I may actually have to pull some overtime. I have spoken to Scruffman about doing so if it becomes necessary, because at least I don't have to commute, but I'm honestly not sure I have the spoons for that kind of thing. Thing is, we need to at least get partway caught up. This reflects badly on all of us, but the others don't seem to fucking care. Scruffman's away, so they can do what they want, apparently. And it's leaving us massively behind.

So tomorrow is going to be a day. If our transcription software is still a mess of hiccups and crashes, I'll be emailing IT and asking what the hell is going on. If the queue is still obscenely long (and I would wager, knowing the doctors' work patterns as I do, that it'll be approaching 500 cases when I log in, if my colleagues in the office keep on the way they're going), I'm going to have to log some overtime to at least get us so that we're only one day behind and not two. I'll obviously keep a record and email Scruffman about it, but I can't just let this stay like this. And I can't make Goblin and Temp get a fucking move on - hell, I couldn't do that even if I was in the office.

Fuck. Just ... fuck. Two whole weeks of this bullshit? Are you kidding me?!? Scruffman is obviously entitled to use his annual leave, but we're already massively understaffed because no one hired a replacement for Sunshine and Sid, so if Goblin and Temp refused to pull their respective fingers out, we're going to end up so deep in backlog that we'll end up with calls from clients asking what the fuck is going on. Most of this stuff is fairly urgent. It's histology. It's people being investigated for potential cancer in a lot of cases! I don't necessarily expect miracles, but I expect at least the kind of work ethic that doesn't involve turning the office into a chat-and-coffee corner the minute the managers' backs are turned. If I have to keep the whole place afloat for two weeks, I WANT A FUCKING RAISE. Or at the very least overtime pay.

Thankfully my own week's holiday comes pretty much as soon as Scruffman comes back from his fortnight. I'm going to need it. Especially if I have to pull overtime.

*flashes back to typing queue when I logged out before*

...When. Especially when I have to pull overtime. UGH.

[tf2workbench]

Redistribution of health

Have I already used that joke? It feels like I have. But anyway...

Back in the days of Advanced Weaponiser, the Soldier had a briefly-used melee weapon, the Death Warrant, that made overheal never decay on its user. Tweaking that a little bit, we have:

Legally Distinct Death Warrant Iteration 1 Soldier melee weapon (+) Restore half your max health on kill, which can overheal (+) Overheal on wearer does not decay (-) -25 max health

I’m immediately noticing significant overlap with the Half-Zatoichi, which functions similarly without the overheal preservation. However, I think it’s fair to state that the Zatoichi has always been more of a Demoman weapon, since the Soldier doesn’t really have the resources to be an effective melee class. Why don’t we look at this as sort of a divergent Half-Zatoichi tailored to the Soldier’s needs?

Well, first of all, persistent overheal is really quite powerful. You can wander far away from your Medic without being on a timer, allowing you to pick and choose your fights. Of course, you may have to rocket jump some of that health away if you want to get anywhere fast, and time is always of the essence on the battlefield. That health management in and of itself is a good thing to play with: it gives players a lot to consider, which means the weapon provides a lot of new, interesting gameplay.

I can’t really think of anything all that bad about this weapon. My only complaint is that, by removing the overheal timer, you put less pressure on the player to keep playing the game; but I think the ticking mission timer on most maps is also a motivator along the same lines, so I’m not terribly worried.

Given that this is a decent tool for the Soldier, let’s experiment on giving it to the Heavy. Small tweaks to the stats might be necessary, but the base concept remains the same.

The first and most important thing is that, with this weapon in the melee slot, Heavies any reliable means of lowering their own health. The Gloves of Running Urgently/Eviction Notice can do that, converting HP into movement speed, but they’re also melees. To that end, let’s make this a secondary weapon, the Heavy’s second unique shotgun. That way, you can manage your overheal like a Soldier would, expending it to get around if you have the GRU/Eviction Notice.

However, despite the popularity of the heavy-go-fast gloves, we have to acknowledge that they aren’t the only Heavy melee. Many players using this secondary would have no way to drain their own health, meaning that the only use for the overheal is to engage in combat. That isn’t the worst thing, but it means you’ll be more of an insurmountable obstacle, especially in a defensive battle where time is on your side. Unlike with the Soldier, there’s no way you can lose health without being hit, which means there’s far fewer choices you have to make about health management. And since you have a larger health pool, enemies are in for an unpleasantly tough struggle whenever you have time to prepare, and once you’re overhealed there’s not a lot they can do to make the fight easier.

I’ve talked enough, so I want to propose an alternate version:

Legally Distinct Death Warrant Iteration 2 Heavy/Soldier shotgun (+) On kill: Restore half your max health, which can overheal (+) Overheal does not decay (-) -10% movement speed while overhealed (-) -25 max HP on wearer (-) -90% health from healers while active

There’s now a choice involved with this weapon! Because it has that thinking involved, it’s deeper than the first iteration. Do you need health, or do you need speed? Of course, if you’re a Heavy, you might still lack a way to manage your own health, making this weapon again better-suited to the Soldier...

I’m still not entirely sure about this weapon, in part because it runs into some class role problems that I discussed in my last post about a health-related Heavy shotgun. But I’m still sure that this second iteration is a more interesting concept than the first, and that both could certainly work great as Soldier weapons and moderately well for the Heavy!

[imrowanartist]

I've been having lots of Yara feels, so I will make everyone suffer with me.

Words: 1619

Warnings: Mentions of injury, hearing loss and heart/breathing problems, lots of feels, vague medical nonsense but nothing specific.

Nuts belongs to @itsstrangelypermanent and I love him so much.

Med stations are cold, Yara has found pretty quickly after waking up on one. They're nothing like the medbay on the Serenity where you're at least surrounded by real flesh and blood medics, and where there's usually a brother to keep you company or distract you from your pain. Here there are closed off rooms, limited to two patients, the occasional nurse droid and them. The ice cold Kaminoans, with their detached voices, almost spiraling him into a panic attack whenever he hears them.

Yara wishes he could have stayed on the Serenity, but there were too many wounded, not enough bacta tanks. All he remembers after the thermal detonator went off right next to him were his dying brothers around him and Purrgil’s haunted face above his. Mouthing words at him, but no sound coming out. He'd struggled for air and passed out after that, his damaged body shutting down on him. Then he woke up, the smell of bacta clinging to his skin and in unfamiliar surroundings. Dressed in a thin medical shift and shivering in the cold regulated air that makes his sore chest constrict.

There’s another young clone in the bed next to Yara’s. He knows the brother is young too, because he has seen his own face in the mirror millions of times and this brother still has the same slightly rounded cheeks as he does and lacks the lines around his eyes that so many of his older brothers carry these days.

There’s not much to do for Yara, besides laying still so he doesn’t jostle his healing injuries and hoping that the rushing in his ears will eventually fade ( though he knows that even if it will, he'll never get his hearing back and thinking about that hurts so he doesn’t).

There’s nothing to do but lay awake and observe, so he does. His neighbor has longer than regulation curls, the tips bleached to a yellowish blond and two stripes tattooed over his right eye. He’s hooked up to various machines, some of which seem to regulate his heartbeat. He hasn’t said a single word the whole time Yara has been awake. Which, to be fair, hasn’t been very long but still. He wonders why they haven’t put him in a bacta tank. He’s been wondering a lot of things. Is Purrgil - his partner - alright? He must be feeling terrible, even though none of this is his fault. And the Captain… He knows Nova is probably eating himself up with guilt that he has gotten hurt again. But no - he shouldn't be thinking about these things. Though it’s hard with nothing to distract him around.

Earlier he tried asking one of the nurse droids if he could have a datapad, but it’s impossible to hear his own voice over the rushing in his ears so he kept stumbling over his words, messing them up and tangling them together, eventually giving up and trying to sign instead. He could feel the other clone’s eyes on his back as he waved his shaking hands in frustration, the droids not getting any of the signs he was making and no option of lip-reading with its featureless face plate.

So now he’s laying on his side again, his mind a bit fuzzy because of the sedatives he’s been given to calm him down, and nothing to do but look at the other clone and observe.

The brother, to his shock, looks back at him this time. His eyes are dull, like he’s not entirely there, and Yara recognises the expression. He’s sure he has the same look in his own eyes.

Not really knowing why, Yara tentatively lifts a hand and signs a shaky greeting. It’s not necessarily a battle sign, but ever since he lost part of his hearing early in the war he has picked up some sign language in Basic to better get his thoughts across when battle sign just doesn’t cut it. Most of Halo has learned to read him pretty well, but he has no idea if other clones will even understand his mish mash of signing.

To his surprise the brother very slowly raises a hand and signs a greeting back. It’s slow and sloppy, probably due to the myriad of meds in his system, but a small smile pulls on Yara’s lips anyway at the response. He signs [your name][interrogative] before pointing to himself and finger spelling his name.

The brother blinks a few times, needing a moment to process and clearly deciding if the interaction is worth it or not before painstakingly fingerspelling [N.U.T.S] back at him.

[Like the food][interrogative] Yara signs, and Nuts very slowly raises an eyebrow at him before nodding and adding [and like me] in Basic, making Yara huff out a soft giggle that makes his body hurt all over.

They fall quiet after that, Nuts clearly having spent his limited energy on the short interaction but Yara doesn't mind it. He's already feeling a little bit less alone. He wonders what happened to Nuts, that could have injured him so badly, and shudders a little at the thought. Or from the cold. He's not even sure anymore at this point.

Nuts is looking at him, his eyes slowly blinking closed and opening again at irregular intervals, clearly fighting sleep, when suddenly his breath catches in his throat. It feels like an eternity passes and at first Yara thinks he's just remembering something painful, but the choked inhale that he expects to follow doesn't and when he looks up he sees the lights on the attached monitors flash wildly, having missed the sounds that must be accompanying them.

Not knowing what to do Yara sits up, panic rising in his chest as he swings his legs off the side of his bunk, but before he can push himself off the door to their room opens and a nurse droids rolls in, brandishing several hypos. Nuts is clearly panicking now, not able to get enough oxygen into his lungs and his hands clutch desperately at the blanket covering him. He tries to sit up, his chest heaving, but the nurse droid roughly pushes him down, trying to get the first hypo close to his neck.

It has the opposite effect on Nuts however and his eyes flit around wildly, his pupils blown wide as he struggles against the droid. Yara tries to sign reassurances at him - It’s okay. You’ll be okay - but he doesn’t think Nuts is even seeing him right now. The heart monitor above his bed starts flashing too, and Yara slides off his bunk, to try to get close to him. He’s pushed aside by another droid carrying more medicine and together they force Nuts down and unceremoniously stab the hypo in his neck.

Yara is sure he lets out some noise of distress as they poke and prod his new friend until he’s laying down again, enough sedatives and other meds he doesn’t recognise coursing through his system. The droids never say a word, not to Nuts and not to him, and barely spare a glance at his own monitors as they leave the room.

Yara sits in shock for a while after they leave, and when he pulls his attention back to Nuts he sees his brother is shivering badly. He has his eyes scrunched closed and Yara has to hold back a sob of his own when he sees a tear dripping down Nuts’ cheek, staining his pillow. In a sudden impulse he gets up and stumbles over to the other medbunk and presses a shaking hand to Nuts’ shoulder. He doesn’t know if it’s helping, or if Nuts even likes to be touched, but in his short experience he found that even the least tactile of his brothers usually calms down from contact with a brother.

Nuts slowly opens his eyes at him and Yara resists the urge to pull his hand back, squeezing his shoulder instead. He watches as Nuts very slowly moves his hands and signs [stay][interrogative]. Yara pulls his hand back, standing awkwardly next to the medbunk as he wills his shaking hands to still, twisting them together before signing a slow [sure][interrogative]. Nuts can barely keep his eyes open, but he still manages to sign a confirmation before flopping his arm against the blanket, gesturing to Yara to join him.

Yara stands rooted to the spot for a second, not used to being close with brothers that are not from Halo. But with a shock he realizes that he actually craves the contact Nuts is offering him. That he needs it just as much as this suffering brother does. He’s felt so lonely since he woke up and this might be the small gesture of normalcy he didn’t know he needed.

So he steps back and pulls the blanket from his own bunk before shuffling back and pulling himself up on Nuts’ bunk. He carefully lays down along his side pulling the blanket on top of them, so they can share their body heat. He immediately feels Nuts’ shivering fade as he cradles his arms around him, mindful of the IV lines and sensors. He feels Nuts let out a sigh and his breath slows, clearly losing the fight against the cocktail of drugs in his system.

He’s about to nod off, finally feeling warm himself, when he feels Nuts shift and reach for his hand. He lets him grab it, and can’t help the tears forming in his own eyes as Nuts slowly signs [thank you] into his fingers, before his breathing evens out and the vibrations of his soft snores lull Yara to sleep as well.

Tag list:

@anstarwar @alamogirl80 @griseldafury21 @imhereforthefanartandfics @disgruntldd @redminibike1 @attacking-those-pesky-kyojins @bi-witch-rose @friendly-disreputable-dog @goddess-of-congeniality @therealrobinceballos @k9cat @notoriginalenoughtohavmyprefname @weareoutofmaplesyrupdave @shadowlight17 @bookroselover @purgetrooperfox @littlefeatherr @thechaoticfanartist @redminibike1

[shirophantomvox]

Leorio, Hisoka, Illumi, and Chrollo Head Canons #2

What’s up y’all! Thank you so much to the people who have given me feedback about what posts you all would like to see! This post will be about the “Adult Trio” and Leorio about how they would help their significant other with a subject in college. This one is a good suggestion! I’m going to incorporate fluff in this, as I am a sucker for fluff. I hope you all enjoy this! I most certainly do. This post is about 2687 words but don't worry, it's worth the read! These head canons came from my mind its a coincidence that some of these pictures match the thoughts. Portentous (old English) means wonderful or marvelous (in modern English) FYI: I am thinking about creating a discord server for both Voltron and Hunter x Hunter fans. I don’t know how to use the fancy perks of discord yet, so if you know how to and can help me out, send me a message! Alright, let’s get to it! Obviously these images are from Pinterest.

Discord Server for Voltron and HxH fans!

Leorio

“Mr. Leorio”, as we all know, is a sharp guy. He dresses in a suit, carries a suitcase, and wants to be a doctor. This man knows everything about academics, especially math and science. He will need to know these subjects to be a successful medical doctor.

Leorio received an A- in Calculus II and a B+ in Organic Chemistry. He was the only one that passed with flying colors while everyone else barely made it. He didn’t gloat in their faces but as soon as he got into the hallway he jumped for joy.

He was extremely happy about his progress and counted the days until graduation even though that was in 5 years. Wow! Don’t we love graduate school?!

He deserved the high grades because he spent countless nights studying missing parties, football games, and being with you just to make sure he was on the right track to graduating on time.

As we all know, Leorio wanted to pursue this career because he witnessed his best friend dying in front of him powerless to save him. The care for his friend would have been too expensive. Obtaining his degree was in honor of his friend; he’d save countless children, women, and men who’d all thank him for his hard work.

Leorio didn’t socialize much, but he did find himself hanging around a group of classmates that were a part of a co-ed fraternity that provided information on scholarship money for graduate school and job opportunities. This is where he met you. You didn’t want to be a doctor but instead wanted to be a computer scientist and decided to volunteer for this fraternity job fair.

As he rejoiced, his smile faded when he saw you walking down the hallway; tears falling from your face not caring who stared at you. He quickly walked up to you, put his arm around your back, and gave you a soft hug.

“What’s the matter,” he asks.

You were failing Calculus, a class you’ve been taking since the 12th grade but for some reason, you couldn’t pass it. Everyone else had A’s and B’s, while you had a D. D’s aren't accaetable in college; most make you retake the class.

“Don’t worry. I’ve just passed my midterm. I can help you study. You’ll pass; trust me.”

Later on that evening, he kept his promise but gave it a unique twist. He kept the lights off and lit 4 Yankee-sized candles in the room that smelled like Lavender. In the background, he had piano jazz playing on his speaker. You felt confused for a moment. You and Leorio weren’t necessarily dating but you both flirted with each other here and there. He wasn’t a social butterfly, but he felt comfortable talking to you.

“Um...what’s the music for?”

“It helps me concentrate. Believe it or not, it helps my brain flow. You like it don’t you?”

“No, actually I don’t.” Truth be told you loved it but you wanted to pull his strings a little. He looked up with a confused look.

“Ok. I’ll turn it off.”

“I'm kidding! It’s great!”

Whenever he cannot solve a Calculus question, he reviews similar problems from Algebra II. He applies this knowledge to your problem.

“Perform the indicated function evaluations for f(x)=3−5x−2x^2 . I’ll solve the first part for an example: f(6+t) simply means you will exchange “x” for 6+t. It will look like f(6+t)=3-5(6+t)-2(6+t)^2=-49 . You’d distribute -5 and -2 to the numbers inside of the brackets in which they are next to.”

Wow, that was easy! Wait, not he must think you’re stupid.

“You must think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

“Of course not! It took me a while to understand it too. You’ll apply the same knowledge for the rest.”

