#never and always touching and - *Phlegm filled coughing* touched

[jinwoosungs]

{ 98 }

p1nocchio.

partially inspired by m3gan.

lies of p. - au

pinocchio x fem.reader

tags for the story: @bunny-kio ; @revoirestbelle ; @theempressofdarkmagic

you had always cherished the life you lived with your dear mother, living a quiet and peaceful life while settled in the heart of your small town. your mother was everything to you, raising you as a single parent when your father was unable to fully commit to her as a husband and good father should.

yet you found yourself not caring nor minding his absence, for your mother was truly your entire universe. she cared for you and loved you so deeply that it was difficult to see anyone else in your own world. you were living in complete and utter bliss, so wrapped up in your own personal sandbox that you ignored the signs, unknown to the fact that your mother's days were numbered.

you would come to lose your mother during your seventeenth year.

she had come home from work, paler than usual as her skin felt clammy to the touch. before she had entered her home, she takes a few moments to catch her breath. a series of coughs wracks through her form, with tears dotting her vision as she felt the uncomfortable sensation of phlegm coming up towards her throat. letting out a series of coughs, she tilts her head to the side and gasps, coughing out the phlegm as her throat seems to burn in response.

as the sputum lands on the dirt path leading to her home, the older woman felt a sense of fear coursing through her veins at the sight of the blue-tinged mucus-

she was infected with the plague that was currently coursing through krat, reaching even the confines of her small town as she felt a tinge of fear course through her veins all while thinking of ways to protect her daughter. as if sensing that something wasn't right with her, the sight of you coming out of the cottage makes her gasp. she was about to tell you to go back inside, not wanting nor wishing for you to bear witness to her suffering when yet another series of coughs was felt coursing through her form.

"mother!" you cry out to her, hands already reaching out to her, supporting her close to your form as you carefully inch her closer inside your shared home. you take her towards her bed, trying to stop your tears from falling upon seeing just how weak your mother had become.

her breathing was labored, showing no signs of her once vibrant nature you had grown so used to. you never knew she had gotten so sick, filled with a guilt at being unable to care for her. perhaps if you had been more aware of the signs, then maybe you might have had the chance to save her somehow, to prevent the plague from spreading throughout her body as you could keep her by your side.

the following days were nothing short of pure agony for you; you cared for your mother to the best of your abilities and made her soups and stews to help with healing her. in hopes of giving her the strength to heal, you would often dip pieces of bread within your soups while feeding them to her. as if not wanting to worry you, she would always give you the widest smile she can manage, all while promising to you that she was feeling better and better with each passing day.

one late evening, as you were in the midst of caring for your mother, you had fallen asleep all while leaning against the tiny mattress. she moans, slowly forcing herself to sit up from bed all while staring down at your sleeping form. her coughs had become more prominent- more frequent as the unnatural pale blue hue seemed to spread across her skin. the plague was slowly taking over the entirety of her body-

her time was running out.

the woman had no one to turn to, no parents to speak of nor a partner to share her burdens with. just thinking of leaving her one and only daughter utterly alone breaks at her very heart. using every ounce of strength that she had, the woman forces herself out of bed, wrapping her arms around her frail frame as she struggled to reach the mahogany desk settled against the wall of her bedroom.

she had no parents that could possibly help her in such a dire situation, but she did have someone, a teacher whom she had always looked up to, admiring his inventions when she was younger as he gifted her something precious, keeping his promise to always help her whenever she needed him.

with a grunt, the woman settles herself against the mahogany desk, slumping back against the plush seat of her chair all while catching her breath. a series of coughs wracks through her once more, and she waits for it to subside before carefully reaching in to the confines of her drawers.

her hands were trembling, taking out a slender, mechanical bird from the confines of the mahogany desk. she settles the bird off to the side, hands shaky as she extracted the jar of ink, quill, and thick sheet of paper. it takes a herculean effort for her to write the words she desperately wanted to say against the ivory page, feeling her own tears slowly begin to fall, decorating the paper with minuscule droplets mimicking that of a gentle rain.

once she was through writing her letter, she carefully rolls it up and ties it with a ribbon before facing the mechanical bird. its beady eyes was gazing at her, and she opens its beak to safely keep the rolled up letter within the confines of its beak. holding the bird gingerly against her chest, she stands from her seat against the desk and makes her way towards the closest window. her eyes drink in the gentle scenery of the night, admiring the way the stars continued to shine and blink from above as yet another tear fell from her eyes.

she opens the window, pressing down against a button felt behind the bird's back as it automatically spread its wings. as it prepared to take flight, this was all she could manage to whisper-

"please, find geppetto."

------

thousands of miles away from the small village, living in the heart of krat was a master inventor by the name of mr. geppetto. he lived comfortably while settled in his grand mansion. thanks to his various inventions and their wide use among the city, he was wealthy beyond compare and was able to not only live comfortably, but to use his wealth to develop even more realistic and helpful tools-

but perhaps what would come to be his greatest invention was that of the mechanoids. several of his models were seen being used throughout krat, with a few companies managing to imitate his original formula as the master inventor found himself at his wits ends.

currently, he was in the midst of trying to develop the perfect mechanoid, one that appeared so perfect, so human that they could pass off as being real. so he sits within his study, his hands dirtied from how much the charcoal stains at his hands as he kept sketching, wanting to create the perfect puppet that reflected his mere visage.

yes, the puppet would have rich locks of dark brown hair and startling true blue eyes, mimicking the bright hues of ergo itself with freckles and soft, full lips. truly, his sketch was coming together quite nicely as he completes the design with krat academy's uniform. just as he was adding the finishing touches to his perfect sketch, geppetto became aware of a strange tap tap tap heard against one of his windows.

the old man sits sideways against the wooden chair settled next to his desk, running a hand across his snow white strands of hair while looking curiously out into the hallways of his manor. the tapping sounds continue, further urging him to figure out just what it was that was making such a racket whilst he was busy with his invention.

coming face to face to the window that the sound was coming from, geppetto felt his heart begin to ache at the sight of the familiar mechanical bird. the sudden smiling face of his young apprentice appears within the depths of his mind, feeling almost nostalgic when he lets out a whisper of her name.

upon realizing the bird had a rolled up letter attached to its beak, he quickly opens the window, allowing his earliest inventions to enter his home safely. the metal claws of its talons were settled on the palm of his hand as he takes the letter from its beak. carefully, he unfurls the letter all while adjusting is round glasses, doing his best to decipher the hurried scrawl:

to the man i have always looked up to-

i am in desperate need of your help. for i have become ill with the same plague that seems to be prominent within this cursed world. i was foolish to believe that such a rare disease would never befall against me, but it seems as though i am wrong.

do you remember the year i told you i had to leave, unable to continue my apprenticeship with you despite my being only 18 years old?

well, there was a reason for that. during that time, i have been carrying my child- my daughter. she is everything to me, becoming such a beacon of light during those times where i yearned for her father to comfort me. i thank the gods that she seems immune to this abhorrent disease, for my illness has not touched nor tainted her form in the slightest.

i cannot leave her alone in this world, and i know that this is selfish of me to request, but please, i beg of you-

please take care of her for me, she needs you- I NEED YOU.

attached is my address; i live in a quaint town settled just outside the outskirts of your city. it may be a long journey for you to reach us, but please, i beg of you, master, to help protect and raise my daughter, to not leave her alone in this dark world when my time has come and i will be sent to heaven. with love...

geppetto could feel his knees give way to the weight of the news he had bore witness to. his wrinkled hands were shaking, tracing at the letter as his mind begin to fill with memories pertaining to the young woman he had viewed so much as his daughter.

his pale blue eyes kept reading the letter over and over again, not stopping until he was certain he had burned the words that made up her home address within the confines of his mind, rolling up the letter while holding on to the mechanical bird gently, already making plans to visit the daughter of his long cherished mentee.

------

you had lost your mother just a few weeks later, the sounds of your mother's wheezing coughs and hoarse voice during her final moments were fresh on your mind.

in her crazed haze, with her death felt looming over her like a dark shadow, your mother takes a hold of your form. her hands remained tightly wound against your trembling shoulders as her eyes seemed to shine with perfect clarity for the briefest of moments while calling out your name. "listen to me carefully, even if i am not physically close to you, i will always remain by your side, my darling girl. so long as you think of me and keep me deep within the depths of your heart and soul, i will never, never ever be away from you."

her clammy hands were felt shakily framing at her face, "but do not fear, for i have called out to someone i trust with my life. i already alerted him of the dire situation your mother has found herself in, and he should arrive any day now. when he is here, please, go with him, live with him within the heart of krat and have a good life without me in it."

"m-mother please, i'm so scared, please don't l-leave me!" you sob, burying your face within her chest as the sobs began to wrack through the entirety of your form. she lets out a gentle coo of your name, coughing quietly here and there while drawing comforting circles behind your back.

"sssh, it's okay my love. just be brave, just be brave for your mother, alright?"

as if unable to hold on for any longer, you watch as your mother slumps back in bed, allowing the exhaustion to take over her form as her breathing became labored. through it all, you never once left her side, allowing the tears to fall freely against your face as you remained close to her.

the moment she breathed her last breath, with you witnessing the way the light slowly faded from her very eyes, you became numb. your hands gently held on to your mother's lifeless hands, all while wishing over and over again that you could join her in the afterlife-

wanting nothing more than your heart to completely cease in its beats as you lay curled up against the wooden floor of your home.

------

geppetto feels the carriage he had taken come to a complete stop, jolting his body forward as he lets out a quiet string of curses. he adjusts his bowler hat and hears the way his driver tells him that they have already arrived at their destination.

he trails his eyes forward, feeling a sense of dread coursing through him at the sight of the tiny home bathed in complete darkness. opening the door, his boots land against the dirt path, allowing his wrinkled hands to adjust at the scarf that was settled around his form. a slight breeze was felt coursing through him as he hears another set of footsteps follow him. "master geppetto, shall i accompany you?"

he looks back to see the tall young man with bright ginger locks of hair and gentle brown eyes. he had gotten off of his seat and had freed the horse's reins from his grip. the man was about to tell his driver to wait for him, but then decided against it. "alright lampwick, i'll allow you to accompany me just in case."

as they stood in the front of the quaint home, it seemed as though lampwick could feel the sense of foreboding and dread emanating from the unnaturally quiet home. "master-"

"i'll go in first." the older man gives the wooden door a series of knocks, waiting to see if anyone would answer him, already hoping to catch a glimpse of his mentee's daughter. yet the more he stood there, he was filled with a mounting concern over her wellbeing.

when he tests out the doorknob, geppetto was shocked to see that it was already unlocked, and he could hear the faint sounds of sobs, further beckoning him to open the door as he was suddenly face to face with a young woman curled up beside her mother's deathbed.

his heart aches at the sight, seeing the way your features perfectly mirror that of your mother's as the tears continued to stream down your face. lampwick seemed caught off guard by your features, remaining stilled on the spot as he took a brief moment to admire your face. but his reverie was quickly diminished when he sees the sight of a pale and unmoving woman settled within the tiny bed.

"lampwick, take her to the carriage this instance. i- i will give her mother a proper burial."

with a nod, lampwick steps forward, softly calling out to you, but you couldn't seem to respond. with a hopeless expression on his face, lampwick faces geppetto, yet he merely tells the young man to pick up your form if needed.

it was a bit of a struggle, your limp body acting very much like dead weight as lampwick carefully hoists you in his arms. despite his initial struggle, he was able to carry you successfully due to how thin you had gotten. perhaps you had stopped eating, not having much of an appetite the moment your mom had fallen ill and had left you so suddenly?

whatever the case was, lampwick follows geppetto's wishes and takes you out into the carriage, leaving the old man alone as he gazes down at his former student with a forlorn expression on his face. gently, he reaches out a wrinkled hand to her, brushing back at her cold, soft eyelids before telling her how sorry he was.

with a heavy heart, he wraps her in the blankets she had her final slumber in, the sheets acting like the skirts of a gossamer dress as he had plans to bury her within her backyard, praying that her suffering had truly ended as he made a silent oath to take care of you.

------

you were still so numb, not even aware of how the young man with bright ginger locks of hair had placed you within the confines of the carriage. the leather seat felt against your back seemed to remind you of the ache you had forced it to go through from remaining on the cold, hardwood floors for so long.

you had no clue how much time had passed, only finally coming back to reality when the carriage suddenly surges forward. your eyes suddenly widen, finally catching sight of the old man that was settled in the seat directly in front of you.

his expensive suit was covered in bits of dirt as a melancholic expression paints his features. he adjusts his glasses and lets out a sigh, "you look just like your mother, and i can see why she cherishes you so dearly."

he clears his throat before finally introducing himself to you, "my name is geppetto, and your mother sent me a letter detailing of the tragedy that had befallen of her. in her desperation to protect you and your happiness, she has made me your guardian, and i will do anything to keep you safe and sound."

it was as though his kind words had managed to break through the numbing ice that had taken over your heart. you allow the tears to freely fall once more, giving the man- your now guardian, geppetto a tiny smile, thanking him for his kindness.

even if your mother was no longer with you, you had a feeling that someday, somehow, you would find and be at peace once more.

------

three months later...

your life certainly had become far more luxurious ever since geppetto had taken you in. he was always so kind and patient with you, enrolling you in the most prestigious academy krat had to offer all while providing you with all the clothes you would need for your daily life and school life.

when living in geppetto's mansion, he has given you a bedroom that seemed bigger, and much grander than the size of your humble home. he decorates the walls of your room with a shelf that takes over one of the walls, filling them with books you could only ever dream of reading before. once every two or three weeks, you would meet with lampwick, geppetto's own personal delivery boy and driver for his horse-drawn carriage. the young man also brightened up your day with his silly antics and buck-tooth grin-

but nothing could quite fill the ache that seemed to grow from within the depths of your heart. you missed your mother so much, feeling as though a void was slowly growing with each passing day since her death.

you were still lost in thought when geppetto calls out to you, making you gasp when you finally meet his concerned gaze. "are you alright, my dear? you have hardly touched at your dinner."

you bite back your sigh, looking down at the porcelain plate filled with a healthy portion of your favorite pasta dish with a side of warm, toasted bread. "s-sorry, geppetto, i just have some things on my mind."

geppetto puts down his fork, folding his hands across the table while keeping his steady gaze on you. "are you alright? is it your classes? has the academy been giving you a difficult time?"

you shake your head upon his series of questions. "no, the academy is fine, and my classmates are lovely. it's just-" you were cut off when a sudden sob was felt being ripped from your throat, "i miss her, that's all."

geppetto watches as you take the cloth settled on your lap to wipe away your eyes with. "i'm sorry, sir, but i don't have much of an appetite. so m-may i be excused to my room?"