After what seemed like 4 hours (which was 2), you finally finished your homework! It was probably wrong but at least you made it past the 1st question! As you blew out the candles and turned on your LED lights instead, you see Leorio sleeping on your couch. Something about his soft face made you smile and place your hand over your heart.

“My little doctor,” you whispered to yourself.

“Well, come give this doctor some company then. I’m freezing over here!”

The throw blanket was large enough for you both. Snuggling on the couch was a great end to a stressful day.

Chrollo

To everyone else Chrollo was “Boss” or “Boss Man” but to you, he was Chrollo. Big C was known for his love for poetry and language.

He read poetry any chance he had at lunch and even dinner. It had gotten so bad that you had to tell him for the millionth time “No books at the table!”

Given his past, he always read at least 2 hours a day or one book a week. Reading is what got him through the day.

He was staying in your dorm for the day to relax because he had taken and passed his midterms to. The young thief thought about hiding in the closet but he didn’t because he sensed that you’d be tense because of midterms.

As you walked through the door, you looked angry, so angry that you could punch a wall. He immediately rose to his feet, threw his arms straight out in front of him, and motioned for you to stop. You just stared at him blankly.

“Come here,” he said like you, on cue, melted in his arms. He was warm and the deepness of his cooing voice vibrated against your neck. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m failing this stupid Shakespeare class!”

“Really?”

“Yes and if I don’t pass this midterm I’m going to fail the class for the 3rd time. I want to drop out! Who needs this scam anyway?!”

Chrollo held you a bit longer until you were ready to sit down and get to business. You pulled out your college’s book about Shakespeare plays and how he used Old English. Chrollo was the perfect man for the job! He’s read Macbeth and Romeo and Juliet several times!

Chrollo read a few stanzas and explained them. He then had you read some on your own and explain them...still you can’t.

He notices the problem immediately. He catches you snuggling comfortably against his toned arm, nearly falling asleep.

Chrollo laid at the very corner of the couch as you lay horizontally placing your head against his chest. You were comfortable but you weren’t able to focus. He notices this and slightly demands that you go sit at the table. When it came to academics, he was serious.

For as long as he had been reading, he has an arsenal of vocabulary words ready to be of use. He created flashcards for you and had you flip them over for nearly an hour. You start to memorize the words!

But you’re not done yet.

“Say the word ‘portentous’.”

“Por-ten-trious…?”

“No. Por-ten-tas.”

“Tias…?”

He moved his chair next to you, just an inch away from your face. He cups your mouth and moves it as he speaks again. This wasn’t a hard clutch, it was soft and he wasn’t irritated but he could sense that you were becoming irritated.

“Por-ten-tas,” he said again.

Instead of letting your cheeks go, his eyes diverted to your lips. They were moist and plump, ready to be met by his.

“Your lips are gorgeous. Kisseth me quite quaint.”

Oh no. Look at the monster you’ve created.

Chrollo created a reward system. Whenever he did things right as a child, he was rewarded with money and jewels. For every word you pronounced and defined correctly, he kissed you once. For each word you got correct in a row, he’d kiss you twice.

Soon enough he had kissed you so much that you couldn’t see straight!

The kisses worked because you passed your midterm! Each kiss placed a stain in your brain that made you remember the definition and how to pronounce it.

You and Chrollo celebrated by drinking champagne and listened to him read Sonnet 23 and 57.

Hisoka

As unusual as it seems, Hisoka is gifted when it comes to Chemistry specifically. That is why you two work well together...there is some chemistry going on between you two.

His hair down and his glasses were his alter ego, it was something that made him act completely different than what you were used to.

When you all were freshmen, he would skip class, attend parties, and would be hungover almost every week but once he was called into the Dean’s office, he changed.

You slightly missed that edgy side of him, but you enjoyed having a serious beau.

Hisoka is a social butterfly and is the life of the conversation and you loved him for it but sometimes it was awkward.

While he was chatting away about Calcium (Ca) and Iron (Fe), you stood there nodding like an idiot. You had NO IDEA about what he was talking about and that is why you were going to drop your chemistry class.

“I saw an imbecile put aluminum foil in the microwave and it burst into flames. How did they not know that Microwaves are the radio waves falling under frequency around 2500 megahertz? Any metallic object detected by radio waves inside the microwave acts as a reflector of radio waves.”

You shove his arm hard. He was acting arrogant in front of his friends. You were used to this but it got on your nerves. You made mistakes, everyone does!...even those that almost burn down the entire dorm room.

You two leave the party and head to his dorm room. Once you were settled, you released a can of anger and threw it all over your boyfriend.

“Hisoka? You just humiliated me.”

“Oh? No one knows that I was talking about you, my dear.”

“Don’t ‘my dear’ me! I asked for your help and you’re ignoring me. I don’t appreciate that. I didn’t ignore you when you sprained your ankle, did I?”

“No, you didn’t, dear. I supposed I have a few hours to kill. What do you need help with?”

Hisoka’s way of studying was much different from other students. He exercises like crazy before he opens his textbook.

He listens to EDM instrumentals while on the treadmill and when he lifts weights. You weren’t standing there like a trophy, he made you lift too.

“Being healthy will help your brain flow more easily. Lift this dumbbell as heavy as you can.”

He ran a mile on the track upstairs. Sweat dripped from his face like he had been standing outside in the rain.

By the time you returned to his dorm, you were beyond tired. You laid your head on his pillow but just as you closed your eyes, he pulled you up on your feet.”

“Not on my watch,” he tutted. “It’s chemistry time.”

You were having trouble memorizing Chemical Formulas and this by far was the most difficult concept you had come across.

To make you stay awake, he turned on a bright LED light and faced it towards the table. The bright light nearly made your head fall off from the pain it reflected in your eyes.

Hisoka grabbed his book and began to write down the major chemicals on the periodic table and their charges.

“Pay attention to the following abbreviations and charges: Calcium is Ca, Chloride is Cl+2, Carbide is C+2, and Carbon Dioxide is CO+2. Read these over and I’ll test you again.”

He did just that but you still weren’t understanding. You were ready to give up.

Stupid scam. Why do I need a piece of paper to determine what I can do? You thought to yourself. Well, it’s obvious. If you can’t do the work now, what makes you think you can do it at a job? Harsh, I know.

“Let me try this,” He said. He carried you to his bedroom and gently placed you on it. He took off his shirt and removed his glasses. “Aluminum has a charge of +3 and Oxygen has -2. If there were three of me and two of my clones disappeared, how many of me are left?”

“Just you, right? One”

“Correct! Excellent.”

Wow, everything started making sense once he took his shirt off.

From then, he just inserted himself into the equation and then it started to make sense! He apologized for running his mouth earlier and promised to keep any more secrets between you two. The night ended with you sleeping in his bed wrapped in a cotton blanket just cuddling and that was it. And bam! You slept as sound.

Illumi

Dating the “hot” quiet history buff was a flex of its own. Sure Illumi didn’t talk to anyone besides you, but it didn’t matter. People swooned if he looked in their direction.

History was a popular major during your era. People were not like their grandparents; they wanted to learn about other cultures besides their own. Illumi’s specialty was in world history and civilizations. The class was very interesting to you but there was so much information, you could barely process it.

Illumi often wrote his essays in one day proofread and all! He often charged people to look their essays over.

One time he made $500 in one year!

Glancing at your transcripts, he notices that you have a C- and offers to help.

“Why are you looking through my stuff?”

Hey, he’s your boyfriend! But still, he should ask.

“Sorry. It was up on the screen,” he said, throwing his hands in the air.

You began to blush in embarrassment. The hottest smartest man in the building now knew that you were failing one of the easiest classes on campus.

Placing his thumb under your chin, he lifted your head to meet his gaze. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I can help you.”

“How? I am so behind! I zoned out after chapter 2!”

“We’ll watch a movie.”

“Oh, God! Not one from PBS is it?!”

“Yes. How else are you supposed to learn?”

He turns on the movie and allows you to lay your head on his shoulder but not too much. He is aware of your tricks and he wants you to pay attention.

Every 15 minutes, he pauses the movie and asks you checkpoint questions. If you got them wrong, you had to stand up with your underclothes on (t-shirt and shorts) in the cool room for 10 minutes. If you got the questions right, he allows you to lay more comfortably. You were already in your underclothes but you were under the blanket.

He made you write down key definitions and the embarrassment of each section.

After the movie, he blindfolds you and reads out a term. Surprisingly, you got them all correct!

As a reward for your past midterm, he takes you to dinner at a restaurant where he slips a promise ring on your finger containing your birthstone.

[ask19thcentury-doctorgilbert]

Hey there! I thought I’d answer this ooc because Gilbert would never give a straight answer to these questions and after last night’s post I’m really down to talk more in depth about the doc’s mental health.

But before I dive into that, I just wanted to say thank you? I’m really glad to know that you think I do a good job at handling the portrayal of his mental health struggles, that really means a lot and is one of the best compliments I’ve been given ;v; I try to be as realistic and sensitive as I can and I’m glad to know that it pays off!

Alright, onto some headcanon rambling. Fair warning, this post is long and I go off into several tangents sdjjkds

Trigger warnings for the content below: depression, anxiety, suicide, childhood neglect / abuse, self-harm, and bad coping habits.

There’s at least 6 points in Gil’s life wherein his mental health was at its worst: the death of his father, the majority of his duchy years, frederick’s death, the napoleonic era, the entire stretch of the gdr era, and those years between the fall of the wall and him leaving to go to university in Zurich. I can write an entire post about each of those times, but for the sake of answering these asks, I’ll be focusing mainly on the first point and his crusader years.

To answer the first question, I think Gilbert’s first major depressive episode happened when he was a child after his adoptive father, Otmar Beilschmidt, died. He was a constant, comforting presence in the boy’s early life; someone he knew he can depend on and turn to if things ever got too scary or overwhelming. Even after he got ‘turned’ into a representative and the heads of the Order formally took him in, little Gisil still kept being stuck to his father’s hip. And Otmar, as unsettled as he was to find out that his son was suddenly some kind of miracle child, did his best to come to terms with it and help his son cope with his new nature too.

(Slightly off topic side note but I always had the idea that Otmar never really got over reacting with shock whenever he witnessed anything that confirmed that his son wasn’t fully human anymore, like watching a small scratch stitch itself back together. Gisil, being a perceptive and sensitive child, would catch on to that quick and I’m 100% sure he’s asked his father if he was afraid of him before. To which I’m sure Otmar told a half-truth and said that no, he wasn’t afraid of him --- After all, how could he be afraid of someone that God created to bring some good into the world?)

Either way, the sudden loss of that steady, dependable figure in his life really knocked Gisil’s world out of balance and triggered his first major depressive episode. He wouldn’t eat much at mealtimes and found it hard to sleep at night which would then translate into the kid being far more irritable and restless than usual during the day; prone to tantrums and crying if something didn’t go his way. But instead of someone sitting down and trying to understand why he was acting out, he was chastised for acting the way he did; told that he was allowed to grieve his father, but he had to be more mature about it and behave better. Not wanting to disappoint the adults who would be looking after him now, Gisil taught himself how to swallow back the hurt and put a lid on it. It didn’t make him hurt any less, in fact it may have started to translate into physical symptoms like a mildly upset stomach or a headache, but it didn’t bother anyone and his new parental figures seemed to approve so he just came to accept that it must be the right thing to do.

While he eventually got over the worst of the pain relating to his father’s death (or at least learned how to stuff it far enough in the back of his mind that he could pay it no mind) those symptoms continued to quietly haunt him. Mikael was prone to having trouble sleeping in the night (and he often passes the time by practising his writing, or sometimes he’ll get up and sneak out of the sleeping quarters to just sit in the chapel. sometimes praying, sometimes just sitting quietly and hoping that the silence and the coolness coming from the stone walls would somehow lull him to sleep) and to having days where he acts more hot-headed and impulsive than usual. 

The disconnect between desperately wanting to be the ‘good’ person he believes he was created to be and some of the awful things the Order has done to do ‘good’ in the name of God also feeds into that depression and anxiety, especially when he keeps bottling it up because he really has no one to talk to about these things and because that’s what he’s used to doing. This internal conflict will eventually bubble over in his Duchy years, a period of time where Gilbert’s whole mental and emotional well-being was incredibly fragile. (If you wanna read more about what happened during that time, I have an old post about it here. Trigger and content warnings are at the very beginning!)

As for the second question, I think it’s safe to say Gilbert was messed up by essentially being a child soldier. Physical damage doesn’t stay long but the mental/emotional damage was extensive.

Even if his first depressive episode was triggered by his father’s death, the things he saw and experienced during his time as the representative of the Teutonic Order, definitely helped to make things worse. All the bad habits and symptoms he experienced in his youth continue to haunt him until adulthood. Gilbert would still rather brush someone’s concern off with an ‘I’m fine’ coupled with a reassuring smile than risk bothering them with whatever he’s dealing with. Since staying with Konrad and Reiner (who have their own struggles that deserve its own post) he’s learned to open up a little more with enough prompting, but he’d still much rather keep his problems to himself. He still regularly struggles with insomnia that gets worse when he finds himself in a slump, which then translates to frustration, irritability, and a tendency to neglect self care like forgetting to eat. He’s struggled with suicidal thoughts before and has made an attempt on two occasions: once in his Duchy years, the other right after the Napoleonic Era came to a close.

I think another thing that really added fuel to the fire is just the nature of Gil’s existence? Like most nations in his generation have had the chance to just roam around being children in their childhood, some might have even been cared for by the ancients, but he’s never had any of that? He had 10 years of it as a regular human child and then another 8 years after he was ‘turned’ of simply tending to sick and injured pilgrims. He had only 18 years of relative normalcy before he was thrown into a life of constant war, made out to be some holy figurehead, while I feel like most others had much longer. His ability to compartmentalize, to separate the self from the nation, was lacking compared to others in his cohort because he was just so young, physically and in nation years, when he was thrown into the mess. He’s a child nation who’s still young enough to remember his life as a human, to remember what it’s like to think and feel and to fear like a human and I think that messed with his ability to cope. Templar and Hospitaller might be the only ones who can understand what that was like since I think they were thrown into the fire relatively quickly after they were turned as young kids, but Ezekiel is far away and Sanson... Well, we all know what happened to poor Sanson.

The good news is, in the modern day, he is doing so much better since he started regularly meeting with a therapist and getting on the right medication regimen. It took him a while to really accept the fact that he needs help, even if logically he knew this was the right thing to do. There are still bad days but the genuinely good days far outnumber them now and that’s worth the uphill climb that is trying to sort out his issues.

[valdomarx]

Inseparably Entwined

Stargate Atlantis, McKay/Sheppard, bound together, 2k, rated M

-

Elizabeth pinches the bridge of her nose. "What did you two do now?"

"We. Uhh. We found another Ancient device."

"And, instead of cataloguing it for a hazmat team to investigate, as per protocol, you decided to play with it?"

“To investigate it,” Rodney corrects. “Like the competent professionals we are.” John punches him in the arm.

Elizabeth's lips purse into a thin line. "And then you accidentally activated it?"

John winces. "And then we accidentally activated it."

"Of course you did. And its effects are…?"

"Non lethal," Rodney says, a bit too quickly. 

Elizabeth mumbles something that might be don't bet on it under her breath. "Non lethal, but…?"

John shifts his weight and stares at a point behind her head. "McKay and I have to stay within ten feet of each other at all times or we both pass out."

For a moment there is stunned silence. Then the sound of Elizabeth's bark of laughter fills the office and spills out into the gate room.

-

Carson waves a hand. “You’re both going to be fine. It looks like the bond is only temporary.”

Rodney fidgets. “How temporary?”

“I couldn’t say. A few days, maybe a few weeks?”

“Weeks?” John chokes out. “Listen, doc, we need you to fix this -”

Carson cuts him off. “I’m sorry, son, but I’ve got more important things on my plate right now.” He looks pointedly around the infirmary which is admittedly full of marines being treated for combat injuries, Athosians coming in for checkups, and troops of medical staff organizing vaccinations for off-world groups.

John deflates. “So we’re stuck with each other?”

Carson pats him on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

Rodney looks up at that. “Hey!”

-

“Absolutely not.” John recoils in horror. “We are not sleeping in your room.”

“But all my stuff is in there.”

“Your room is disgusting. If you think I’m sleeping on the floor among half-finished bags of cheetos and bits of drones, you are sorely mistaken. It’s a wonder you haven’t attracted the Lantean equivalent of rats.”

“I’ll have you know the bags of cheetos are almost entirely finished.”

“Rodney -”

“Alright! We’ll sleep in your oh-so-tidy quarters. Military spick and span, no snacks or useful bits of machinery in sight.” Rodney rounds on him, waving a finger in his face. “But if I get an inspired idea in the middle of the night and can’t find a circuit board to test it on, know that it’s your stubbornness that is robbing humanity of another of my great concepts.”

John hides a smile. “I’ll have to find a way to live with myself.”

-

When the doors to John’s quarters slide open, Rodney’s jaw drops.

“Hey! How come you have a bigger bed than me?”