"but of course, you needn't ask for permission, my dear."

the old man could feel his heart break into two all over again, unable to stand the sight of your trembling form fighting back tears as you shakily made your way up the stairs. and as geppetto watches your retreating form, he could feel the surge of inspiration course through him.

his memories take him back to the fateful night he had received your mother's letter, while he was in the midst of sketching out the perfect puppet- the perfect companion, and perhaps the one thing you needed whilst you were so buried deeply within your grief.

with excitement coursing through his veins, geppetto pushes himself away from the dining table. he runs a hand across his snowy locks of hair, walking with a purpose and precision towards the basement, home to his many creations and inventions.

using only the richest and highest quality of wood, he carefully begins to carve out the features of his beloved son from memory. he continues gathering the materials he needed to bring the boy to life, hands reaching into the safe confines of his oak desk to pull out what appears to be a golden heart with several cogs seen in the midst of it with an unmoving clock settled above it. a single chain was seen trailing from beneath the mechanical heart, and geppetto knew that it was the key to bringing his son to life.

for truly, all he needed was the greatness of his mind and fingertips with just the tiniest bit of ergo to bring his precious creation to life.

------

you hadn't the slightest clue as to why geppetto had decided to lock himself from within the confines of his basement for so long. each time you wished to check on him, or call him down to share a meal with you, he would not relent and would simply tell you to eat without him.

and this morning was no different. as usual, you were dressed in your academy's uniform, meeting lampwick at the front gates of the manor as you climb into the carriage. "hey wick?"

"yes madam?" his voice was dripping with amusement, further teasing you with the nickname as you rolled your eyes in response. "ah, i just wanted to know, is it normal for geppetto to lock himself in his basement for well- you know, days?"

it was then that you heard lampwick let out a low whistle, "that's quite a good thing, actually. it usually means that he is on the brink of completing his latest creation." the young man steadily pulls at the reins of the carriage, surging it forward as he made his way towards krat academy. "you let me know when that old man completes his creation, for i'm sure it's bound to be amazing."

you simply hum in response, eyes looking out the window of your carriage while allowing the scenery to pass by. oh well, if wick was telling you it was a good thing that you hadn't seen or heard from your guardian in a while, then you suppose you could do little than to just accept that little fact.

------

you were sleeping soundly and quite deeply that night when you were suddenly roused from your slumber. you could feel a hand slowly shaking at your shoulders as a soft voice calls out your name.

"wake up, my dear, wake up."

your vision was hazy, finally waking up to see geppetto smiling down at you. there seemed to be an excitement seen swimming from against his pale blue eyes, brimming with an eagerness you had never seen before.

"geppetto, what is it?" your voice was hoarse, making you sit up in bed as you wiped the sleep away from your eyes. you trail your eyes over the grandfather clock that was settled near the corner of your room only to sigh upon seeing how late it was. "it's quite late isn't it? and i still have classes to attend to-"

geppetto was then heard letting out a huff in response. "then so be it, you may take a some time off school, for this gift i have spent countless days working on for you is well worth it."

the thought of being able to skip your classes fills you with a newfound enthusiasm for whatever surprise he had planned for you. with you tossing back the blankets of your bed, you felt the soft cotton fabric of your nightgown flow with your movements. your bare feet meets with the plush softness of the carpets with geppetto keeping a hand behind your back.

carefully, he leads you down the many steps that lead down to his basement, practically humming with excitement as well. once you were in front of the door that leads to his workshop, geppetto faces you all while pressing a finger to his lips. "my dear, i wish for your anticipation to simply grow as i show you your gift. so if you may please close your eyes for me."

you give him an eager nod, clenching your eyes shut while hearing geppetto open the door to his workshop. "alright, careful now. all you need to do is trust me as i lead you inside.

you could feel your heart pounding with anticipation, taking one step forward as geppetto slowly lead you to his gift. only when you felt the old man place his arms against your shoulders, making you fully stop in response were you finally allowed to open your eyes.

you blink away the slight blurriness that takes over your vision, only to gasp upon seeing the magnificent sight before you. settled just a few inches away from you, in a seated position, was what appeared to be a sleeping young man. he appeared very much like a prince, with rich locks of chestnut hair and full lips painted in a rosy hue. freckles were seen scattered all across his pale skin as he was dressed in your academy's uniform.

you were speechless, never before having the pleasure of basking in such beauty before in your life. as if unable to help yourself, your hands reach out to brush against his hair, gasping just the tiniest bit upon feeling how cold his skin felt against your skin.

"do you like him?"

"oh geppetto, he's magnificent." you were entranced by the mechanoid your guardian had made, unable to look away from him. you heard geppetto let out a rich chuckle before carefully taking a hold of your hand. "here, go on and put your hand in his, and you'll awaken pinocchio."

"pinocchio is his name?"

geppetto hums in confirmation, "indeed, now go on, wake him up with your touch, my dear."

your heart was felt pounding against your throat, racing so quickly that you could feel its palpitations coursing through your veins. following his directions, you place your hand on top of pinocchio's, feeling him glow a gentle, blue hue as his pale hands gently caress at yours. wanting to see what color his eyes were, you meet his gaze, feeling all the more eager as his pale eyelids open, revealing to you eyes the color of sapphires.

pinocchio blinks several times, trailing his curious eyes all across the workshop before finally meeting your gaze. the newborn mechanoid seemed frozen as well, taking in the mere sight of you before smiling at you. "hello, my fair lady."

he looks down to see the way he still held your hands in his. a gentle smile paints at his rosy lips, his curiosity seeming to grow when he touches at your soft hands. he closes his eyes before lifting your hands toward his lips, allowing them to briefly touch as you could feel your face turning warm in response.

"what is...your name?" his deep voice was heard asking you, and you were becoming so enchanted with this amazing puppet that you found yourself relinquishing the syllables that made up your own name with ease.

pinocchio repeats your name several times, smiling while standing up to his full height. you could fee your heart soaring at the mere sight of him, admiring the way he stood so tall all while framing at your own face with his own two hands.

as you basked in pinocchio's mere presence, geppetto simply stands off to the side with his arms crossed, eyes gleaming with absolute happiness and pride at what he was able to create.

for he was certain that his son would be able to bring you the light and happiness you craved for.