John shoots him a smug look. “I upgraded after the last attack. Benefits of command.” It was one of the very few benefits of command he was willing to take advantage of.

“Oh, that’s how it is, hmm? We’re living in a military dictatorship here, with all the best perks and boons given to the highest ranking officers? Never mind that it’s the scientists who do all the actual work, who discover new technology and solve the problems, oh no, let’s give out the biggest and comfiest beds to the military guys, as if that’s fair -”

“McKay!” he interrupts. Rodney looks like he’s having fun, gearing up for a good rant, but John honestly can’t take it right now. “Go to sleep, I’m begging you.”

Rodney huffs, clearly saving that rant away for another time. “Fine.”

-

John is woken up for the third time that night by Rodney fidgeting on the floor and sighing dramatically. 

“What is it, McKay?” His voice is testy. He doesn’t love having his sleep interrupted.

“I can’t get comfortable. A sleeping bag on the floor is bad for my back.”

John stares at the ceiling and counts to ten. He looks at the ample space next to him and calculates his best odds of getting some sleep tonight. “Come here and share the bed with me then.”

Rodney eyes his mattress dubiously. “I’ll have you know I require a very firm mattress, for spinal support, not that I’d expect you to understand -”

“For god’s sake, get in the bed. It has to be better than the floor.”

A moment’s pause. “Yeah, alright.”

It’s been a long time since John slept next to someone. His rare hookups have mostly involved sneaking out in the middle of the night, and even when he was married they slept in separate beds most of the time. 

Sleeping next to Rodney is, surprisingly, not awful though. Sure, he steals all the covers and moves around all the time and, of course, he snores, but John finds that he strangely doesn’t mind. 

-

John has seen Rodney under fire, seen him at his best, seen him happy and sad and angry and bored. But he’s never seen him first thing in the morning before.

“Whazzat?” Rodney’s eyes barely open. His expression is one of overriding confusion. “Whzz going on?”

John stifles a smile at his resident genius. He’s been up for an hour already, showered, done his laundry, and cleaned his space. He’s also decided to play nice and share his secret.

“Here,” he says, and hands a mug of freshly brewed coffee to Rodney. “Just don’t tell anyone I snuck coffee and a kettle into my personal effects, or the scientists will raid us in the middle of the night.”

“Coffee!” Rodney is still radiating confusion, but he hones in on the cup of coffee like a laser. A blissful smile passes over his face. “You brought me coffee.”

“I did.”

“You’re wonderful.” Rodney takes the coffee and cradles it like something precious and rare.

-

After a day and a half doing paperwork in the lab because they can't go off-world, John has reached the end of his rope. 

"I'm going to the gym," he snaps. "You can either come with me or we'll both end up in the infirmary when I try to go there alone."

Rodney glares and is clearly about to start arguing when Zelenka elbows him. He sighs dramatically but agrees that they can take an hour away. 

While they're both in the gym and John needs a sparring partner, he figures he might as well teach Rodney some self defense. The idea of Rodney needing to defend himself makes something unpleasant twist in his gut, but he pushes that away and argues they should make the most of this time and do something productive. To his surprise, Rodney agrees, and they run through some basic drills and defensive maneuvers. 

Rodney is bad at this, frankly. He's all elbows and poor coordination, but he's trying. 

John is feeling magnanimous, and he knows the value of a bit of positive reinforcement. So when Rodney steps forward and attempts a clumsy hip throw, he leans in and lets himself be thrown. 

Rodney looks astonished that actually worked, before delightedly pouncing on John and pinning him to the floor.

"Got you," he says, face pink and grinning wickedly. 

John's heart picks up, somehow distracted by Rodney's heavy weight on him and the sharp brightness of his smile. He swallows thickly. 

"I guess you do."

-

“Geez, Sheppard, how long does it take to have a shower?” Rodney’s voice carries through the bathroom door. “I want to run some simulations on the city’s power systems with Zelenka.”

John’s cheeks flush and he tries to tune Rodney out. “Just give me a minute, will you?”

“What are you doing in there anyway, jerking off?”

John goes very, very still.

“Oh my god, you are!”

“Shut up, McKay.”

“No, no, don’t let me stop you. You go ahead and enjoy yourself.”

“I hate you.”

“I’m not judging. It’s perfectly natural. And hey, maybe it’ll help you chill the fuck out for once.”

John scowls, gives up, and shoves his dick back in his pants. “I will kill you in your sleep.”

-

John is used to having to drag McKay around after him on missions, so in some ways their new situation isn’t entirely unfamiliar. 

Tac vests are useful for that; full of hand holds he can grab when he needs McKay to get down under cover or to stop him from wandering off to look at some shiny piece of technology. When Rodney is in uniform, he can grab the collar of his shirt, though Rodney complains that it creases the fabric horribly.

So John finds a compromise. When he has stuff to do and Rodney is dawdling, he grabs his hand and steers him in the right direction. After a while it becomes second nature - whenever there’s danger or something important is happening, he takes Rodney’s hand and they set off to deal with it together.

If any of the marines find it funny to see their commander holding hands with the head of science during a crisis, none of them dares to mention it.

-

John is carefully, carefully tending to his hair. Just the right amount of product, to spike it just the right amount to look effortless. He tweaks and ruffles, tugs and shapes. This is an art form which requires judicious maintenance. 

“Oh, for the love of -” Rodney grabs the tub of hair wax out of his hands. “We’ll be here all day. Let me.”

He steps forward and slides his hands into John’s hair, ruffling it vigorously. His fingers are firm on John’s scalp and he tugs just on the right side of too hard.

Rodney steps back and surveys his work. “That’ll do.”

John glances in the mirror and sees a chaotic, wild mess. He looks like he’s run a marathon, with his pink cheeks and mussed hair, or like he’s rolled out of bed after a night of passion.

“Rodney! I can’t go out like this.”

“Oh, shut up. You look smoking hot, like you always do.”

That’s… What? What does that mean? Why the hell would Rodney say that?

“Come on,” Rodney is saying, already on his way out the door. John has to run after him, cheeks still flushed.

-

They find a rhythm.

John gets up first and puts the coffee on while he showers. He’s given up on trying to tidy Rodney’s side of the room, so he lets the piles of circuit boards and screwdrivers sprout up where they will. Once Rodney is up they get breakfast at the mess, then he spends the morning doing paperwork and writing reports in the science lab while Rodney works. They meet Teyla and Ronon for lunch, then he spends the afternoon drilling the marines while Rodney taps away at a laptop. Evenings, they bicker over which movies to watch in their quarters and throw popcorn at each other.

Elizabeth even agrees to let them travel to the mainland, and then to go on low-stakes reconnaissance missions. 

It’s… comfortable, he realizes. It works.

That thought makes something twist in his chest, and he doesn’t know why.

-

“Morning, sunshine.” John pours Rodney a cup of coffee.

“Mmm.” Rodney is still sleep-rumpled, but he struggles upright and smiles softly. “Morning.”

As he hands over the coffee, Rodney catches his wrist and holds him there. He looks down at the mug, then back up at John. John notices in an abstract way that his eyes are very, very blue.

“Thanks,” Rodney says, and pecks him on the lips.

Right. Okay. That’s a thing. That’s a thing they’re doing now.

John is still processing as Rodney gets up and heads for the shower. “I’ve got a meeting with Miko this morning,” he says over his shoulder, normal as ever, “so we might have to push our gym session back by half an hour -”

He keeps chattering away while John sits on the bed and has a minor crisis. Did they… do they… but that would mean…

By the time Rodney is out of the shower, John has made a decision. 

He doesn’t allow himself to overthink it, he just takes Rodney’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply. Rodney’s arms tighten around his waist and his tongue slips into his mouth and oh. Oh yes. That’s good.

John’s a little breathless, a little dizzy. “Are we really doing this?” he asks.

Rodney’s face scrunches up in amusement. “I think we’ve been doing this for weeks.”

Yeah. Okay. That’s a fair point.

The tense feeling that’s been winding around his chest uncoils, and in its place is nothing but blooming warmth.

“I guess we have.”

-

EPILOGUE

“Carson.” Elizabeth looks up from where she’s frowning at a tablet and gives him a polite nod. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“Any time,” Carson says, and means it. “What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping to get an update on the situation with John and Rodney. We really do need them to get back on full duty soon.”

“Ahh.” He’s been carefully avoiding that topic. He takes a breath. “To be honest with you, the bond between them wore off days ago. They could go their separate ways now and be none the worse for it.”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows fly upward toward her hairline. “And you haven’t told them yet?”

“See, at first they were in the infirmary every day asking for an update. But they haven’t been in for over a week and -”

“And?”

“They seem…” he pauses, contemplating his choice of words, “... happy.”

Elizabeth’s mouth twitches into a quickly suppressed smile. “That may be, but you have a professional responsibility.”

“Aye, you’re right. I’ll go and tell them the effects of the device have run their course.”

“Well…” Elizabeth looks thoughtful. “You have a professional responsibility to give them accurate medical information when they ask for it.”

Carson sees where she’s going with this. “And until then?”

Elizabeth shrugs and gives him a sly look. “They do seem happy.”

[phykios]

honesty and promise me, part 5 [co-written with @darkmagyk] [read on ao3]

 Annabeth is making her periodic pilgrimage to the gynecologist when she gets Leo's call. It's very fitting--two uncomfortable and invasive things for the price of one. She answers her phone, ignoring the doctor's chastising frown. Surely she can place her new IUD while Annabeth deals with whatever Leo wants.

 "What are you doing on the 18th?" he asks, about the only type of hello she ever gets from Leo.

 The two of them never really grew out of pretending not to like each other, after they had gotten over their initial dislike. When he and Piper first got to Miss Minerva's, more or less straight out of juvie after Piper's dad made a lot of calls and called in a lot of favors, she and Leo had really hated each other. They used to fight over everything, from Piper's attention to the position of captain of the Mathletes team. And also, over Leo hating a rich white girl on principle, which, in retrospect, is totally fair. But then, by a weird twist of fate, they wound up in Boston together.

 If Annabeth had to choose between hanging out with her creepy, Norse mythology-obsessed uncle and hanging out with Leo, she'd pick Leo every time. They had gone through a lot together, things both big and small.

 "Of August?" she asks.

 "Please be still, Ms. Chase," says her doctor. Annabeth rolls her eyes.

 "Duh."

 Wracking her thoughts she can't think of any prior commitments she might have had. Maybe there's a concert that day, but if she can't remember, it probably wasn't that important anyway. "Not much."

 "Good, because we have plans."

 She frowns. "Piper didn't mention any--"

 "No, you and I have plans. I'll see you in Philly, yeah?"

 Philadelphia? Ew. "Why Philly?"

 "Our Smarter House thing won an award."

 "No shit?"

 "Eta Industries Award. The gala is on the 18th. You're my plus one."

 She sucks in air through her teeth, readjusting her hips as unobtrusively as possible. Eta Industries was… a very big deal. "Isn't that, like, an engineering specific award? Maybe you should accept it by yourself." She'd be better off staying out of the limelight for this one, she thinks, even as some part of her longs once again for recognition.

 Something electric whirs in the background, tinny and buzzing. "I'll see you on the 18th, then," says Leo, not having heard a word she said. "Also, you've been summoned to the castle."

 "Leo--" she jumps as the gyno touches something she really shouldn't have.

 "No arguments, she's expecting you today at two. Adios!" He clicks off.

 "Okay, Ms. Chase," says the doctor, a little too chipper for Annabeth's taste. "You should be all set."

 Annabeth leaves the doctor's office with her brand new IUD, a handful of medical literature which immediately gets tossed in the trash, and a sinking feeling in her gut as she gets on a train to Brooklyn, headed to Piper's place for another annoying and unnecessary fashion show. It's not that she doesn't enjoy being Piper's model--it's a position she's held since their time at Miss Minerva's, and it's never really a hardship to be told how gorgeous she is--but Piper has a way of just... getting information out of her that she doesn’t always want to share.

 Stopping off early, Annabeth gives herself a moment to walk down the Brooklyn Heights Promenade, to settle her nerves and indulge herself a bit. That skyline gets her every time.

 Turning down Pierrepont Street, she is once again struck by just how quiet the city can be. Manhattan is loud, rude, in-your-face, almost an entirely different world from the stately, deafeningly silent Brooklyn. For Annabeth, who is incapable of falling asleep without city horns blaring, it wigs her out a little.

 She barely has time to ring the doorbell on Piper's dad's place before the girl herself wrenches it open, grabbing Annabeth's hand and yanking her inside. "You're late!" she trills, suffering what Annabeth can only assume is the onset of a caffeine overdose.

 "I thought I had until two."

 "That was before I had the best idea."

 The brownstone is a mess, as per usual, reams of fabric tossed over every available surface, enough dressforms strewn about to make it look like Piper is hosting a party exclusively populated by headless zombies, adorned with a warehouse's worth of half-finished dresses and jackets. Based on the loud fabrics and structured angles, it looks like Piper is in the middle of a Klimt-ian phase of inspiration. Annabeth eyes a bright gold gown with a huge, extended collar, embroidered with silver eyes, the raw edges trailing the floor. "Please tell me this isn't your idea."

 "First of all," Piper releases her arm as they enter her kitchen-turned-photo studio, gingerly stepping over a box of assorted beads, "even though it would look amazing on you, that dress is for an actual paying client. Second of all--" she snatches up a dressform from its position behind the camera, setting it down in front of her with a flourish. "This is my idea."

 Annabeth was right--Piper is definitely on a Klimt-ian kick.

 Pulled straight from her art history classes, the dress looks like a two dimensional painting come to life, a stunning skirt like a column of liquid silver descending onto the black mat, pleats like fluted columns precisely draped over the dressform's hips… and not much else. Annabeth points. “Is that it?”

 Piper makes a face. "I have a bodice, promise. Now go take that shit off."

 Annabeth looks down at her repurposed The Police shirt, fished out of a thrift store bin some months ago, shirt collar cut and sides resewn to bring the waistline in. "I like this shirt."

 "Oh, I like the shirt plenty," she agrees. "But you could stand to wear a nicer pair of jeans."

 She does have a point there--her jeans are clinging to life at this point, the knees and hems all but obliterated, strings of fabric valiantly attempting to hold their original shape. "Fine. Be right back."

 When she emerges from the bathroom a minute later in just her bra and panties, Piper has laid out another bolt of fabric in that same color, silver with a blue shift beneath the studio lights. Piper, bent over with a strip of measuring tape, looks up at her, then squints. "So who is he?"

 Annabeth starts. "Excuse me?"

 "The guy you've been seeing."

 How... the fuck does Piper always know these things? "I don't know what you're talking about."

 She flicks her eyes down to Annabeth's thigh, Annabeth following her gaze to the remnants of the bruise that Percy had left there with his mouth two days ago. Dammit.

 Piper tsks, a smile distorting the sound. "Naughty, naughty, Annabeth."

 "How do you know it wasn't from a girl?" she asks, petulant.

 "Because if it had been a girl, you wouldn't be nearly so defensive."

 Shit. "We've been friends way too long," Annabeth grumbles.

 "That we have," says Piper. "And out of respect for our friendship, I will refrain from grilling you about him until you are more comfortable sharing."

 "So, for a few hours?"

 She shrugs. "More or less."

 "I suppose you want me to thank you for holding back."

 "Don't thank me yet," she grins, wide and toothy. "I've been cooped up here working on my collection for three days, and I am dying to talk to someone."

 Annabeth sighs, but obediently raises her arms, making room as Piper crouches down to pin the skirt on her. "Okay, you got me. I'm seeing this guy."

 "Seeing or seeing-seeing?"

 "Just seeing," she clarifies. "It's pretty casual."

 "Can't be that casual if you're telling me about it," Piper points out.

 Fuck. This is why she never tells Piper about her hookups. "You're the one who asked."

 "Another business bro, I assume?"

 "He's--" Piper swats at her as she automatically sucks her stomach in, their long held code for "stay put." "He's a dancer."

 She hums, arranging pleats over Annabeth's knees. "Like on Broadway?"

 "Ballet."

 Piper glances up at her, eyes sparkling. “Un danseur! Ooh la la,” she trills. “What’s his name?”

 “I can just leave,” Annabeth says, distinctly not thinking about how Percy will occasionally slip into French whenever he stubs his toe.

 “Okay, okay, no more boy talk.” Piper moves in front of her, adjusting the fabric about her waist. “Tell me about the thing you just won with Leo.”

 “I had honestly forgotten about it,” she says, lying a little, pulling her arms forward. “You remember his master’s thesis?”

 “The shmart kishen thing, right?” Piper asks around the tape measure in her mouth.

 Leo, the prodigal boy that he is, had spent his last year of school dedicated to a singular problem faced by people around the world: the sudden, out of control kitchen fire. Using very complicated electronics and engineering that Annabeth does not understand, he devised a handful of mechanisms to sense, contain, and ultimately douse random fires as soon as they popped up. Annabeth came on as his design partner after he had graduated and had gotten some funding to conceptualize an entire safe house.

 “Well, it just won an Eta Industries award.”