------

a few days have passed since geppetto had revealed pinocchio to you, and you adored spending every waking minute with him. you allowed him to spend time with you from within the sanctuary of your room. more often than not, you would fill your days with reading stories with him, wanting nothing more than for his rich voice to narrate the various fairytales you adored.

as pinocchio read to you, you would cuddle closer to him and sometimes- though you often tried to convince yourself that it was simply your mind playing mere tricks on you- you could have sworn that your handsome puppet prince was smiling at you, watching you from the periphery of his gaze.

truly, being with pinocchio filled your days with so much joy, and you found yourself nearly sharing everything with him. once the week had finally passed was when geppetto had told you how important it was that you returned back to the academy.

you were all in the midst of enjoying breakfast, with pinocchio settled close to your side as his curious hands played with the various sterling silver utensils on the dining table. as geppetto worked on placing a spread of butter against his bread, he was heard speaking to you in a bit of a solemn tone. "i contacted your teachers, and they graciously gave you the week off so that you may spend some time mourning for your mother. they were kind enough to understand your need to grieve, but you must return back at once."

you give geppetto a stiff nod, chewing down at your bottom lip when you were able to ask him in a bit of a meek voice, "i-is it okay if pinocchio accompanies me?"

pinocchio then drops the utensils in response to hearing your desire for him to join you, keeping his sapphire gaze on your form all while geppetto was gazing at the two of you with his eyebrows lifted in question. "i'm not quite sure if that's a good idea, for pinocchio has never been away from the mansion. what if he were to get lost?"

"i-i won't let that happen, geppetto! i promise, i'll keep him close to my side! i won't even let go of his hand! a-and he can sit next to me during classes."

geppetto sits back in his seat, wondering if he should just give in and allow you to take pinocchio with you. indeed, his son was truly doing wonders to your mental health and happiness. with a sigh, geppetto agrees to it, "but only for a little while, alright? keep him close to you, and pinocchio, always remember to stay by her side."

the puppet gives him an almost eager nod and tiny smile "i will, father." making geppetto narrow his gaze at the boy, somehow feeling as though he were displaying just the tiniest bit of human traits-

and he wondered why that was.

once you realized that geppetto was allowing pinocchio to join you, you scarf down the rest of your breakfast before grabbing your schoolbag. you smooth out your uniform and beckon pinocchio to follow you. yet before you left your home, you step closer to geppetto and smile down at him, embracing him while he was still settled against his chair, "thank you, so much."

filled with a warmth for you, geppetto returns your embrace before chuckling, wishing you a good day before promising to see you again once you returned home from school. with a beaming smile on your face, you call pinocchio to join you, running out of the manor as your companion remains close to your side.

------

during your ride to the academy, lampwick couldn't help but let out an awed whistle each time his eyes would land on pinocchio's form. "dear gods, he looks so real- in fact, he's kind of pissing me off with how gorgeous he looks. the puppet's got a better mug than me."

"oh come off it wick! you have your own charming traits, too!" you comfort your best friend with a grin, further giggling even more when you saw the way he waved his hand at you in a bit of a dismissive manner, "yeah yeah, i get it."

in just a few minutes, lampwick arrives at the academy, and you eagerly step out of the carriage all while wrapping your arms around pinocchio. his true blue eyes filled with the same curiosity you had found yourself growing to accustomed to. as lampwick rides away while giving you a wave, you interlock your fingertips with pinocchio's, flashing him a gentle smile, "are you ready?"

he smiles down at you, brushing back at your strands before giving you a nod. filled with an eagerness to show pinocchio to your friends, you lead him towards the academy, climbing the steps toward the grand building before entering.

as you were in the midst of the school's main foyer, you were met with eugénie's gaze first. she was smiling at you, calling out your name before stopping completely upon seeing the gorgeous sight of pinocchio standing beside you.

her gasp was all that you could hear, and you felt almost envious upon witnessing the way her face seemed to light up in a deep blush. "goodness, he is so handsome. i-is he a new student here?"

you shake her head upon hearing her question, almost tightening your hold around pinocchio's arms as you kept him close to you. "n-no. geppetto made him as a gift for me-"

"no way! he's a puppet?!" ignoring your hold on pinocchio, eugénie takes a hold of pinocchio herself, making his large and lanky frame nearly fall against the fall when you hear him let out a gasp. "h-hey! be careful with him!"

but she ignores you, and you watch with absolute disdain when even more girls began to flock towards him, all of them displaying stars within their eyes as their giggles slowly increased in an almost unbearable crescendo within your ears.

your heart was aching, reaching out to pinocchio, only to have him look back at you with an almost hopeless expression on his face. but instead of pouting or crying like you wanted to, you simply gave him a tiny smile and a wave.

feeling somewhat defeated, you watch as your 'friends' hog pinocchio to themselves. throughout class, while you were left in your usual seat, the girls had already taken a hold of pinocchio, still giggling and completely enamored with him as you felt the pinpricks of envy course through your veins.

even when your teachers had told the girls to settle down, somewhat unaware of the arrival of the new 'student', they refused to pay such heeds to their warnings. as the day went on, you felt yourself becoming even lonelier than ever.

so when the school day had finally ended, you were so eager to return home with pinocchio-

only to feel your heart sink when your beloved puppet was nowhere in sight. you call out to him, practically running across the hallways of the academy, nearly losing your breath in response. but as your running legs takes you to one of the grand windows seen within the academy, you look down to catch sight of the garden, bearing witness to something that made your heart ache-

for settled below within the courtyard of your school was eugénie and pinocchio, as you saw the girl place what looked like a flower crown atop his hair. as if sensing your gaze, pinocchio looks up towards the window, seeing your tearful expression as you let out a sob.

unable to fight back the almost irrational feelings of jealousy you felt, you run off and make your way towards the comfort of the library, unsure of what you could do to get pinocchio back-

and as you walked even deeper into the room, you felt your legs give away as you end up landing against one of the plush settees settled across the grand library. despite how you were surrounded by the comforting scents of books, you couldn't stop your heart from aching for pinocchio.

truly, you only had him for a handful of days, but already he became such a vital part of your life. just being close to him made the pain of your mother go away, even if it was just for a moment. with him by your side, you felt hopeful, you felt as though the light were brimming from within the depths of your heart once more-

and truly, perhaps you were selfish, but you didn't want to share this beautiful emotion with anyone else, not even with eugénie. so you remained in that position against the velvet couch, allowing your tears to darken the plush seat when your ears detect the sound of footsteps approaching you.

you didn't know who it was, but you did your best to silence your tears, feeling a few hiccups escape from your lips. much to your dismay, the person seems to step closer to you, not stopping until they came down to your height. it was then that you heard a deep voice calling out your name, making you gasp when you finally faced him, seeing pinocchio looking at you with a soft expression on his face.

seeing the tears drop from your eyes was enough to make the puppet reach out to catch at those crystalline droplets, wiping them away when he asks, "what's wrong? what's making you so sad?"

you look away from him, feeling selfish and silly all over again, but truly, you couldn't lie to him. unable to face the hauntingly beautiful boy, you slowly admit to him, "i...i got jealous when eugénie and the others surrounded you. i was afraid and upset that they- that they would take you away from me."

you clench your eyes shut, not wanting to hear pinocchio potentially berating you for such silly and selfish thoughts. yet, he ends up surprising you by placing his hand against your cheek, gently framing at your face when he calls out your name once more.