 Her head snaps up, hands freezing in their tracks. “Holy shit.”

 “Yeah.”

 “Congrats.”

 “Thanks,” she shrugs as Piper gets up to grab some more fabric. “I mean, it was mostly Leo’s doing. I just made sure he didn’t leave any stray pipes around.”

 Holding out her arms again, Piper slides them through the sleeves of a heavy, corset-like piece, structured and straight and very forgiving on Annabeth’s lack of curves. “You shouldn’t sell yourself short,” she says. “I’m sure your skills as a guinea pig were very valuable.”

 “Are you ever going to let that go?” Annabeth asks, she who has literally burnt pasta while it was submerged in water.

 “You’re just lucky my dad was out of town that weekend. Have you decided what you’re going to wear to the awards ceremony?”

 She shoots her friend a strange look. “I thought I was wearing this?” she gestures to the unfinished silver gown currently making her feel like an absolute goddess.

 Piper makes a face. “What do I look like, the fucking Flash? This isn’t going to be ready for another thirty hours, at least. I’ve got decals to add, Swarovskis to bead, not to mention all the hand-stitching on the neckline because for whatever reason my machine has decided to hate me this week.”

 “Okay, well,” says Annabeth, appropriately cowed, “then I guess I’ll wear the black one you gave me.”

 “2019 fall/winter?”

 Annabeth nods.

 “Styling?”

 “Luke gave me this really nice scarf for my birthday.”

 Throwing her head back, she groans.

 “What? What’s wrong?”

 “You’re so boring,” she moans, pulling Annabeth’s hair out of the way. “Let me guess, you’re going to pair it with the black shrug and opaque nude tights.”

 “Well… yeah, I was.”

 “Exactly! Boring.” Coming back around, she pushes Annabeth lightly into the light, before taking her place behind the camera. “You could do so much with that dress and you choose to make it boring. Why not some fishnets? Or a big statement necklace?”

 Annabeth waits after a few shutter clicks to answer. “Because I doubt that the people at Eta Industries are going to be big fans of my tattoos.”

 “That is a bald-faced lie and you know it,” Piper says. “Your tattoos and piercings are gorgeous and you would look absolutely rocking with them. Knock all the old farts right off their feet. Turn.”

 Obediently, Annabeth rotates, letting Piper snap off as many pictures as she likes. “This isn’t a Vogue event, Pipes,” she says, rolling her eyes where her friend can’t see them. “Punk isn’t exactly accepted practice yet.”

 “Punk was the Met Gala theme almost a decade ago, babe. It has filtered down from Vogue. It's practically cerulean now. Side.”

 Annabeth turns again, keeping her eyes straight. Side-eye would ruin the shot, no matter how much she wants to give it.

 “I will never understand why you both refuse to wear halfway decent jeans and then refuse to go guns out in my dresses that demand it. I can almost guarantee you that Leo will show up in those stupid suspenders with grease on his face. And you’ll have to get him to leave his tool belt in the car.”

 “Then it’s probably for the best that I have a modicum of professionalism, huh?”

 Piper leans out from behind the camera, glaring. “At the very least,” she hedges, “will you let me set you up with some shoes?”

 “I don’t know…”

 “You are not allowed to wear those horrid Manolo pumps you wear everywhere. And your nude Louboutins won’t look right with the black.”

 “What did you have in mind?”

 Piper’s grin is evil, and the way she scampers out of the room means she’s got something she’d been trying to force on Annabeth for a long time.

 Five minutes later, Annabeth is presented with a set of black strappy sandals, its edges detailed in a gold zipper, with safety pin pull to match. She frowns. “Are you sure? They look kind of… hardcore for something like this.”

 “They’re Versace,” Piper says. “I was not lying about punk’s democratization.”

 Well. They are pretty cool.

 “It’s either this or the McQueen boots. They have studs.”

 Annabeth sighs, holding out her hand. Piper squeals, bouncing a little, wrapping her in a brief, but exuberant hug, kissing her cheek with a loud, wet, smack. “You’re the best!”

 “I haven’t even done anything.”

 “I am saving up favors to cash in. Now,” she releases Annabeth, retreating behind the camera. “If you’ve got some time, can I borrow your head? I’m working on a helmet and all my mannequins are busy.”

 ***

 “Hey,” Percy begins. It is so late at night, the dawn is on the edge of breaking, and they are both exhausted from some particularly good sex. Which is saying something, because all their sex is particularly good. “You doing anything on the 18th?”

 “Yeah,” She says, distractedly, snuggling down into his bed. The fact that she’s also snuggling into him is just a coincidence.

 “Oh.”

 “Why?”

 “Nothing. Was going to invite you to a thing if you weren’t.” She nods her head against his shoulder and falls asleep in his arms, thinking absolutely nothing about it.

 She continues to think nothing of it on the train to Philadelphia on the 18th, half-asleep and listening to Paramore to pass the time, blasting Misery Business on repeat as she changes in her hotel room.

 The Eta Industries event is pretty much exactly what she expected: a lot of old rich white people milling about, sipping champagne and verbally circle jerking each other, the insipid strains of classical music spilling out of the ballroom as Annabeth steps up to claim her name tag. “Name?” asks the young, college-aged girl, skimming her printed guest list over the rim of her glasses.

 “Annabeth Chase.”

 She runs a long fingernail over the assorted collection of name tags, before settling on the correct one, handing it to Annabeth, her star tattoo on the inside of her wrist free and open to anyone who would care to look. “Here you are, Ms. Chase,” she says, smiling. “Have a wonderful night!”

 Automatically, Annabeth goes to pin it on Luke’s scarf, before she remembers that something is already occupying that place--Percy’s Acropolis pin. She had taken to keeping it in her pocket these days, something of a good luck charm, and thought that it might… she doesn’t know, maybe send a subconscious signal to Percy that she’s thinking of him. Even though there is, quite literally, no way he could know, she hopes that maybe he can sense it, and that maybe he’s thinking about her, too.

 Ugh. She snatches up a flute of champagne from a wandering waiter, eager to get that thought out of her head, making a beeline straight for the refreshments table. It’s there that Leo finds her, not five minutes later, munching on some chocolate covered strawberries.

 “And here I thought you might ditch me entirely,” he says, even as he bumps her shoulder. True to form, he is absolutely, 100% dressed in those stupid suspenders, a smudge of grease behind his ear.

 “You’ve got a…” Annabeth trails off, motioning behind her own ear.

 “Huh? Oh!” He snatches up a napkin, rubbing discreetly. “Thanks.”

 She squints. Something about him is distinctly different. “Are you taller?”

 Kicking out a foot, he wiggles it, triumphant. “Platform shoes.”

 “Seriously?”

 “Hey, if they're good enough for Robert Downey Jr., then they’re good enough for me. After all, I am Ir--”

 She groans, good-natured, taking another gulp of champagne. “If you quote Marvel in your speech, I’m leaving.”

 “Fine by me, Your Highness, they’ll give me the award either way.”

 “Excuse me, Mr. Valdez?” The same college girl from before sidles up to them, clipboard clutched in her hand. “They’re about to start.”

 He claps his hands, rubbing them together. “Excellent. You coming?”

 “I…” She casts her gaze to the makeshift stage they’ve constructed, eyeing the bright “Eta Industries” placard, the sharp angles shiny and alluring, the siren-song of recognition.

 This is a big deal. There are photographers in the audience. In the write-ups and reviews, she would be listed as a co-winner of the award, a co-designer of the world’s safest house, a thought so happy she practically starts flying.

 “I think I should stay out of the limelight for this one, Leo,” she says, politely. “This is your moment. I don’t want to ruin it.”

 He frowns. “You sure?”

 Were it not for the fact that people were watching, Annabeth would have leapt up onto that stage without a second thought, snatching up the trophy like she had just won the Oscar, holding it up like the goddamn Olympic torch. “What, you want a white woman stealing your glory?” she says instead, arching a brow.

 “You get a pass this one time,” he quips, holding out his hand. “Don’t make me regret it.”

 Whatever social grace she has left crumbles. She’s denied it enough--she wants to be up there. “Oh, fine. Since you insist,” she says, following clipboard-girl to the stage.

 There’s a quick burst of feedback, then an elderly gentleman at the podium begins speaking into the mic. “Excuse me--sorry about that. Yes, yes, thank you all for coming tonight to the annual Eta Industries awards presentation ceremony. It is always such a pleasure to come together with our hard-working and generous board members and shareholders to honor the best and brightest upcoming talent in engineering.”

 Internally, she rolls her eyes. Rich people.

 “It is my pleasure, however, to introduce the young man who is the recipient of this year’s Millennium Prize for innovation and safety. One of MIT’s youngest and most decorated graduates, he was a recipient of the Mead Prize for Students, the Friedman Young Engineer Award, and the Collingwood Prize, among several others. His master’s thesis, ‘Towards the Design and Implementation of Autonomous Safety Measures in Commercial Kitchens,’ formed the basis of the project which we recognize tonight, the so-called ‘SmartSafe House,’ reflects the pioneering spirit and outstanding creative vision of not only Eta Industries, but also the field of engineering as a whole. Please join me in congratulating this year’s Millennium Prize recipient, Leo Valdez.”

 From the sidelines, she claps enthusiastically with the rest of the crowd as her friend takes the stage, shakes hands with the Vice President of Eta Industries, and accepts the award, a blue, blocky triangle which almost seems to glow in the light of the ballroom. “Thank you, Mr. Helms. This is--this is a really big honor.”

 She can see him shaking a bit, taking a quick drink from his water glass. Public speaking was never really his strong suit.

 “As--as a lot of you probably know, this project is very near and dear to my heart. Growing up in Houston with my mother, a car mechanic, I was eight years old when her beloved shop went up in flames, like that.” He snaps his fingers, his other hand pressed to the podium where no one can see, joints white with pressure. Annabeth is proud of him--he hasn’t been able to speak this candidly about it in years. She knows firsthand how much his mother’s near-death haunts him still. “Thankfully, we were able to rebuild, and my mother went on to bigger and better things--including a shop with cleaner vents. But I can definitely pinpoint that moment as the day I knew I wanted to make the world a safer place, for my mom, if not for everyone else.”

 She remembers, so clearly, that snowy night in the dorms at Miss Minerva’s. The power had gone out, and Leo had made them an illicit campfire out of their trash bin and Annabeth’s failed English exam. Cold and miserable and with dying phones, they passed the time instead telling scary stories and funny memories, until the conversation had gotten suddenly, intensely real.

 “But I would be remiss,” he goes on, cheerful, “if I didn’t acknowledge my friend and collaborator, without whose work I wouldn’t be here today: Annabeth Chase,” he waves to his side, indicating her. The whole crowd, as one, turns their gazes on her. She straightens up, imperceptibly, hoping she doesn’t look too haughty or anything. “I’ve never been very good with people. My mama says I’m just like my dad that way. Give me a car, or a computer, or pages of multiplication tables, and I’m golden. But people?” He blows out a breath, and the crowd chuckles, naturally. “Now, if it had been left up to me, the SmartSafe House would have been a top of the line, cutting-edge metal box, efficient to a fault, but completely unlivable. Thank God I had Annabeth on my team to remind me what the project was really about: a home that families could feel safe in, so that what happened to me and my mom might never happen to anyone else.” He hoists his award above his head, leaning into the mic. “Ma, este es para ti. Thank you all.”

 Stepping down from the stage, they reenter the crowd, ready to receive adoration. In another life, she might have been embarrassed by such praise. Here and now, however, she takes each handshake and word of congratulations like a starving man in a desert who just came across an oasis, hungry and greedy.

 Hey, it’s her night, too.

 After what feels like a whole-ass sixty minutes of shaking old people's hands and polite nodding, though, she is in desperate need of a break. Escaping the throng of mingling bodies, she darts into a dark corner of the ballroom, leaning against the back of a rounded stone column, just barely out of sight of the party.

 Rubbing her hands over her face, she sighs, just short of a scream. Blowing out all her air, she lets the faint music and fake laughs melt into each other, becoming white noise, a blank canvas, empty of concrete thoughts and feelings.

 Then, her ear picks up a strand of conversation.

 “...announcing tomorrow that the CEO of Pallas Inc. is choosing a successor,” a woman says, the sneer in her voice almost visible. “About time.”

 “I thought she already picked a successor,” says the woman’s conversation partner, a man with the kind of cookie-cutter cadence that she heard every time she took a business major to bed. “Pallas is a family business, isn’t it?”

 “You haven’t heard?” Annabeth can almost picture it, the furtive glance around the room, the woman placing her hand on her partner’s arm, leaning in to share a juicy secret. “Supposedly she was grooming her daughter for the role, before she went in for rehab.”

 “Rehab? Really?”

 “What else could it be?” says the woman. “She’s disappeared off the face of the earth, and her mother refuses to talk about her. Let’s be honest, if she were dead, she would have raised a bigger stink about it.”

 Annabeth closes her eyes, sucking air in through her teeth. That… wasn’t totally untrue.

 But the woman doesn’t stop. “It’s always the same story,” she scoffs. “You throw countless hours of schooling and millions of dollars into girls like her, and what do they do? Turn around and blow it all on drugs and partying. Honestly, she should be grateful her mother is even bothering with her rehab at all. Hasn’t she wasted enough of the family’s money already?”

 Blood roars in her ears, drowning out the fancy party. Sharp points dig into her palm, pinpricks of pain, before she realizes that they’re her own fingernails.

 The lady has got it all wrong. Her mom couldn’t even be bothered with that.

 Luke’s scarf, the shrug, it’s choking her, suffocating and constricting. Percy’s pin feels heavy on her chest.

 Blinders on, she would have sprinted for the exit were it not for the Piper’s stupid Versace heels, reduced instead to a teetering, tottering wreck, like a baby colt running from a predator. The night is hot and humid, heavy with the threat of rain, and Annabeth can barely breathe, dark spots in her eyes, until she ducks into a nearby Target, the frigid blast of air a welcome distraction.

 Almost in a daze, she watches herself pick up a few things--clippers, an electric razor, beef jerky, a blue Gatorade she considers for a moment before putting it back, choosing a lemonade instead--practically throwing them at the poor cashier who begins checking her out, mechanically. He doesn’t spare her a single glance for her odd assortment of items. He doesn’t even look at her at all.

 The walk to her hotel room disappears in the blink of an eye. Blink--she breezes past the check-in counter, slipping into the empty elevator. Blink--she kicks off her heels in her room, nearly hitting the wall mirror, leaving a scuff mark on the white plaster. Blink--she’s down to her underwear and tights in the bathroom, shaving the right side of her curls clean off. She’d gotten them professionally done for the night, perfect spirals held together by expensive products. And now she wants them gone.

 She pauses and breathes too hard, looking at herself in the mirror. Her mother didn’t like that she was blonde. Maybe because of dumb blonde stereotypes, maybe just because it reminded Athena too much of her failed romance with Annabeth’s dad. And that thought stays her hand from getting rid of the rest of them.

 That, and maybe the idea of Percy, of some broke dancer, tangling his fingers in it as they lie together.

 Fuck her mother, and the fucking stories she tells.

 She likes it. She likes her blonde hair and her fresh undercut.

 She can get Thalia to touch this up later, maybe. Now, though, she needs this.

 It doesn’t look perfect. The left side of hair is too long, her gold laurel earrings too fancy for a homegrown haircut like this, her makeup too pristine. Shoving her hand under the running water, she rubs at her eyes, mascara and eyeliner smearing until they’ve reached something much more respectable for the failure that she really is.

 She misses her industrial. And her eyebrow rings. And the tongue piercing. But this will have to do for now.

 Breathing heavily, eyes hot, she doesn’t register her phone blinking, signaling an unread text message.

 It’s from Thalia. surprised you weren’t at kelp heads bday party, it reads. was pretty boring. Kno he missed you  

[rolandtowen]

Kiss It Better

Sokka builds a blanket fort. Zuko info-dumps about ADHD and chronic pain. Fluff ensues.

Read it under the cut!

"Sokka?"

A mess of brown hair and blue eyes peers out from underneath a carefully constructed cocoon of blankets. Zuko's standing in their bedroom doorway, holding Sokka's medication organizer.

"When was the last time you remember taking your meds?"

"Hmm... Thursday?" Comes Sokka's voice, muffled by the blankets.

Zuko flipped through the pill pockets. "No, looks like Tuesday."

"How bad is that? What day is today?"

Zuko sits on the edge of their bed, close enough to hold Sokka's hand but not close enough to disrupt his carefully crafted fort. "Well firstly, today is Sunday." Sokka groans and brings his free hand to his forehead. Zuko presses on, squeezing his other hand. "Secondly, taking your meds is morally neutral. Forgetting doesn't make you a bad person, it just means we need to find a routine that works better for you."

Sokka nods and Zuko can see the gears turning in his brain.

"Can I ask why you're in a blanket fort? Is it your knee?"

As a kid with ADHD, Sokka played a lot of sports: hockey, basketball, even tennis. But football is what did him in - in his senior year in high school, an unfortunate tackle tore his ACL, dislocated his left knee, and created hairline fractures in his calf bones. The Dancing Dragons won the game, but Sokka spent the rest of his senior year recovering. After almost five years, all it takes is one bad twist during a rush in the coffee shop and Sokka's down for the count.

"What gave it away?" Zuko looks up from their joined hands to see Sokka smiling at him, his bitterness at his body softened by Zuko's presence.

"Well, for one, the heating pad was mysteriously absent from our med drawer - and you're also in a blanket fort." Zuko squeezes Sokka's hand. "May I join you?"

"But of course, my love," Sokka pulls back the comforter, slapping the empty mattress beside him. "By all means, come on into Fort Chronic Pain."

Zuko laughs, settling next to his boyfriend and curling into him. "You're ridiculous."

"That's why you love me." Sokka starts combing his fingers through Zuko's long hair. "How were your classes today?"

Sokka knows that if he can get Zuko talking about school, he won't be so worried about Sokka's knee.

"Are you trying to get me to stop worrying about you? It won't work." Sokka sighs.

"Maybe, I think your med school classes are interesting."

Zuko, for all his worrying, had passed the MCAT, graduated summa cum laude, and was now studying for his M. D. at the prestigious Beifong Medical School. Sokka hadn't doubted him for a second. Zuko never gave up and never backed down. The man could grapple with the Sun and win unscathed.

"-oned?" Zuko's voice comes from below him.

"Huh?"

"I asked, 'are you zoned'?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I-"

Zuko waves him off. "What's the last thing you remember? I can start over."

"I remember asking you about classes, and you wrongfully accusing me of trying to distract you."

Zuko snorts. "My favorite class by far has been Mental Health and Physiology. I think it's highly admirable that med schools are starting to integrate mental and physical health, and not teaching them separately."

"What kind of things have you learned?"

"Like, people with anxiety may present with back pain that doesn't correlate to an injury; the excess stress can really do strange things to your muscles - and we should still holistically treat patients without just dismissing them and telling them to relax."

Sokka nods. "That makes a lot of sense, baby. You're so smart."

"Oh, shut up." Zuko can feel his cheeks warm at the compliment. "But, we also talked about ADHD and chronic pain, which I thought you might like to hear?"

"Of course, turtleduck. Amaze me." Sokka rests his hand on Zuko's hair, running his thumb across the curve of his head. "Info-dump away."

Zuko takes a deep breath in. "Okay, so, there are significant studies that show that people with ADHD experience chronic pain at a higher level than the average population - there are a few theories as to why this might be. Many people with ADHD experience hypertonia, or muscle overactivity. This can make it really difficult to fully relax tense muscles, and increases chance of injury. Additionally, low dopamine is considered to be one of the causes of ADHD, and dopamine regulates chronic pain signals. Most of the research has only been done in the last decade, so it's going to be really exciting to see what new treatments develop - previously, dopamine wasn't really known to be connected to pain regulation at all." Zuko turns to look up at Sokka. "You never know, there might be an effective treatment for your leg in the next decade."

Sokka wants to be hopeful, he does, but he's been trying to treat his chronic pain for five years, and he's had limited success. Going to a chiropractor helped a little, the physical therapist gave him some great exercises for strengthening the tendons supporting his knee, and cutting back on inflammatory foods lessened the pain level whenever he entered a flare - but he still got flares. A hike could knock him off his feet for weeks; a rainy day could be agonizing. He just wishes there was a simple solution - but as much as homeopathic Karens in the coffee shop try to convince him, there's no one-step solution. No, Janet, as good as your essential oil blend smells, it isn't going to take the place of physical therapy, preventative care, and lifestyle changes. Just like for his ADHD. It takes dedication to a process of self-care to make improvement in either arena.

And if the off-schedule pill organizer in Zuko's hands is any indication, dedication to a process can feel fucking impossible with ADHD. 

"Can I do anything to help?" Sokka looks down to see Zuko's amber eyes staring up at him, offering comfort no blanket fort could provide. 

"Can you..."

"Yeah?"

Sokka swallows. "Could you, maybe... kiss it better?"

Zuko's eyes practically sing his answer: "Of course I can."

Zuko gingerly moves the heating pad from its spot on Sokka's left knee. He tips his head down, pressing a featherlight kiss to Sokka's kneecap. He murmurs something under his breath. 

"Sorry, what was that?"

Zuko looks at him sheepishly. "I said, 'the patella'. 

Sokka can't hold back the laughter that bubbles out of his chest. "You're using me for anatomy study?"

"Seems like a fair trade. You get kisses and I get to study at the same time." Zuko drops another kiss to Sokka's knee. "Both the elbows and the knees are constructed with hinge joints." Zuko presses a firmer kiss to Sokka's thigh. "This is the femur, the thighbone - the longest and strongest bone in your body."

Sokka opens his mouth to make a joke, but Zuko beats him to it: "If you make a joke about your dick, I'm donating you to my cadaver class." Sokka's jaw snaps shut. 

Zuko drops another two kisses on either side of Sokka's calf. "Tibia and fibula," he whispers. "These are the ones you broke senior year."

"Only hairline fractures," Sokka corrects.

"Can you still feel it?"

Sokka shakes his head. "It's the ACL that still bothers me the most."

"Do you want some lidocaine?"

"Spirits, yes." 

Zuko rummages through their nightstand, pulling the blessed tub of Icy Hot out of the top drawer, and spreading a thin layer over Sokka's knee. He traces soft patterns into his knee as they wait for the lidocaine to kick in. 

"If you say 'patella' again, I'm going to smack you." Sokka eyes him from where he's leaning against the headboard. 

"Of course not," Zuko takes Sokka's right hand into his and presses a kiss to the back of it. "Metacarpals."

"You fucker-"

"Don't get riled up and undo all my hard work." Zuko massages the palm of Sokka's hand. "Is the leg better?"

"Much better."

"So we still have the original problem."

"The meds?"

Zuko nods. "So I know you've been trying to take them as soon as you wake up..."

"But?"

"I think you should task-stack it," Zuko says, running his thumb absent-mindedly over Sokka's knee. "You should pair with something you do everyday."

"Like what?"

"You make yourself a wicked pour-over every morning. What if you kept your meds by the kettle and then took them while you waited for the water to get hot?" 

Sokka face pauses, processing. "Huh."

"Would... would that work?"

Sokka smiles, beaming at him. "That's a brilliant idea, turtleduck." He opens his arms up, patting the space underneath him. "Come up here?"

"If you insist," Zuko quips. "Do you want me to make fried rice tonight? I can even bring it to you if you want."

"You're literally the light of my life."

Zuko laughs. "I'll take that to heart." He snuggles up under Sokka's chin. "Do you feel better?"

"So much better." Sokka pushes back Zuko's hair from his face and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. "Thanks to you."

"Frontal bone," Zuko murmurs. 

"Seriously?!"

Zuko cackles. 

[anika-ann]

A Cup of Truth (S.R)

Type: One-shot, a bit of coffee shop AU

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!reader    Word Count: 3000

Summary: Your favourite pretty blond comes in every day to get a cup of good ol’ joe. You flirt on occasion; mostly you, because your suit of armour – which people boringly call an apron – and his smiles give you confidence.

When the band of dumb goons picks your damn workplace to attack, your confidence flies out of the window. Well. Good thing that the resident Avenger heroes save the day including the one in his all-American star-spangled glory.

Prompt: “You can’t mask that ass. I’d know it anywhere.” (Bold in the text)

Warnings: hostage situation, violence, non-consensual drug use/injected, hospitals, slightly crack-ish humour (?) and some fluff

A/N: For marvelcapsicle’s challenge. Thank you for letting me participate, darling, may you gain more and more sweet followers in the future ♥

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

Here’s a thing: Steve Rogers had a lot of fight in him. Before or after injected with the serum, no matter his shirt size, no matter if he could swing his fists effectively or not, he would punch bullies in their face.

When it came to people close to his heart, that rule amplified tenfold. No one touched the people he cared for. And while he would not necessarily call all of them friends, he would go rabid should any harm come their way.

To be fair, the list of ‘his people’ who were still alive wasn’t long; he could almost count them on the fingers of one hand. Tony. Natasha. Clint. Thor. Bruce. Probably Fury. Really, his circle was a bit monotonous, people who could protect themselves just fine at most times, but simultaneously with high-risk job of being the first defence line for the world’s greatest threats.

And then there was you.

You, with your inviting smile whenever he appeared at your counter at the café he had discovered during his endless walks.

You, handing him a drink different to his usual ‘boring’ cup of joe once a week, because that was the deal you had offered and Steve, caught in his curiosity about today’s world and your adorable challenging expression, agreed.

You, with your pretty eyes, irises twinkling at his attempts at flirting, no matter how awkward and out-of-time they sounded, graciously returning the favour… if he was reading the situation right.

You, always grinning wide when discovering a doodle he had left on his napkin, taking it with you back to the counter.

You, blissfully unaware of his double life, genuine in your demeanour, dealing with plain old Steve Rogers, and perfectly safe; at least as safe as one could be on Manhattan.

You in a headlock, as five rogue SHIELD agents decided to crash into the café you worked at of all the damn places, choosing it with deadly precision and nearly driving the poor Captain America into a cardiac arrest.

Not that you had any idea your life mattered to the proclaimed Star-Spangled Man more than anyone else’s. You were the exception to the rule; you were the precious outsider Steve caught feelings for, the one that was not supposed to learn about his other persona for at least a while longer and sure as hell was not supposed to get herself in a mess like this one.

Steve stood frozen as Natasha had two men at gunpoint, Clint fighting another, the last one having been already knocked down by Steve himself. The only injured people were the few customers, scarce at the hour, and the employees; some bruises and insignificant bleeding wounds between all of them.

The worst problem still remained; Perez had his arm around your neck, visibly squeezing your windpipe at least partly if the colour of your face – one stained in tears and Steve could kill at the moment, kill with no remorse – was anything to go by.

He gripped his shield tighter, staring the man down with his jaw clenched and his heart beating its way out of his chest, the syringe at your carotid scaring him more than the reduced airflow to your lungs.

“It’s over, Perez! Let her- let the woman go,” Steve howled, knees slightly bend in posture allowing him to spring forward at any second, to throw his weapon, to punch the living daylight of the bastard that not only betrayed SHIELD, but put his hands on you.

Big, big mistake. He really shouldn’t have done that.

“I like her exactly where she is, Cap,” Perez snarled, a wicked smile on his bloody lips, only his eyes giving away a fraction of his fear. “Move and she gets a ticket straight to hell.”

Perez was outnumbered and he knew it; even if he managed to escape, they would find him easily with Tony Stark’s system of surveillance. Yet, he tightened his grip and with you involuntarily acting like a human shield for him, he started backing away, gaze flickering between the three present Avengers.

Natasha’s right arm twitched as if she wanted to shoot him on spot – but she didn’t want to risk leaving the other two without the threat of immediate death for even a second.

And then several things happened at once; Clint knocked his opponent down with the construction of his bow; Perez who saw it lost his nerve and swiftly slammed the needle into your neck, piercing your skin easily, as easily as Steve’s panicked shout ripped from his throat.

The next second, an arrow was sticking from Perez’ shoulder as he jerked back with a cry of pain and Clint put another arrow through his hand, adding one to his thigh for a good measure. Two gunshots sounded in the background, Natasha’s aim as unmistakable as ever.

Perez fell to the ground with a scream, not even reaching for the gun in his holster before Steve was there to knock him out with a brutal hit straight to his face with his vibranium shield. The crack sounding at the impact was like music to Steve’s ears, the blood spurting from Perez’ nose a pleasant visual.

Yet, it didn’t feel half as satisfactory as Steve hoped as you had stumbled and toppled over your own feet. He barely managed to slow down your fall, gloved palm shooting up under the spot between your shoulder blades, his other hand holding your shoulder. He supported your enfeebled weight as you practically lied over the unconscious man.

Steve didn’t bother paying attention to his surroundings, knowing that the noise around him was Romanoff and Barton apprehending the remaining thugs. Instead, his gaze scanned you head to toe, focusing on your face and neck when he couldn’t find any other injury.

You were pale, eyes misted, unfocused, skin worryingly cold to his touch.

“Hey-- hey! Can you hear me?” Steve demanded urgently, lightly patting your cheek.

At that, your pupils zeroed on him, wide with disbelief, and to his immense shock, a lazy smile spread on your lips.

“Steve?” you breathed out his name and blood crystalized in his veins, his heart, already panicking, speeding up. How did you know his name? Perhaps the drug, the whatever liquid in the syringe was taking effect and you were turning delirious? Shit, they needed a doctor-- “You’re the pretty blond. Steve. My flirty Steve… my hero. Everyone’s hero.”

Steve’s horror escalated with each word. Good news: you were still breathing and apparently quite lucid, even if your speech was more of a mumble. Bad news: his secret identity just blew up.

Luckily, he considered the good news much more important; and lucid he would like to keep you, so he shot Natasha and Clint a meaningful glare, wordlessly asking them to call help. He wasn’t sure whether it registered because both of the spies were staring at him wide-eyed as the woman in his arms just outed him like the café’s regular… one that flirted with her, no less.

Steve cleared his throat, focusing on his mission – to keep you talking. There was no much point in denying it, was it?

“Eh... yeah, it’s me. How-how did you know? I wear a mask-“

“Muscly… real muscly… and that ass,” you muttered and Steve nearly choked on his spit, certain that he just turned red all over, including the area you pointed out.

Wait, did that mean that you had been checking him out?

So not important right now.

“Oh, uhm- how are you feeling? We have to-“

“You can’t mask that ass. I’d know it anywhere,” you continued babbling as if you hadn’t heard him and Steve gulped, feeling his teammates, who still hadn’t called a doctor, what the actual hell- watching you with interest. ”…could bounce a penny off it… no, that ain’t right, a quarter off of it, that’s it… Dream of it sometimes… biting-“

Clint coughed loudly to cover his laughter, finally springing into action after that uncomfortable remark that gave Steve quite a visual he wasn’t sure how he felt about just yet.

“Alright, as amusing as this is, we should get her some medical attention…”

Steve only took his eyes off of you for a moment, shooting Barton a look that screamed ‘You think?!’

“I want to touch it… please lemme touch it—just once,” you pleaded quietly, swaying even in your practically horizontal position, straining your neck to catch a glimpse of the object of your interest. “The best I’ve even seen-“

“I think it’s ethanol she got injected with…” Natasha announced, sniffing the syringe with disgust in her voice. “High concentration.”

And Steve felt like he just got hit by Thor’s hammer… in his head. Seriously?

“…alcohol?” he asked, dumbstruck and utterly relieved, the heavy weight in his stomach lifting a bit. “You think she’s merely… drunk?”

“Well, alcohol straight to the bloodstream is seriously nasty on its own, S-“

“Alcohol nasty, yesss. And this really hurts,” your voice interrupted Natasha and Steve’s heart clenched uncomfortably when the surprised grimace appeared on your face, your eyes indeed clouding in pain, looking up at him, doe-eyed, so vulnerable and trusting.

“Hey, no sad Steeb! Your eyes pretty too. Little pictures you draw… so suuuper cute. I like your hair. You came in the day, wind blew, so messy-- like bed hair, wanna try top that-- I betcha I can do better-“

“Sounds drunk enough to you?” Natasha hummed casually and Steve didn’t even have to look at her to know she was smirking, while he was both fretting over your state and blushing to the roots of his hair because of your blunt compliments and unfiltered fantasies.

You turned your head slowly to Nat as she spoke, a crooked grin curling up your lips. “Hey, you’re pretty too-“

Much to Steve’s annoyance, the Russian spy had the audacity to chuckle and wink at you.

“Why thank you-“

“But prefer blonds,” you babbled again, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “He’s real nice. His biceps are like… huge. Bigger than my head-- ow, my head… spi-spinning- I think-? Whoa— oh… “

Steve called out your name in panic as you went limp in his arms, your body pliant, folding like a house of cards.

“I like her,” Clint noted as he jogged to Steve’s side, kneeling to take your pulse on the unharmed carotid with a furrow to his brows. “The medics are on their way, she’ll hold on until then.”

Steve sighed in relief when Clint nodded in affirmation again, feeling your heart still beating.

Steve’s grip on your tightened, hand sliding behind your head to cradle it gently rather than letting it dangle in such unnatural angle. He manoeuvred it so your cheek rested against his chest, his newly free hand sneaking under your knees so he could lift you with ease as he stood up.

“Nice, Rogers. Keep going like this, squads with weights, and you’ll keep that exceptional ass of yours in shape,” Natasha teased him, but when he turned to glare at her, she gave him a soft smile and beckoned towards your nearly motionless body. “She’ll be okay. Let’s go get her some help.”

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

Your head was pounding. The right side of your neck was itchy as hell and felt extremely stiff. The beeping sounding in your ears was a thing from nightmares, echoing in your aching skull.

You felt like shit and honestly, you could cry when you tried to open your eyes and the sharp light hit them, making you swiftly close them again.