"you need not fear about me being taken away from you, for i told them that you are the only one i wish to make happy."

you face him again, eyes wide when pinocchio smiles at you. he allows his slender fingertips to trace at your lips, sapphire eyes shining with such mirth and amusement that you could feel your very breath be taken away.

"i...i am quite fond of you, my darling." pinocchio's husky voice was all you could focus on as you could feel yourself inching closer to him. like a moth drawn to a flame, you allow your lips with his to meet with his in a sweet kiss. pinocchio's eyes were shut as well, keeping you close to him by placing a hand behind your head, melding your lips together in a perfect kiss that made your heart soar from within the confines of your chest.

and you wouldn't trade this moment for anything else in the world...

------

geppetto was in the midst of his workshop, smoking a pipe as he allows the wisps of smoke to go up in the air. his eyes held a bit of a distant quality to them, deep in thought as he thought about the miracle that was his son.

despite how he was made to be a mere puppet to keep you happy, geppetto couldn't deny that perhaps there was a deeper magic seen with him after all. for it seemed as though the ergo that flows through him, providing his golden heart with the power it needed to function from deep within his chest made him real-

the man smiles at the thought, believing that perhaps pinocchio was far greater than any invention he had ever made.

so he decides with a newfound light within his heart that his son could not and would not be replicated-

for the boy was truly made for you and you alone.

a.n. - it has been far too long since i have written for this beloved puppet prince; i will fix any glaring errors that comes up later on, but for now please do enjoy this story 🥹

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[nolesserhuman]

what a match, I'm half-doomed and you're semi-sweet. [part 1]

PM Dazai + reader "you'll never remember, your head is far too blurry" // Dazai doesn't know how to take allergy meds. ~3.k words warnings: misuse of medication, dazai-typical suicide references. ao3.

Dazai is beginning to suspect that something might actually be wrong this time.

Admittedly, he always wakes up feeling bad— for whatever reason, he manages to convince himself that he definitely won’t be hungover this time— so when there’s a sharp pressure behind his eyes before he even opens them, he vows for the third time this week to swear off alcohol. It’s only Tuesday.

When he rolls over to bury his face back into his pillow, a loud groan works its way out of Dazai’s throat, one that echoes off the walls of his shipping container as if he’s surrounded by constant misery. 

Every muscle in his body aches. When he inhales, his chest is sticky; trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes, his limbs feel like they’re filled with sand. Too heavy. Whatever he’d done yesterday couldn’t have tired him out this badly— it’s probably just his shell of a body protesting the idea of work. The rest of him doesn’t want to work either.

Dazai mashes his face against the thin pillow and hopes he suffocates. But he can’t do that quite yet; there’s a meeting with Mori today, and if he skips that, the doctor won’t even let his death be peaceful.

A cough rudely interrupts his thoughts. His chest tightens, and Dazai tries to stifle it, but that only makes it worse; he can feel his lung spasm behind his ribs and, as a hacking fit finally bursts out of him, Dazai tumbles out of bed and to the floor, determined not to cough up phlegm in the one place he’s able to sleep.

He hits the steel floor with too hard of a thud for someone so clinically underweight. The chill seeps through Dazai’s thin clothing and cotton gauze and saps the remnants of heat from his frail body. Dazai lays there for who knows how long, staring blankly up at the ceiling in a daze. His breath rattles in his chest with every shaky exhale.

From somewhere in the dark, his phone chimes. Dazai groans again, hands fumbling across the cold metal, through the ratty fabric of his blanket. His fingers finally close around the damned thing. When he flips it open, the harsh light from the screen angers whatever ache is rattling around in his skull. 

It’s just a message from you. Dazai flips his phone closed and tosses it back into the dark.

He coughs again, wet and sticky. Laying on his back like this feels like he’s drowning in whatever gunk had filled his chest overnight. It’s not as painless as a death as he’d hope for. Another twinge of pain in his chest and Dazai’s body reacts on its own. He finds himself propped up on his elbows as he coughs violently, gasping for air between each wheeze. He spits up a wad of phlegm and makes a face at the disgusting taste that lingers on the back of his tongue.

The coughs eventually quiet down. Dazai lays there panting for a moment, trying to catch his breath. His phone chimes again somewhere— probably another message from you, urging him to crawl out of his tin grave just a little bit faster. He spits once more and hauls his heavy body to its feet.

Getting dressed is a pain. Dazai’s usual brand of gauze bandages is now irritating his sensitive skin as he drags his shirt over his shoulders. His delicate fingers fumble with his belt and tie even though he can normally fasten them blind. He has to stop every few moments to catch his breath again.

He can ignore that. He’s got a meeting to get to.

When he pushes open the door of the shipping container he calls a home, it screeches, in the same way he does when touched without permission. The route to headquarters is, of course, memorized— they all are, actually, whether by foot or car or in potential flood. Dazai doesn’t even have to think about it as he walks. Which is good, because Dazai isn’t thinking much at all right now.

Today is too bright. Dazai grimaces as the sun reignites the ache behind his eyes, his vision blurring in the washed-out daylight of Yokohama. The heat goes unnoticed and does nothing for Dazai’s wet cough.

While he may deny the concept of sickness— sometimes his body just doesn’t work right, what else would you expect from a broken toy?— Dazai has spent enough time in Mori’s care to know that this is a punishable offense. He’s whining about a headache, really? Coughing while the boss has something important to say? Can’t have that. Dazai isn’t too sure how Mori would punish this string of personal failures, but even thinking about it feels like ice water dripping down his spine. Or maybe that’s the fever.

For the first time in months, Dazai’s path diverges from the map in his head.

His body turns to the right. Glass doors whoosh open, a soft bell chimes overhead, the teenager behind the counter offers a hesitant greeting. Dazai ignores all of it, blinking against the harsh fluorescence of the convenience store.

The lights buzz at the same frequency as whatever’s vibrating in his skull.

Allergy medication is lined up in a row on the back shelves. Beneath that, cold medicine. Dazai isn’t entirely sure of the difference.

The main thing Dazai does know is that he’s not actually allowed to have pills. He can take them, when they’re given by Mori, and only under strict supervision. But he’s not allowed to have them himself. Bit of an absurd rule, honestly— if he was determined enough for a way out of everything, he could always just step into traffic.

Dazai doesn’t like pain or suffering, and right now he’s definitely suffering. Another cough hitches in his chest and almost has him hacking up gunk all over the shelves— but drawing attention in public is a nightmare scenario for his paranoia, so Dazai finds him gritting his teeth to swallow back whatever slime is crawling its way up his throat.

It sits heavy in his stomach and makes him nauseous.

Every bottle on the shelves looks the same to him, so Dazai just snatches one and shoves it into a coat pocket. The pills rattle against the plastic with every step. He doesn’t break stride as he passes the baffled employee at the counter.

Once he’s back outside and around a corner, Dazai pulls the bottle from his pocket and examines the label. He’d snatched them on a calculated impulse, driven by the grossness in his chest— but if he’s caught with them, he’ll be in just as much trouble as if he’d simply shown up sick, if not more.

Not that he’s sick.

The office building is within sight now, so Dazai only has a moment to make a decision. Can’t be caught with contraband if you’ve swallowed it all.