A realization slowly crept at you that there was a presence of an intrusive smell too, making you want to puke— or was that just the brutal hangover? Because you felt unbelievably hungover on top of everything. The world seemed to be spinning even behind your closed eyelids and you couldn’t but groan, deciding to only curse the universe mentally since your throat resembled a Sahara Desert.

“Oh, hey gorgeous,” a female voice greeted you from your left and you snapped your eyes open with a startle, staring with shock at the beautiful redhead sitting by your bedside.

For few long seconds, you wondered if you died and went to heaven, because there was a non-descript angelic-like creature watching over you.  You quickly brushed that thought aside, because there was no way Heaven looked like a hospital room and provided you with such shitty sensations attacking your poor body.

So you asked the only logical question, ignoring the dryness of your mouth which soon cause you to cough.

“…who are you?”

A plastic cup with a heavenly cold liquid landed in front of you, the straw sticking from it directed to your lips as the stunning woman frowned discontentedly.

“Oh, you don’t remember?” she asked, seemingly hurt. “My heart is breaking! You told me I was pretty.”

You blinked slowly, finally adjusting to the light, finally able to talk without pain (that much pain, that was) and your head started pounding some more, embarrassment filling every fibre of your being.

What the- oh god, you had really got drunk, hadn’t you, and now you had a total blackout on what you had been up to in your questionable state.

“Eeeer… I did? I mean, you are… but-“

“But you prefer blonds, yeah, I know,” the mysterious woman finished your sentence to her liking and your eyes went wide. How did she- and who was she again, sitting in your hospital room like that? Had you really got so smashed that you didn’t remember her when you should have? When had you met? Shit, your mind was so foggy… “And you think Steve’s a bit prettier. And his ass is the best you’ve ever seen, so I get it…”

“The hell?!” you squealed in utter horror, sitting up straight as the words registered, a flash of blue, red and white flickering in the back of your mind, followed by a sharp stung in your temples. A nauseatingly strong pain resembling an intense cramp – only like ten times worse – shot up your neck as you moved so quickly, ripping a startled yelp from your throat.

A hazy image of the café you worked at blended into a picture Steve’s beautiful eyes – did this woman know your regular, your handsome flirty blond regular? –, sensation of gentle hands cradling your jaw, a sting in your neck—

“You need to be careful with how much you move. Your neck took quite a hit, they had to perform a surgery on you, you got a transfusion. They worried about your brain too. They’ve been monitoring you for four days now and this is the first time you’re awake,” your stranger explained patiently, voice full of compassion.

Your hand involuntarily rose to massage the incriminated place, still unsure of what the woman was talking about, the images in your brain confusing the hell out of you. You still had no idea who she was, but her face was starting to feel a bit familiar – you assumed that whatever had happened, she had been there too, possibly helping you.

And there was something in her green eyes, cautious yet somewhat calming, making it easy to trust her for some inexplicable reason.

“Steve’s gonna be pissed at me for missing it,” she added and grinned. “I made him leave to take care of himself before he could actually start taking roots in here. He’s been worried too. A lot.”

The amount of question marks in your head just doubled, but at the same time, your heart fluttered. Steve had visited you? Often, apparently? That was really, really sweet of him. The thought of him guarding you – and didn’t he have a physique of a bodyguard, once mentioning he was in private security when asked –, brought a dreamy smile to your face.

Perhaps it wasn’t only about flirting for him either…?

“Keep looking so lovestruck and I might forgive him that he hasn’t mention you before. Though I guess I can’t blame him, wanting to keep— anyway. I’m Natasha. Nice to meet you,” she extended her hand towards you at last and you automatically accepted it, telling her your name in return.

Even though that was probably beside the point seeing as she had been found at your bedside in a hospital.

“Hi, Natasha. Nice to meet you too… I think.”

The redhead burst out into a quiet laughter at your hesitance. “Fair enough. After Steve comes back and explains what exactly happened – because it’s not quite my place to tell you –, call me back for the good details. It’s fun to make him blush.”

Despite just only having met this woman, you decided that you kinda liked her and nodded in acceptance of her offer. Steve might be sweet – perhaps even sweet on you it seemed – but some harmless teasing could never hurt. Not when it apparently had something to do with his glorious ass.

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

Here’s a thing: Steve Rogers had a lot of fight in him. Before injected with the serum or after, no matter his shirt size, no matter if he could swing his fists effectively or not, he would fight for what mattered.

His teammates and friends certainly fell into the category. The somewhat relationship he had been trying to build with you was right there with them, definitely worth fighting for.

So, after revealing his identity – an action which become inevitable at that point, really – he had a delicate confession to make and a bold question to ask in an almost shy voice. He still asked it, because he would be damned if he gave up on you.

You said yes, your confession about certain harboured feelings matching his.

You said yes, you would like to go out with him very much, because you liked him too.

And no, it wasn’t just because he owned the best backside you had ever seen. Steve Rogers was, according to you, quite memorable and worth fighting for in general too.

(Steve, over time, might have developed a bit of a love-hate relationship with the fact you were getting along with Natasha so well. It was good news and bad news at the same time, seeing as it often resulted in the two of you teaming up against him. Once again, the good news won him over… because he simply loved how easily you fit into his world and how surprisingly well he fit into yours.)

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

S.R. masterlist

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

Thank you for reading :-*

It’s once a again a bit different from my usual writing; it’s short (like wtf me? short?) and it’s with a quote that is hard to do justice to... so I hope you liked it at leats a bit. Feedback always appreciated :-*

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Mutualistic Parasitism.

Word Count: 2.0k.

Written for @rockin-renegade​.

Synopsis: You’d really like to think your relationship has moved past the need for Izuku’s more... questionable habits. You’d really like to think so, but you’d like to think a lot of things. That rarely makes any of them true. 

TW: Infantilization, M. Reader-Insert, Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapping, Mentions of Physical Abuse, Mentions of Burns, and Delusional Mindsets. 

To be fair, you didn’t think Izuku would solve all your problems.

He might’ve been crazy, but you weren’t. When the Number One Hero started pursuing you with no clear motive and a bit too much passion to be trusted, you knew things probably wouldn’t end as cleanly as they’d begun. Hell, towards the end, you thought you’d be lucky if you didn’t end up in chains, but it wasn’t difficult to satisfy Izuku’s desire for a picture-perfect, stressless relationship, one easier to maintain than the city he was responsible for protecting or his spotless image in the public’s eye. He wanted someone that would make his happy, someone who’d do anything to make his happy, and who he could make happy, in return. You could do that. You could smile when he looked at you, frown when he came home in bandages, kiss him goodbye whenever he left, you could do that. And in return, he was supposed to take care of you. You made him forget about the world outside, and in return, he made sure it stayed outside. You didn’t care if that meant you had to keep to yourself, you didn’t care if that meant he’d get so angry when you didn’t. You had a part to play, and so did Izuku. You couldn’t risk upsetting that balance, much less doing so when Izuku’s wrath was still such a real threat.

You could do what you had to. You were great at doing what you had to.

You just hadn’t thought chores would be one of the things you had to do.

Cooking, to be more specific. Most days, your only responsibility was to stay put and make sure Izuku thought of you as a ‘stay-at-home boyfriend’ rather than a particularly passive captive, but occasionally, he’d come home tired or injured and you’d be permitted to leave his side for just long enough to make dinner or make a very, very monitored call to someplace that’d be willing to do it for you. 

Unfortunately, you’d chosen to do the former, today, and you were paying the price for it now in the form of oil burns and the small, deep cuts they agitated. It’d been more than an hour since the inciting incident, something as minor as a toppled-over pan and a reflexive attempt to catch it, but you could still feel the lingering heat thrumming beneath your skin, that constant throb along the edges of your injuries, the memories of a flash of shock and then blinding, excruciating pain. You don’t remember screaming, but you must’ve. Izuku’d come running in less than a second and in the same minute, you’d been relegated to the counter beside the kitchen sink, left to keep to yourself and not make things worse until he was done fretting.

It might’ve been less painful if he was a quieter medic. You’d gotten hurt before, with cleaning products and early on, his own able hands, and while you were used to the constricting layers of bandages and the balms that made your skin feel so cold it burnt, the way he spoke to you was another matter entirely. You didn’t like the way he muttered under his breath, how he seemed more inclined to speak to himself than to you. Regardless of how often you were subjected to it, you couldn’t get used to the way his tone always bordered on patronizing, how he seemed so determined to assure you that this wasn’t your fault, that this couldn’t be your fault, but if it was, you shouldn’t try so hard to make his happy, he knows that things get hard for you, sometimes. Most of the time, he was merciful enough to let you believe you were capable, but dependant.

Tonight, you were just dependant.

“I’ve told you not to be so thoughtless, haven’t I?” Subconsciously, you tapped a blunt nail against the marble countertop underneath you, silently keeping count of how many times he’d asked the same question, how many times he’d done it without expecting a real answer. He’d moved on from your injuries, by now, and taken to cleaning up the mess you made, his forearms submerged in a sink of soapy water and a concentrated scowl pulling at the edges of his lips. You’d lost track of whether he was mad at you, or the remnants of once-edible food you’d managed to scald to the pan in your short time playing-chef. “I know you’re trying your best, baby, but you can’t handle that much responsibility. We’ve been through this before.”

“I just wanted to help…” It was a weak retort, unaided by how soft your voice came out, but you couldn’t bring yourself to start an argument in earnest. It’d been months since you’d managed to maintain that level of aggression, since you’d felt angry enough to consider it, and you were sure that kind of rage escaped you, now. “I took your advice, too. I tried to make something simple, and I really, really did my best to stick to the recipe, I just--”

He shot a sharp glance over his shoulder, and that was enough to shut you up, your teeth latching onto the side of your tongue with the slightest hint of a warning. “The problem isn’t that you’re careless, it’s that you’re reckless,” He explained, nearly hissing the words. Alright, he was definitely mad at you, now. Not the dishes. He’d never been mad at the dishes. “You know why I had to take you home, don’t you? I’ve told you before, I’ve told you a thousand times, but you never seem to understand how dangerous the world can be, when I’m not around to protect you. Just because I’m a room away doesn’t make it any less of a hazard.” There was a pause, a slow breath. He took longer to switch off the faucet than he needed to. “I need you to understand that everything comes with a risk. You have to let me handle whatever I can, that’s the only way we’re going to avoid things like this.”

You didn’t have to practice your next reaction. Pushing your shoulders forward was instinctive, and bowing your head was practically second-nature, when Izuku already thought he was so far above you. “I didn’t think I’d--”

“You didn’t think.” A hollow thud this time, the sound of metal on metal. You flinched before you could stop yourself, but fortunately, Izuku was too preoccupied to notice. “You never think. I don’t know how I’m supposed to take care of you when you can’t even get that through your head.”

When he finished, you didn’t respond. You didn’t think you could respond, and even if you tried to, you doubted it’d be loud enough.

You doubted he’d be able to hear you, over the sound of your heart shattering in your chest.

A second passed in silence - tense, frigid silence - but just as you started to notice how uncomfortable your current perch really was, Izuku let out a slow, heavy sigh, taking a long moment to dry off his hands before he approached you, settling in the space between your open legs. It was a familiar position, one he took up every morning as he stole sleepy kisses or explained in his favorite condescending tone why it was so, so important that you didn’t try to keep yourself busy while he was away, but his posture was more tense, right now, that domestic tenderness vacant from his expression. Instead, a concerned weariness took its place. Exhausted, but not feed-up. Tired, but of your actions, not of you.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t beginning to worry about the source of his irritation.”

“I’m really trying,” You admitted, leaning forward, letting your forehead rest against his. “I want to help. I’m trying to. I just keep getting things wrong, and I don’t know what to do.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” He whispered, the petname barely audible, even from such a close proximity. “You don’t have to do anything.”

It was the kind of thing that might be comforting from someone else, from anyone else, anywhere else, in any scenario that wasn’t the one you currently couldn’t seem to get out of. Involuntarily, you curled into yourself, but Izuku was quick to catch you by your chin, cupping your face with both hands and tilting your head back, not forcing you to meet his eyes, but encouraging you to. No, Izuku would never force you to do anything. He always gave you a choice between giving into his demands or facing whatever blow or cut or broken bone he felt fit your crime. You could only be thankful your incentive came in the form of a gentle squeeze, this time, rather than a bruised jaw. “You’re useless,” He said, the declaration muttered under his breath. Like it was something private, a secret between the two of you. Something the world outside his apartment didn’t already know. “It’s not a bad thing. You’ve got me to take care of you, so it’s not a bad thing. But…” He trailed off, taking in a ragged inhale. When he went on, his voice was more stern. More genuine. “You are. I need you to say that back to me, alright? Can you do that?”

You nodded, opening your mouth, but for whatever reason, your voice caught in your throat, refusing to make itself known without a struggle. You knew what he was doing, it wasn’t a clever trick and it certainly wasn’t a new one, not in the boundaries of your relationship. He wasn’t delusional enough to think you’d believe it, no one was, but he wanted you to think about it. He wanted you to linger on the topic until the sentiment tasted like ash on your tongue, until you thought you might believe it, if one more thing went wrong, if you fucked-up something so simple one more time, if Izuku pursed his lips and kissed your forehead and made you feel like you were some bumbling, tottering infant, still learning to walk in their parent’s shoes. You’d hate yourself for breaking another one of Izuku’s toys and that hate would turn to desperation, the need to give Izuku a reason to keep you around, even if you doubted he’d be able to get rid of you, so far in. Maybe you’d help the process along. Maybe you’d cut to the chase and break into tears tomorrow morning, finishing this ugly, clumsy cycle sooner rather than later. That’s what both of you wanted, wasn’t it? Izuku would have his victory, and you’d have yours. He’d be the hero, but you’d be the strategist, the winner, the one who came out on top, even if a bystander might think otherwise. You’d be…

You’d be lying to yourself again.

When did you start trying to convince yourself you were so good at this? You weren’t a manipulator, you weren’t a villain, you weren’t a genius, you hardly even had a role in your own kidnapping. You were a captive, a hostage, a victim that didn’t have enough to lose to care that he’d be locked in his room like a child throwing a tantrum if he started crying more violently than his captor deemed ‘appropriate’. It didn’t matter if you appeased him to protect yourself, not when you were still appeasing him.  Not when he was the only one who ever got what he wanted. Not when you were the only one who had to make sacrifices.

Izuku got what he wanted. You got to smile and tell yourself he was only happy because you let him be happy. He didn’t even have to pretend to be nice, not when you were so quick to tell yourself his hostility was only because of one of your many, many mistakes.

This time, you didn’t bow your head. You let yourself fall into Izuku, your body going slack as soon as he caught you, one arm wrapping around your waist and the other rising, his fingers soon entangled in your hair as he pressed a soft, doting kiss into the top of your head, so loving and so caring, you could almost believe it really was. You tried not to think about it.

You weren’t sure if wanted to know what it meant, anymore.

”I’m useless.” 

[anothertastelesstetrahedron]

Descole headcanons maybe 👀

Did someone say Descole? 👀 I’m just gonna put the whole thing under the read more cut, since this ended up being a very long post - and I mean looooooong - like almost 3000 words long. Major spoilers for most of the games - mainly the Descole Trilogy (looking at you AL), but there’s also one UF one.

Des has terrible handwriting. I just think it would be funny if that's the one thing he cannot change about himself while impersonating someone else. He can manage faking signatures, but free writing as someone else? He has to try very, very hard to get that (nearly) right. Tbh for most of his roles that’s also hardly a problem, so he doesn’t bother.

He dehydrated/had a heat stroke at least once while in full costume. There must be a reason why Raymond tries so hard to make sure the AL gang takes water bottles, sunscreen and so on with them. Des has no self-preservation instinct (unless having Raymond around counts as Des taking care of himself?) He also probably almost died in Monte d’Or due to the heat.

Des beat up those guys who hurt Layton in UF. Listen, no one is allowed to hurt his bro except for him.

The first thing Des did after AL was visit Umid - after getting the much needed medical treatment. Because I absolutely love their interactions he promised to do so. It would be funny for him to show up in full costume as well.

Des eventually got used to Kietz (because the cat is now living with Raymond and Des. You cannot change my mind about that) At first he hated Kietz. Des is basically the old cat in the Bostonius that now has to get used to the new one lol

I know it was just the writers having no idea about Des’ backstory in LS but I still can’t stop thinking about how Hershel felt that Descole (in full costume) was familiar. So what if young Hershel Bronev actually liked to dress up in a costume similar to the Descole one? And that had left an impression on young Theo...

I also still cannot get over the fact that Des knows how to make Layton the perfect tea. Well, he had Raymond make it, but still. How does he know what kind Layton likes? Theory one: Layton’s taste hasn't changed from when they were kids. Theory two: He stalked observed Layton’s tea-drinking activities. Maybe he even posed as a waiter sometimes to find Layton’s favourite tea.