After a brief battle with the child safety lid he’s able to dump a small mound of the pills into the palm of his hand. He stares at them for a brief moment before tossing his head back and swallowing them dry.

Immediately his lungs catch; he coughs and gags, some of the half-swallowed pills coming right back up his sore throat and almost out his mouth. He gags again at the bitter taste of the dissolving capsules— burnt plastic settling and numbing his tongue— but forces himself to finish swallowing. They’ve gotta be gone before he reaches the office.

Winded and wheezing, he stops to lean against the corner of the office building. Even though he’s wearing a coat and standing in direct sunlight, he shudders, a chill settled into his empty bones. If he can just give the meds a moment to kick in—

Obviously the universe has other plans. From his pocket, his phone rings and startles him out of his daze; when he glances at the caller ID, it’s just you again. Dazai sends the call to voicemail.

Thankfully, nobody ever pays attention when Dazai arrives at the office; he’s able to scramble into the elevator without having to greet anyone in his croaky voice. He brings the sleeve of his oversized coat up to cover his mouth, not entirely sure if he’s stifling a cough or a wave of nausea. When the elevator lurches, so does his stomach; Dazai stumbles against the glass with a soft whine. Usually the sight of the world growing smaller would set off his vertigo, but at the moment he’s having trouble even keeping his eyes open, so whatever’s on the other side of his eyelids doesn’t quite matter.

The elevator dings to signal he’s reached the top floor. The doors slide open and, once he’s stepped out into the hallway, Dazai has to take a moment to wheeze. He coughs into his sleeve again, gross and wet, weighed down by the flood in his ribs. It’s just a corporate hallway, but standing here ill has anxiety prickling up his spine; anyone could walk by at any moment, there’s nowhere for him to hide, and he’ll be reported for being a broken toy. How long will it take for the pills to kick in—?

“Dazai?”

Not Mori’s voice, but Dazai freezes anyways. He hadn’t wanted to see you either— but anything is better than interacting with Mori. He wipes his mouth and turns to face you.

Your hand latches onto the collar of his dress shirt and you begin to drag him along behind you. “Took you long enough!” You huff and give a particularly hard yank, one that has Dazai stumbling. “Ignoring my calls— you’re lucky I got him to wait a few more minutes—”

Late? Was Dazai late? That doesn’t sound right in his head; he always knows what time it is. Before he can catch his voice or momentum, you’ve dragged him through the intimidating doors at the end of the hall and come to a stop in front of Mori’s desk. When your hand disentangles from his shirt, Dazai is vaguely bemused at the loss of warmth.

“We’re here, boss.”

Mori glances up from the paperwork strewn across his desk. His facial expression is carefully neutral— but even that’s enough to quietly activate Dazai’s fight or flight, and he can feel his pulse pick up under the doctor’s scrutiny. It flutters uncomfortably in the spot just beneath his ribs, even though Dazai’s pretty sure that’s not where his heart is supposed to be. He’s sure it’ll escape its cage someday.

“Kind of you to finally join us, Dazai,” Mori leans back in his chair to examine you both. He stares at the two of you in the same way you’ve seen him eye his autopsy tools. “I expect there will be no further interruptions to the schedule?”

Dazai’s traitor of a voice sticks in his throat. Unwilling to give himself away that easily— although he’s sure he’s blatantly labeled, like a game of Operation— he just keeps his eyes on the ground and shakes his head. Thankfully Mori has more important things to do beyond staring at his toy until it combusts.

“I’ll need the two of you to—”

Usually Dazai pays strict attention to the mission briefings. Especially if he’s paired with you or Chuuya, because he knows neither of you are as worried as he is about being dissected. Sure, he’ll mouth off— he’ll argue— he’ll poke holes in Mori’s thoughts until the man seems ready to flay him alive. But today, even his typical smarmy behavior is too much effort for his fuzzy head. Every word out of Mori’s mouth sounds like it’s drifting through water to reach Dazai’s ears. All his effort goes towards acting normal— a tall order, for a thing like Dazai. Breathe in, breathe out, on a regular rhythm, not fast enough to draw attention; when a cough sticks in his throat again, his breathing gets shallow instead, and he’s not sure how long he can fake it.

His attention wanders. Looking at Mori is always difficult, so Dazai busies himself with examining his polished shoes, the softness of your hair, the clouds drifting by outside the window—

Papers shuffle. Your hand tugs at Dazai’s coat sleeve. He slowly drifts back into the moment; the meeting is over. He hadn’t heard a damned word.

The walk down the hallway feels off. You’d made this same trek with Dazai just last week, and he’d been energetic, playful, doing his best to drive you up the walls. Today, though, he’s padding along quietly behind you. That’s more suspicious than anything else you’ve ever seen him do.

“—so, your opinion?” Any easy question to start with, although you’re willing to push his buttons if it means gauging how he feels.

Dazai knows he can’t ignore you outright, but he also knows you’re not stupid enough to overlook the rasp to his voice. He just hums in response as if he’s thinking of an answer. The sound comes out smoothly enough that it startles him— maybe the meds have actually kicked in. Makes him wonder why his head is still fuzzy around the edges, though.

“It’s an easy mission,” Dazai tests his voice carefully, “even someone like you should be able to figure it out.”

“I know it’s easy,” you shoulder open a glass door, finally leading the both of you back outside into the sunlight. Dazai blinks rapidly as he tries to adjust. “That’s why I’m asking your opinion— where should we start?”

Damn. Dazai’s head had been so floaty, he’d paid no attention to the briefing. He’d been hoping you would accidentally give him a hint, but you’re just watching his face intently, so he has to keep it neutral.

It didn't work— apparently he’d taken just a second too long to think, because you’re reaching out, your hand working its way under his bangs to feel at his forehead. Dazai leans into the touch without thinking about it.

“You’re hot.”

“I know.” A smile twitches across his tired face and you scoff.

“Are you sure you’re okay enough for recon?”

There’s the hint he’d been hoping for. Dazai pulls himself back from your touch and sniffles. “I can walk,” he says defiantly.

Not the question you asked.

Before you can suggest that he— God forbid— take the day off, Dazai escapes your grasp entirely. He wobbles on his feet and preemptively shoots a glare in your direction, daring you to say anything. His unbandaged eye is glassy.

Dazai is a flight risk. Mori is expecting you both to work on this mission together, even though it really is simple. It’s better not to push your temporary partner too hard right now.

Recon and surveillance are always easy, especially when you’re paired with Dazai. Normally he’s lightyears ahead of you, locations memorized in an instant. Today, he’s quiet— too quiet, and you have to keep glancing over your shoulder to make sure he hasn’t vanished into the crowd.

Dazai is hyper aware of your eyes on him the entire walk. Being watched always makes his skin crawl, even when he knows you couldn’t catch him if he was determined to get away, but he’s too tired to be mean at the moment so he doesn’t say anything.

You’ve never really been the one leading surveillance missions, but Dazai is clearly lost in his own world. When you stop to make note of a fire escape, he stumbles into you and flinches back like it burns; when you ask him about one building’s rooftop, he doesn’t even make a comment about jumping.

Wandering behind you, Dazai’s head still feels like it’s somewhere far off from the rest of his body. Is medication supposed to make you feel like this? He’d felt fine for all of ten minutes after taking the pills, but they must be wearing off, because his chest feels tight again, and more vague pain is beginning to pulse in his bones. The world is starting to twist at the edge of his vision— it’s all Dazai can do to keep his gaze focused on your back as he pushes forward.

Maybe he should take a few more.

It would be a major risk to pull the pills out in front of you— well, behind your back, but you could turn around at any moment. Dazai’s delicate fingers deftly untwist the cap in his coat pocket. The stupid gel capsules tumble free like escaped marbles. He makes a face as they shift around in his pocket, but when your head is turned, he pops another handful into his mouth.

Eugh, the burnt plastic taste on the back of his tongue—

“Maybe we should get a taller view,” your voice almost sounds like it’s underwater. Dazai shakes his head to drain his ears, and that sets the world spinning around him.

“What, you don’t wanna?” Hands in your jacket pockets, you nudge Dazai with your shoulder, and he sways on his feet. “If you’ve already perfected our strategies, you should tell me— I’m gonna start slackin’ off.”

Slacking off. That sounds really nice right about now. Absently, one of Dazais hands comes up to press against the ache in his sternum, massaging with the sharpness of his knuckles. Dazai never does anything softly.

He can feel his heart cracking against his ribs. An uncomfortable feeling that he figures he deserves.

“—Dazai?”

He blinks, big doe eyes slowly tracking over to you, silhouetted against the Yokohama sun. A concerned frown crosses your face. He still hasn’t responded to you, and the look in his eyes is hazy. “Hey, let’s go take a break somewhere. I’m tired.”

It’s easier to lie about your own condition than it is to get Osamu Dazai to be honest about himself.

Dazai nods blankly, meaning he can at least hear your voice. You nudge him forward again; his steps are shaky and, combined with his big brown eyes and dusting of freckles, he looks exactly like a lost baby deer. 

You know that, deep down, Dazai must be some form of anxious. Anyone can tell that he’s feeling unwell just by looking at him, and he hates being forced into such a vulnerable position. Gently, you push and prod until you’ve managed to get him into an alleyway, nice and dark, a place to rest out of view. The Port Mafia knows the backstreets better than anyone in this city.

Every step for Dazai feels like wading through quicksand— or at least the way he’d imagined quicksand would feel, when he was thinking about ways to die. His muscles burn in protest. His eyelids feel gritty as they slide closed; knowing he can’t fall asleep here, he slouches his lanky body against you.

“Let’s go back,” he mumbles into the crook of your neck.

You hum quietly in agreement. Dazai is never this open to touch, and you don’t want to scare him away in such a rare moment where he openly relies on you. It seems the same thoughts cross his hazy mind all at once.

Dazai shoves you away with an impulse that surprises you both.

“What the hell—?!” You’re able to catch yourself without much effort. Your obstinate boss isn’t quite as lucky.

Dazai tumbles into a nearby brick wall with enough force to knock the wind out of him. That doesn’t stop his lungs from constricting as he gasps for air, face twisted in the panic that accompanies an inability to breathe.

His vision darkens at the edges. The impact had also knocked the fucking pill bottle out of his pocket. You’re staring at the label. You’ve seen it. He’s not supposed to have pills. You’ve seen it. His chest heaves.

“Dazai, hey, you need to breathe—”

When your hands come up, Dazai flinches back again. His head slams against the brick. The sting barely registers— even as your hand cups the back of his head, even as you wince at the thin coating of blood on your fingers, all Dazai can see are the brightly-colored pills scattered across the sidewalk. Adrenaline floods his frail body until his limbs go cold. His traitorous body decides that now is the time to expel his lungs.

The coughing fit has him doubled over, hacking so hard that he gags, spitting up more gunk and saliva.

When you inevitably reach out to him again, Dazai wrestles his way out of your grasp, pointedly pressing his face against the rough brick in a desperate bid to avoid your scrutiny. He doesn’t have to look— he can feel your eyes on him through the shield of Mori’s coat. It prickles along his feverish skin and reduces him to feeling positively miniscule. Heat crawls up his neck as nausea begins to bubble in his stomach.

Dazai is exhausted all at once. Usually he can ignore his body’s limits, but that’s not an option now; you know that he’s taken medication, so he needs to get out of here, spin a lie to Mori before you have the chance to tell the truth. He shoves himself away from the wall as if the burst of strength will get him back to the familiar glass doors.

It doesn’t help at all. Dazai tilts forward, eyes sliding closed as the concrete rushes up to meet him.

I've been working on this thing for about two months and finally decided that splitting it into chapters would work better than making it as long as it was getting, so! part two up. eventually lmao. thank you for reading!

[random-star-trek-stuff]

Spock: *speaks to his fiance, whom he has never mentioned to anyone, in poetic dialogue via public video call*

The entirety of the Enterprise bridge crew:

[shattersstar]

nowhere but here

pairing: the mandalorian x reader

excerpt: The strong strides, calculated and confident, didn’t match the low burning anxiety that threatened to take over his system. The hand cradling the baby against him shook ever so slightly, nerves seeping through the unnervingly calm bounty hunter. His free hand curled into a fist, rapping against the metal door with two precise knocks. The moments between his intrusion and its opening brought a tension to his shoulders he didn’t notice until your sleepy face appeared as the door opened with a mechanical whoosh. Your eyes widened in surprise, voice scratchy with sleep as you breathed, “Mando?”

warnings: sickness/flu, probably inaccurate medical stuff, fluff, sprinkle of longing

a/n: my brain went into a mandalorian lock down after watching the first two eps and here we are. this is the first thing ive written in a hot minute so please be nice :)) feedback is always appreciated !

—

It had come out of nowhere, the tiny coughs that filled the hull were far and few in between, the Mandalorian assuming it was the kid coughing after devouring something else with a startling ferocity. But then they happened more, a little louder, harsher too. The first time he saw the kid cough, it rattled his whole small body. His big eyes watered with the force out it, nose running and expression lethargic. Kids get colds—even 50 year old one’s—he reasoned. The Mandalorian seldom got sick, but he did try to remember what he or the other foundlings were given as children when struck with a cold. It was a distant memory, a glimmer of his mother’s own medicine’s tainting it. At the next planet, he’d ask someone in a nearby village he decided.

That was until the child started to cry, as if the coughs were hurting his tiny lungs . He threw up twice too, thick tears running down his face the whole time.

The Mandalorian’s reasoning went out the window, he...didn’t know what to do. He had been conflicted before, regretful of his choices even, but he never stewed with such confusion in his chest. That was until something else seemed to glimmer through his mind—someone else.

Someone who confused him more than anyone before, someone who filled him with every emotion he spent years suppressing. And someone who knew how to take care of his son. The coordinates were in the system before his brain caught up to his hands, the kid’s crying had subsided as the Mandalorian kept him in his lap.