Des had kept track of how Layton was doing for a long time. He also was very close to introducing himself a couple of times. Obviously he never did. One reason why he decided against it was certainly to keep Layton away from everything. Des had given him the chance to live a peaceful life, so he obviously didn’t want to risk that. But that’s not all to it. Though Des hated himself for even feeling that, he was a bit jealous. It’s not that he regretted his decision from back then, but he still couldn’t help feeling that way. Plus, Hersh was a reminder of his past life. So while Des had his family that was another reason why he didn't approach - though in the beginning, he had actually thought even more about talking to Layton. However, Des had really tried to let go of his revenge and thus also his past - so Layton couldn't be a part of Sycamore's life. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he also couldn't help but think about their father whenever he looked at Hersh. He knows that’s not fair, but it’s what it is. The same way he thinks about Bronev whenever he sees his own eyes in the mirror. After his family’s death and after he became Descole he stopped approaching Hersh altogether and kept his distance. Not only because, again, he wanted to keep Layton out of all of this - even more so than before, because Des had already lost his family again, so losing Hersh was not an option (I write even though Des tried to kill Hersh himself hjasdjd)-, but also because he was afraid of how disappointed Layton would be were he to find out about all the things Descole had done. Des feared that he’d hate him.

Relating to one point in the previous point, Des absolutely hates mirrors. His reflection is bearable while being dressed as Descole, but he still avoids them like the plague. Even more so as AL Desmond. He also absolutely hates it when someone compliments his eyes - the thing he hates the most about his appearance.

Relating to that, I know Des’ glasses are just for show, but what if they are optical glasses nevertheless? Like, he cannot stand seeing clearly (especially since he ran into Bronev a couple of times and he absolutely doesn’t want to see that guy’s face). Maybe it’s also to help him distance himself even further from the others - especially Layton(?).

Des only possesses one photo of his family. It had been in his wallet when they died. I am just gonna assume Targent blew up his house, leaving Des with almost nothing. As much as he wishes to have the photo with him at all times, it's far too dangerous to do so while being Descole. Maybe Raymond keeps it safe? Or Des just keeps it in Desmond’s office? Maybe that was one of the things he actually liked while being Desmond again, at least he actually could carry the photo around this time.

Des lies a lot (obviously) - also to himself. (This is also me just trying to make his writing make more sense, since it often seemed to me he was written by 4+ people who didn't tell each other what they’ve written). I am thinking of that one bonus scene in MM where Des acts all empathetic towards Randall. “Just the thought of those poor parents, desperately looking for their own child.” That line does sound a lot like something Des himself knows too well… And then, one moment later, after Randall has left, Des just admits to himself that he’s just using Randall. (srsly writers??) I’m not saying that’s not right, because he’s certainly using him - no point in sugar-coating that - but he’s also very much trying to distance himself from Randall and his issues and reminding himself to focus on his goals and to not get distracted. Because Des does care. And I also think that he could have achieved his goal without Randall, but when he had learnt that Layton lost his best friend, Des tried everything in his power to get him back.

What is Des’ “true self”?

That is the one question I’m thinking about the most. It’s probably gonna get a bit complicated now… Let’s see if I can make my own words make sense (I really tried haha). For clarity's sake I’m gonna use three different names now: First, we have Des - the name I’m gonna use for the “true(est)” version of him - whoever that really is. Then we have Desmond - the AL Desmond Des “played” during AL. And, finally, there is Descole which is of course the Descole “role”.

Des has some serious identity issues - because of course he does. Descole started as a role (Des is even literally wearing a non-practical costume) that served a specific purpose. Des initially “created” Descole to have an outlet for all his rage and despair - and to get back at Targent without revealing himself. And I imagine some characteristics of Descole are things Des added, because he wanted Descole to appear a certain way different from how Des presented himself outside the costume. No one was to find who was behind the mask after all, so Descole had to act differently. Descole’s arrogance comes to mind, like that one just strikes me as not (fully) being Des himself. Des pretty much hates himself and blames himself for a lot of things. But Descole is also much more than a simple role. He’s very much a part of Des himself - it’s Des' own anger and his own feelings Descole is based on after all. Over the years, the lines between Des and Descole got more blurry. And now Des pretty much cannot tell the difference anymore between the things that make him him and the things he had just put into the Descole persona. So while Descole was initially based on parts of Des himself, over time Des truly lost himself in Descole who had become its own thing as well. Think method acting gone completely wrong - or right?

In a similar yet also opposite way, (AL) Desmond is also a role Des played during the game. Des said that he had just assumed Desmond’s identity again to get close to Layton and use him (which I don’t believe is 100% true, because I am convinced that a part of Des wanted to be saved. And also longed to see his brother again - and wanted Layton to like him), but it does make me think that Des mostly runs around as Descole. Obviously Des had kept the Desmond persona alive enough for Desmond to be regarded as a world-famous archeologist. But then again, it clearly doesn’t matter in the PL-universe if people don’t do their jobs.

I still do not know how much of Desmond is the “true” Desmond. Even if Des based Desmond on how he used to be with his family, there’s still the question how close Des actually comes to that. Memories can be deceiving and I doubt Des remembers exactly how he used to be. So maybe Desmond’s speaking style, his mannerism could be an act instead of that being Des’ true (past) self. Or which I like better, it’s a confusing mix between “lie” and “truth”. Some things are exaggerated (people tend to romanticize the past, so even with his family Des(mond) might not have been as nice as he presents himself to be as AL Desmond). Some aspects are more or less really Des(mond) and some other things are just stuff Des added to the Desmond role - consciously or not.

Let’s take this thought even further. When Des tried to leave his revenge behind and concentrate on his family, was that Des(mond) really his true(est) self? Or did Des play a role during that time as well (at least partly)? Des cannot let go. That has been shown throughout the games. So while he had tried to put Targent behind him, he might not have been able to do that completely. Thus he buried some things deep inside him and concentrated on “playing” Desmond Sycamore. Who might be the person he wished to be(?).

Long story short, I think that maybe AL Desmond is an idealised version of the Desmond Des used to be. Des acted like how he used to be while his family was still alive - or as much as possible, since he absolutely cannot let go of the pain completely. So his AL Desmond appearance could also be how he had looked like back then. I honestly do not even know if AL Desmond is the “true face” under the mask. Or if Desmond is also kind of like a “costume”. His appearance could be inaccurate as to how present Des really looks like. Descole’s character model also makes no sense. Like the hair that is sometimes visible doesn’t really look like Desmond’s most of the time after all. So is Descole wearing another wig? Is Desmond? I kind of like the idea that Des met Layton with his true appearance, so I’m on the fence here. Maybe he’s not wearing a wig, but extensions?I very much like the idea of Des appearing with his true face though… So I am kind of reluctant to have Desmond look too different from Des. Plus, Layton could have noticed if Desmond was in fact wearing a wig and that might have made Layton suspicious. But maybe Des dyed his hair a bit, and/or is wearing extensions? Maybe he actually already has grey hair, who knows. I certainly don’t.

However, I also believe that Desmond is far less of a role than Des probably thinks/admits. Over the course of the game, he might have lost himself in the Desmond role in a similar way to how he has lost himself in Descole.

Des' time as AL Desmond changed him for sure. And he does act differently as Descole after he changed into the costume than in the previous games. (I’m gonna make a whole separate post about how the German version uses different forms of politeness - and Des does speak rather … strange/different after his revelation than in other games… Again, I know that that’s just the writers being the writers, but where is the fun in that?)

Present day Des has probably no idea who his true self is anymore… Him “playing” Desmond further complicated things. Which parts did he make up, which parts are truly him? I don’t think there’s an easy answer to that… But that also makes Des so fascinating to me. I also really wonder what name he prefers after AL…

As much as I like the idea that Des himself came up with the plan to approach Layton as Desmond, I also very much like the idea that it had been Raymond instead who had suggested it. Raymond probably has to listen to a lot of Des’ angry rants. And after hearing another one about Layton seeing through one of Des’ disguises, Raymond came up with the idea to just go as himself next time. Partly also because Raymond knows Des better than anyone else and he knows how much Des longs to see his brother again - even if Des himself doesn’t admit that.

Des has acquired quite a lot of scars over the years… He does fall down a lot, so it’s bound to happen. He was probably wearing a fair bit of makeup in AL to hide some of them - in addition to his visible lack of sleep. Speaking of, I don’t think Des slept all that much during AL. He probably has nightmares that wake him up screaming. No way he could (or would want to) explain that to the others. Maybe that’s what he has been doing while he was not with the gang. He was taking a much needed nap… Or ...

… or he goes into the one room in the Bostonius that’s completely sound-proof (because that surely exists) and just screams (and cries) for a bit. In full Descole costume. He cannot bear being Desmond and being around the others at all times. He needs to have an outlet for his emotions.

Des really tried to retain his (emotional) distance from everyone in AL. I noticed that in the beginning he hardly ever said anything while I was clicking everything (and I hope believe that I’ve really clicked everything for potential Des dialogue). But he says more over time. It also takes a long time for him to talk about his family. So maybe that’s him slowly warming up to the others. Des was also probably still figuring out how to be Desmond (again). In a way, I think Desmond was one of his easiest yet also his most challenging role he ever had to “play”. No one is more familiar to him and yet also a total stranger. Plus, he had to be extra careful not to reveal too much. Can’t have been easy (which is why he needed to go scream for a bit sometimes).

He feels immensely guilty about caring for Aurora. He was especially reluctant to get closer to her, but he also just couldn't help caring for her. Because she reminded him of his daughter. He just feels very conflicted as he got more and more attached to her, not only because he knew he would eventually betray her, but he felt like in caring for Aurora he was betraying his daughter in a way… This guilt could apply to Flora as well when he eventually meets her.

One day after AL he found the Popoño he had bought for Aurora. He keeps it close ever since.

His revenge is achieved after AL, so there should be no reason for Descole to continue existing. But I don’t think Des will be able to let go of Descole right away. The AL ending shows that anyway. I feel him putting the mask back on in his last scene makes sense for him. He still cannot bring himself to leave Descole behind and he also very much still cannot bear to see his father’s eyes whenever he looks in a mirror. It would have been too sudden for him to just put all the pain behind him. Des’ revenge was basically also the one thing that defined his whole life. And Descole has been a part of his life for a long time as well - the pain and anger that led to Des creating Descole have been inside Des long before his family got killed. I can’t imagine it easy to just let go of all of that. Des is truly lost at the end of AL. He has lost his purpose, the one thing that made him go on. And he needs to figure out who he is himself. Even more so after his whole posing as Desmond again. I like to think that Des will be able to let go of Descole eventually, but that will be a slow process and not something that’s gonna happen overnight. Instead he’ll probably put on the costume fewer and fewer times until, eventually, Descole just disappears. Maybe he’ll stop when he runs out of costumes lol. No matter what, it’s gonna be a long road for Des to be able to heal… (And he should totally go get back to Layton and apologise to Layton and to a loooooot of other people and then they both go to therapy)

[bloodfromthethorn]

Accident

Matty, usually, loves her job, but there are some days where she can't help but feel she just isn't being paid enough for it.

Part eleven of the July of Whump 2021 prompt challenge.

Also on AO3. 

..

For all its covert operations, thanks to the think tank cover, The Phoenix was still technically classified as a regular place of business. That meant a lot of things, like paying property taxes and having to report earnings to the state, but by far one of the most mundane outcomes was the need for an Accident Book. In theory, any time someone employed by The Phoenix was injured while at work they had to write a short report detailing the accident for the book, and every year or so, The Phoenix would have to submit their anonymised incident reports to the local council.

Of course, this posed something of a problem for a government agency trying to stay off the radar; even with identifying information taken out, someone was probably going to take note if a seemingly mundane think tank reported 18 gunshot wounds over the course of a single year.

The workaround, therefore, had been that any injuries acquired outside of the building – like, say, when agents were out on missions – didn’t go into the book, and instead it was filled with the much more minor things that occurred in the relative safety of the Phoenix. There were still a couple of things that had to be omitted, like Bozer getting stabbed, but mostly, the plan seemed to work out okay. With a whole block of science labs taking up a considerable chunk of the building, there were more than enough burned fingertips and electric shocks that weren’t suspicious to fill a passably convincing report.

That being said, Matty wasn’t entirely sure how she was supposed to play this one off as a standard workplace mishap.

“Okay, okay, stop. I’m going to need you to run this by me again. Start at the beginning.”

“Well, like I said, we had Sparky up on the table-”

“At the beginning, Bozer,” she cut in, shooting her two agents a firm look. Boze’s natural charisma was, as ever, unhindered by her glare, while Mac did his usual trick of falling back on his army training and acquired a blank expression to let any yelling wash right over him. Jack did the same whenever he was genuinely in trouble and it drove Matty crazy any time it happened.

“We were working on separate projects,” Mac explained in a much more level tone than Boze had managed. To be fair, that might have had something to do with the gauze wrapped tightly around his forehead. “I’m still trying to troubleshoot that luminogen work for the dev team – you know, the glowstick stuff?”

She nodded.

“Right. And Bozer-”

“I was trying to fix a glitch in Sparky’s programming.”

“You were trying to make him call you sir,” Mac put in with a snort. He sobered as soon as he caught Matty’s hard stare. “But, uh, yeah. We were both just in the lab doing our own thing. Then Boze called me over to take a look at something-”

“I needed a spare part of hands to rewire the circuit board while I updated the code, and you know how much Mac hates someone else messing up his wiring.”

“I wasn’t working on anything volatile, so I dropped what I was doing and went to help. All of my stuff should have been completely fine where it was.”

Matty eyed him critically. He didn’t look like he was lying, but then it was a little hard to tell how much of that was down to the concussion and the bruises swelling on the left side of his face. “But it wasn’t,” she concluded.

“One of the other lab techs came through when I was focused on Sparky,” he explained with a wince. “She didn’t know that I still had things running and she noticed that my nitrogen line was still live, so she shut it off.”

“Don’t we have standard practices in place so that doesn’t happen?”

“Yes, but she’s only been with us two weeks. She didn’t know any better.”

“Mhmm.”

“Honestly Matty, it’s not her fault. I shouldn’t have left an active reaction unattended without sticking a red form up. That’s the standard practice that’s supposed to stop this thing from happening.”

“But you didn’t fill in the form.”

“I didn’t think I’d be gone long and I was still in the same room. Besides, the team usually knows not to mess with anything I’m working on, whether I’ve put up a form or not.” He went to rub at his face, then aborted the attempt when his fingers brushed over the gauze, wincing. Bozer and Matty were both watching him carefully, but he didn’t start keeling over so it would have to be good enough.

Matty sighed heavily. Playing the blame game wasn’t going to get them anywhere; she just needed to know what happened. “Okay then. You and Boze were over with Sparky and a lab tech shut off a nitrogen valve. Then what?”

“Well, nothing, for a little while. I was using the nitrogen to keep the reaction system anoxic, so everything was already sealed. Even without the nitrogen feed, it should have been fine to just sit there until I came back to it. Only, it turns out that when you combine the fluorescent polymer our dev team synthesised with NMP – the solvent I was using – it drops a proton and turns acidic.” He rolled his eyes as he said it, as if judging his own mistake like either Matty or Bozer had any concept of how predictable the problem could have been, then regretted it as it sent him dizzy again.

“Let me guess,” Matty said to give him a moment to recover, “The acid burned through a seal?”

“A rubber bung I was using to act as an injection port,” he confirmed grimly. “The seal failed and oxygen got in.”

“And the polymer is pyrophoric,” she finished for him. When he shot her a startled look, she shrugged. “I do read the reports I get sent Blondie. The spontaneous fire problem was one of the things they wanted you to take a look at, right?”

“Yeah. I hadn’t got to that part though.”

“Evidently.”

Boze jumped in to spare Mac the effort of defending himself. Now that the actual chemistry stuff was out the way, he knew the rest of the story. “While all this was happening, we were having a few problems with Sparky. The code was disagreeing with his logic boards, and it was making him fritz out pretty badly. He nearly took Mac’s fingers off when he sat up without warning.”

“And scared the hell out of us both,” Mac agreed.

“Yeah. Thank god Jack wasn’t in the room. We’d still be trying to get him down from the rafters.”

Matty cleared her throat and the pair of them snapped back to attention. Well, as at attention as Mac could reasonably be sitting up on one of the examination tables in the med bay.

With a cowed look, Bozer continued. “We were trying to work out what had happened, so we got Sparky going through a few movements. Because we weren’t finished, we didn’t bother getting him down off the table, so when he stood up completely…”

“He was a nine foot tall, eight hundred pound accident waiting to happen,” Mac finished. He gave a single shoulder shrug when Matty raised an eyebrow at him. “What? Even I’m willing to admit this whole thing was stupid.”

She’d more or less pieced together the rest of the story by now, but she still felt she should hear it for herself. Proper protocol and all that. “Alright. Then what?”

“We were trying to get Sparky back down when the reaction system blew,” Mac said. “We were far enough away that we weren’t at risk of burns, but Boze got a facefull of dye and Sparky got knocked off the table.”

“And onto you.”

He grimaced faintly, casting an offended eye at the sling supporting what had recently been a very dislocated shoulder. The expression did nothing to soften the bruises scattered across his face. “Yeah.”

Beside him, a slightly discoloured Boze swayed to knock their uninjured shoulders together. “Sorry, man,” he said, not for the first time. “Can’t help but think this is my fault.”

“It wasn’t. My reaction, my boom. Besides, you’re the one who’s going to be glowing in the dark for the next two weeks.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure the ladies will love it. You’re the one with the busted up arm.”

“It’s nothing, really. My shoulder pops out all the time.”

“You say that like it’s comforting and I gotta tell you man, it really ain’t.”

Matty’s gaze flicked between them. As much of a mess as Mac was, and despite the fact that Bozer was a lot more green than he had been when he’d arrived at work that morning, they’d both been signed off by medical with minor injuries. In theory, it was exactly the sort of thing that should go in her accident report, and yet she had a sneaking suspicion this particular story was going to raise a lot more questions than she was really willing to answer. It was funny – Mac had a habit of bringing that feeling out in her.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I think I’ve got the picture. I’m not even going to pretend I understand how you managed to configure such a comedy of errors, but I trust that you’ve both learned how to avoid this problem in future?”

Like two boys caught doing something they shouldn’t, they both nodded quickly in unison. She couldn’t quite bite back her smile. “Alright then. Bozer, you’re cleared to work for the rest of the day should you wish to. Mac, you’re off rotation entirely until that concussion clears up, then it’s light duty to let your shoulder heal. I’ve called Jack to come pick you up.”

That certainly got his attention. “You called Jack? It’s his day off!”

“I’m well aware. But you can’t drive with that arm and as your nominated next of kin, he’s left standing orders to be informed every time you get injured. He should be here any minute.”

Bozer was snickering to himself, while Mac’s expression had folded into something between desolate and sheepish. Matty had had a hell of time getting Jack to calm down and listen when she’d first called to tell him Mac was in medical and evidently Mac had some idea of the helicopter parenting about to rain down on his head. Maybe that would be the thing to actually make him realise the seriousness of his own actions.

“Great,” he muttered sarcastically, just as Matty heard the door to medical swing open so forcefully it cracked against the wall. With a dry smile, she stood back and waited to see the fireworks.

[bigkyle990]

A Witchy Pirate part 6

Links!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Back to things calming down for a bit and setting into the meet up with Amity (which I only have a partial idea of what I want to do with)

A short time after the attempted raid by the Emperor’s Coven, the three women found themselves back in the living room. Most of the mess that Luz had made while she was injured was cleaned off of the couch. 

Lilith had come in with some drinks for them and Luz was now wearing a shirt lent to her by Eda. “You finally got these printed huh?” Luz asked with an amused tone as she looked down at the “Bad Girls Coven” shirt. “Of course, there was no way I was canceling that t-shirt order.” Eda shrugged before taking a sip of her drink. “Now, you have some explaining to do, what happened to you and how are you able to use magic that effectively? Did you somehow get a bile sack?” 

Lilith took a seat next to her sister and nodded. “Yes, I’m curious about that myself, along with that glyph you used to heal yourself. I’ve never seen a spell quite like that before.”

Luz leaned back and nodded. “It’s one I came up with after a fight with a guy called Blackbeard, he had a power that allowed him to control darkness as well as absorb things into it and then cast them back out. Normally I use the Siphoning Glyph to take in attacks and reuse the energy right away, but if I want, I can combine a new one into it and have the energy used for that. It’s handy, and probably will be hell for the Witches around here.”

“Okay, guy controlling darkness, you making new glyphs… That’s all well and good, but you still haven’t actually explained what’s going on with you? What did the human world go nuts in the last seven years?” Eda asked, wanting to get to the meaty stuffy. Luz shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been there in the last seven years.” Both women looked at her incredulously. “No seriously.” She held up a hand. “I don’t know what happened with Belos’s machine, but it didn’t send me home. When I got pulled through it, I ended up on a completely different world. There were humans there, but along with them there were giants, fishmen, minks… All kinds of different races of people. Along with plenty of monsters and other strange things. See basically…” Luz began explaining the last few years of her as a pirate. The ups, the downs, and everything in between. Afterwards, Eda leaned back in her seat, looking like she was trying to even believe half of what Luz had told her. “Okay, so your power comes from this Devil Fruit thing? It gave you a bile sack?” “Well, I wouldn’t say it gave a bile sack, rather it gave me an actual magical core. A center of energy within myself that I can manipulate in anyway I want. Bella couldn’t find anything attached to my heart whenever she did a medical exam.” Luz did her best to explain, honestly even after all this time, she didn’t have a complete understanding of how her own devil fruit worked. 

“Still, it’s hard to believe that such a power can be granted just by eating one of those fruits... “ Lilith stated, attempting to wrap her own mind around things. “There must be some kind of draw back to it though, correct?” Luz nodded. “Yeah, it probably won’t be a major problem around here, but eating one causes the sea to turn it’s back on you.” “And that means…?” Eda raised an eyebrow. 

Luz giggled, waving her hand a bit. “Sorry, I have to remember that most people aren’t going to even know a small amount about them now. Basically it means I can’t swim anymore.” The sisters looked at her with widened eyes. “Wait, it made you forget how to swim!? I mean you could just learn how to again, right?” Eda asked, looking oddly at Luz as she laughed. “No, I remember how to swim, I just can’t. See, if I was to fall into any kind of standing water, a lake, the ocean, a tub of water...  It would completely sap all my strength and keep me from using my powers, on top of that I’d start sinking like a rock.” “So we keep you away from large bodies of water, understood.” Lilith said with a nod, before noticing the young woman looking to her right hand every now and then. “Is there something wrong?” Luz jumped a bit, thinking she had been subtle about it and sighed. “Sort of, like I told you before, our crew was in the middle of a war just before I ended up back here.” She saw both nod and continued. “Well, I don’t know what’s happened to the others… If they’re alive, if they made it back to their own world and families. I’m worried.” “You cared about them.” Eda stated. “Of course!” Luz shot up, surprising them a bit. “They were like family to me, we went through hell and back together and I didn’t even get to say goodbye, again!” Luz was tearing up a bit thinking about the others. This wasn’t some little war like it had been with the Payback War or even like the war of Wano the Straw Hats had started against Kaido and Big Mom. This one had quite literally set the world on fire. The Straw Hats and those backing them taking on the world to make Luffy the King of the Pirates, their own flag thrown in with the Rubber Man as well, going up against the World Government and its own secrets.  Add in the remains of the Beast Pirates and Big Mom Pirates, and you had yourself a war that was going to turn everything on its head, no matter who won. And the thought that she’d left her own behind was eating at her. That was, until she heard Eda speak up. “Hey Kiddo, what’s that on your arm?” She asked, pointing to Luz’s right hand. Said young woman blinked and looked down, only for her eyes to shoot wide as she fell back. There, forming on her arm was a marking that only looked familiar to herself. She felt her eyes well up as she traced a hand over it, hoping it wasn’t some fake. Her fingers traced over a dark purple dragon like design that started about her mid forearm and wrapped around till it’s head was on the back of her palm, mouth open and trying to bite down on a green gem like design. “Luz, Luz, Boiling Isles to Luz!” Eda called, snapping her fingers to get her attention. ���Huh, wha!?” Luz blinked looking at her. “What is that?” She asked again. “Right right, sorry... “ She wiped some tears away and held up the arm. “It’s a Hoard Mark, something that my crewmate Spike gave all the commanders, and since it’s here… it means he’s got to be alive still!” She grinned and then got a look of realization. “Oh! This means I can change clothes! I know I put away some spares for sure…” Luz mumbled as she suddenly reached into her pocket and seemed to start digging around in it. 

“Uh, Kid, I don’t think you’ll fi-” Eda started to try and reason with her former student, only to pause and eyes go wide as not only did Luz’s arm go deeper into her pocket, but she started pulling out large objects. “No… No… Not there…” She mumbled, pulling out a few large pieces of treasure, a massive anchor that shook the house when she set it down, there was a moment when an elephant's head popped out of her pocket and was shoved back in. “I swear, Spike would steal anything…” She mumbled before her eyes lit up. “There it is!” She called out, pulling out a large clothing trunk from her pocket, it was marked with her name. She set it to the side as both sisters looked curiously at the trunk, which she popped open, showing that the inside had a large number of clothes inside. “Okay… Um, how did you do that?” Even Eda’s hair couldn’t store that many things away, certainly not as large. “Huh? Isn’t this Adora’s…” Luz mumbled as she pulled out a red jacket, before shrugging and putting it away. “Like I said, it's the Hoard Mark. See, Spike ate the Hoard Hoard Fruit, which made him a hoarding person. He could take anything he wanted and store it away into a separate pocket dimension for his personal use later.” She explained while looking over a shirt that held the Crew’s Jolly Roger on it, it was a dark purple color. “Hmmm, maybe… Anyway, he was able to develop his powers to let him give other people a special mark that gave them access to the storage space as well, just have to have it active and reach into some kind of container. Can be a bag, a pocket, box… Anything like that and it always expands to fit whatever you’re getting.” She pulled out a dark purple dress shirt and held it over her chest. “Think I should go formal? I am planning on meeting up with Amity tonight.” She smirked, giving a bit of a mischievous look. “You’d slay her for sure kid.” Eda laughed. Lilith giggled a bit and nodded. “Yes, I’m sure she’d love it, but try not to get your hopes too high, it may not be the same now.” She tried to warn her. 

Luz started getting a few other things, a pair of black dress pants, black tie, and a black blazer to go over everything else, and nodded. “Oh I’m sure, I know that I certainly had my fair share of relationships over the last seven years. At least two serious ones, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try and see if anyone is in the way.” She smirked, grabbing one last thing and closing up the trunk to put away. “Guess I’ll go get ready, it’s nearly time for our meet up.” She said, heading to go get a shower.

[winryofresembool]

Things We Lost in the Fire, ch 9

aka Caleo uni au

Fic summary: Calypso starts studying at a new university, but to her annoyance her new flatmate is a loud mouthed mechanic who also likes to sneak his dog in whenever. But as she learns to know him better, she realizes they might have more in common than what she first thought. Eventually, even the darkest secrets come out…

Chapter summary: Calypso and Leo have a therapy session of sorts.

A/N: New chapter and some (more) Caleo focus this time! About Leo's fear of fire: fire's obviously a big part of Leo's character and ofc I wanted to put that into this fic somehow. I always wished that he would have had a moment in HoO where he would have come to term with his issues (since he in fact didn't like using his power in TLH bc of reasons but then later on just seemed to forget about it) so, that's kind of what I'm trying to do in this fic. Don't worry, he'll definitely deal with his fear eventually!

Big thanks to Cris again for helping me solve some problem parts! :)) I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, and let me know what you think!!

Characters in this ch: Calypso, Leo

Words: 1356

Genre: romance & hurt/comfort

Warnings: none

previous chapter / next chapter / AO3

...

As the fall progressed, Calypso got inspired to burn candles on the common room table to bring some light to the darkening evening. She had already forgotten about the fire alarm incident a few weeks before so when she heard a scream from the common room while she was reading, she didn’t immediately understand the reason for it.

“What’s wrong?” Calypso rushed into the room, worried something had happened to Leo.

“Don’t. never. ever. leave. a fire. here.” Leo breathed harshly and had to sit down to collect himself. He also looked paler than usually, Calypso noticed.

“But… it’s just a small candle… and there’s nothing burnable nearby… and the fire alarm won’t react to such a small flame either…” Calypso tried to reason. “What’s so bad about it?”

“It just is! You never know what it could do if you leave it unsupervised!” Leo exclaimed, gripping the couch fabric hard with both hands.

“I was just in my room, I would have noticed if something had happened!” Calypso said defensively. Then she remembered the talk she had had with Piper earlier and Leo’s burn marks. “Wait a minute. Is this about that fire... In your house?” she asked quietly, looking at Leo worriedly.

Leo was scowling at her, his expression screaming ‘how do you know about my house’, but he said nothing.

“Piper told me,” Calypso said as calmly as she could even though Leo did look kind of scary with his eyes burning as bright as the candle.

He ran his hand through his hair and made an annoyed growl. “What did she tell you exactly?” he asked after a while. Calypso had to admit to herself she hadn’t expected this kind of reaction from him, about a sole candle.

“Not much more, really. Just what happened to the house, that’s all,” she replied.

“Oh. OK. Good.” Leo seemed to calm down a bit after that piece of information even though he still kept glancing at the small flame nervously every once in a while and his hands were as fidgety as ever.

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with being afraid after such an incident. I have gone through something similar myself. But I think I could be able to help you get over it. Isn’t it hard to be a mechanic who has to avoid fire? Don’t you have to for example weld the metals?”

Leo rubbed his neck awkwardly. “I usually get help from Jo with that,” he admitted.

“Okay. Well, would you let me help you?” Calypso asked.

“No sé," Leo said and Calypso remembered how Piper had told her Leo often goes for Spanish when he’s nervous.

“Please?” she attempted again, trying to make her best Piper impression.

“Fine. Can’t hurt, can it?” he said, still a bit hesitantly.

“We’ll take it slowly. Promise.”

“Okay.”

Calypso sat down next to Leo on the sofa, which seemed to be a bit too close to the candle for his liking, but still far enough that he didn’t just leave. Then she turned towards him and gently lifted his chin so he was facing her directly.

“Now. Tell me a happy memory. Could be anything that comes to your mind. Just a moment you remember enjoying.”

“What kind of hocus pocus is this supposed to be?” Leo asked skeptically.

“It’s not hocus pocus!” Calypso said with annoyance. “It’s called positive reinforcement, making you associate fire with more positive things than you do now.”

“Fine,” Leo said, trying to think of a happy memory. He was quiet for a good while, almost enough for Calypso to break the silence, but then he finally continued: “One of my favorite memories is from the time I found out that I’d get to stay with Jo and Emmie. Until that moment everything felt so… unsure. I didn’t want to wish that it would actually happen because I was so scared of getting disappointed again. I had a bit too much experience on that already. But then they really sat me down and gave me the papers that would make it official. I have never written anything as fast in my life. After that we had a good meal – tacos, of course, because Jo and Emmie already knew I love them – and Georgie helped them bake a small cake. Best cake I’ve ever had.” He smiled crookedly at the memory.

“Oh, that’s a good one!” Calypso said encouragingly. “Very sweet. Your family sounds great. I’d love to meet them one day.”

“Maybe you will,” Leo shrugged. “They live in this town and sometimes drop me something I’ve forgotten.”

“That would be great! I mean, seeing them,” she added quickly, “not you forgetting something… although it’s not hard to imagine that happening to you,” she said teasingly. “Har har. You should know better than to think that kind of teasing would work on the great Leo Valdez.”

“Great? Sorry, Repair Boy, but you’re just too easy to tease.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too!”

“Is this your idea of distracting me, Sunshine?” Leo asked suddenly.

“What?”

“You are like, 3 inches from me,” he pointed out.

Calypso immediately jumped farther from Leo. She hadn’t even realized that as they were bickering, they had slowly inched closer to each other. Her face turned red and she seemed rather interested in the hem of her shirt when she muttered something like ‘idiot’ under her breath.

“What was that?” Leo asked, a mischievous smile rising on his face.

“Nothing,” Calypso mumbled.

“Anyway,” Leo decided to change the subject. “I shared a memory that’s important to me. I think it’s only fair that you do the same.”

Calypso felt like cursing him, still embarrassed by what had just happened, but then she remembered that she was trying to help Leo get rid of his fear of fire. “Okay.”

She had to think long and thoroughly. Her best memories were from the time when she had still been living with her mother in Greece, which had happened a long time ago. Finally, she remembered one specific moment.

“I was maybe 7. It was summer and we were on a vacation in Malta. My dad had a boat so my mum, my sister and I took it one day while dad was taking care of his businesses and we sailed for a good while until we found a small uninhabited island. We stopped and had a picnic there, nothing too fancy, simple bread and grapefruit, but something about that island… it felt like I was connected to it somehow. Later mum revealed that I had been born there. She and dad had been sailing a few weeks before her due date when she had suddenly started showing signs of being in labor and they had had no other choice but to stop there. It wasn’t until I was already in this world that a medical helicopter had picked them to the hospital.”

“Woah. That’s kinda crazy," Leo commented, looking genuinely interested in her story.

“Yeah. Fate works funny sometimes. Would be interesting to visit that place some time again.”

“Mmmh. I’d like to see some of the world outside this country at some point too.” Leo nodded.

“Well, did it work?” Calypso asked all of a sudden, changing the subject.

“Did what work?” Leo asked with confusion.

“This? Talking? Did it make you forget the fire?” Calypso clarified.

“Oh!” Leo glanced at the flame again but he realized that he had already gotten used to its presence. “You know what? I think it did.”

“Good.”

“But do not push your luck more,” Leo grinned, blowing the flame off. Calypso felt something weird in her stomach when she saw the light reflect from his eyes for a moment. But the moment was gone almost as fast as it had happened and it became darker in the room. Suddenly Calypso felt Leo reach for her hand, squeezing it briefly and telling her: “Thanks, Cal. Maybe we can continue this some other day.”

Calypso was thankful for the lack of light because she was convinced her face was currently more red than her newly dyed hair.