The hazy green and blue of the planet shot into view as the ship jumped out of hyperspace, navigating to the forested sector some called home. Muscle memory took over as he trekked through the land, ducking under branches, overstepping fallen trees and rocks alike. The small village you resided in came into view just as the sun started to paint the planet of Dandoran in purple hues. He knew that if the kid wasn’t currently coughing against the cold beskar of his armor, his eyes would be alight with wonder at the sight. The Mandalorian didn’t have time to take in the view as he crossed through the small village square, veering off to your home.

The strong strides, calculated and confident, didn’t match the low burning anxiety that threatened to take over his system. The hand cradling the baby against him shook ever so slightly, nerves seeping through the unnervingly calm bounty hunter. His free hand curled into a fist, rapping against the metal door with two precise knocks. The moments between his intrusion and its opening brought a tension to his shoulders he didn’t notice until your sleepy face appeared as the door opened with a mechanical whoosh. Your eyes widened in surprise, voice scratchy with sleep as you breathed, “Mando?”

He stood there for a moment, the words he never struggled to keep in his throat suddenly locked in his chest, a primal fear suddenly setting in. He can’t lose the kid...he can’t.

It took only a phlegm filled cough from the Mandalorian’s counterpart for your brain to connect the dots. Still lagging from sleep, but working fast enough as your hands shot out, fingers grabbing at the child. “How long?” You asked as the kid was transferred into your arms, the gloved hand of the Mandalorian lingering against your forearms as you gave the kid a once over.

“Few days.”

“Over a week?”

“No.”

“Okay, we need to go back to the Crest.” You stated, the words seeming to take a while to reach his ears. You thought you were on delay, but it seemed the Mandalorian was worse. “Mando? Did you—“

“That’ll take another hour.” He bit back—quickly, harshly. An edge of panic slipped through his modulator and you let out a soft sigh. You shifted the kid to one arm, your other reaching out and pressing to his bicep, squeezing ever so slightly.

"I kno—“

"You have to do something."

“Okay, okay fine. You head back then go to the clearing with the lake, the one we—“

“I know which.”

“Good, I’ll take care of the kid and meet you there.” Still, the man who was usually so goal based, so practical just, stood there. You gave his arm another squeeze, this one with a bit more force, but comforting nonetheless. “He’ll be alright, but please. You need to go.”

“If any—“

“I know.” You gave him a small nod, hugging the kid to your chest before watching his dad turn back where he just came from.

He did as instructed, making it through the forest at a record speed, and navigating his ship to the place you both met. It was a tight spot to land, but he made it work. He was in the hull, and out of the ship in a matter of seconds, the sun now set and the lake sparkled in the moonlight. His feet hit the ground, and not a minute later you made your way through the tree line, kid wrapped up in a thick blanket despite the high fever. “Inside.” Was all you said, walking back into the ship and straight to the fresher. You cranked the shower to the hottest it would go, the Mandalorian hovering in the entrance way. You gave him his kid, shedding your jacket and bag, letting them fall to the floor. He wasn’t coughing as much, but he was burning up. The kid curled into his dad, likely enjoying the cold touch offered by the Mandalorian’s steel. You took the kid back, who was now fussing from being parted from his dad. “I know kid, I know.” You mumbled, shedding most of his thick brown robes. You held him to your chest, unfazed by the tears and snot now running onto your collarbones. You rubbed his back with your free hand, letting the room fill with steam. “I need to close the door.” You spoke, glancing over your shoulder at the Mandalorian.

He stood there for a moment, as if debating to join you or wait outside. You obviously knew what you were doing, but that was his s—

“You can stay, might wanna take your beskar off though.” You interrupted his thoughts, reading him easily despite the helmet.

“Wha—“

“It’s going to be really hot in here, don’t need your overheating on me too.” You smiled at him, the metal walls slick with condensation, and sweat starting to coat your skin. The Mandalorian nodded, closing the door, but you knew he was coming back.

—

You three sat in relative silence. The space was tight, the Mandalorian was doing his best to be small, an odd thing to see you thought. It was his job to be imposing, large and terrifying, and yet he stayed in the same spot while you rocked the kid back in forth. He stopped being a terror, crying and screaming as the heat worked its way into his lungs. You were now on the floor, sitting next to the shower, some of the water sprinkling onto your arm. You continued rubbing his back, shushing him when he started to fuss and promising to make him food once it’s all over.

You let your head fall back against the wall, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of your neck and dipping passed your shirt. You only wore a thin t-shirt and a loose pair of pyjama pants. Strikingly, the Mandalorian was still head to toe in thick black attire, gloves and helmet on too. You expected as much, and if you were hot, you knew he was sweltering. “It’s—“ You attempted, despite the water running, the humidity made your throat run dry. “It’s helping open his lungs.” You tried again.

You weren’t sure why you wanted to fill the space, maybe it would alleviate some of the Mandalorian’s physical discomfort. Although it was presumptuous of you to assume he didn’t like long silences. Yet to your surprise, the Mandalorian replied.

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Yeah, I think he just caught something—might be something he ate or just a bug going around. Being in hyperspace probably didn’t help it either.” You told, earning a soft head tilt from him. A silent gesture to explain more. “We get fevers because its our body trying to burn out the virus essentially, if it’s cold its easier for it to...um…uh—“

“Yeah, that’s it. He should be fine though within a few days. I have some stuff he can take, but he just really needs to clear out his lungs. I’ll work on bringing his fever down after.”

“Incubate?” The Mandalorian was aware of how fevers worked, but did mentally remind himself to keep the hull heated. Strapped in thick layers of beskar and a cloak had made him forgetful of the chill of space.

He nodded, and once again a silence filled the space. But it was nicer, almost appreciative. You gestured to the shower, silently asking the Mandalorian to shut off the water, the space was humid enough now. He was going to settle back into his spot when you broke the silence yet again, calling his name. It was so soft, a whisper in the back of your throat you almost thought he hadn’t heard it.

But he did, his shoulders tensed before he could go back leaning against the door. “Do you want to hold him? Just for a bit?” You shuffled over, closer to the shower stall and creating barely enough room for him.

The Mandalorian did as you asked though, settling next to you, keeping his knees bent with the whole side of his body pressed hard into yours. You passed him the kid, who now cooed happily instead of sobbed. He shifted the kid to his arm furthest from you, his hand curled around his small frame and thumb brushing over his back. You smiled at the sight, slouching a bit into the floor, huffing out a breath.

The Mandalorian glanced over at you as you let your eyes fall closed for a moment, hyper aware of how much of you was pressed up against him. He wasn’t sure what took over his mind as he placed the kid in his lap, pulling off his gloves and tossing them towards the door. You didn’t notice the first one, but felt when he shifted his shoulder that was against yours. You tried not to let your eyes fall directly on the patch of warm tanned skin suddenly in view. Once again the kid was cradled in his further hand, the other resting his lap.

The steam had started to disapiated, droplets of water starting to run down the walls. The Mandalorian either watched them race towards the floor, or kept his gaze fixed on his kid. You had been quiet for some time, startling the Mandalorian when you suddenly leaned into his body. Your cheek met the curve of his shoulder, eyes closed and breathing slow. For a moment he thought you passed out, but as you continued to let out lazy breaths, he realized you had fallen asleep.

He wasn’t sure how you could doze with so much humidity still thick in the air, but didn’t dare move as you slouched into him. One of your hands also slipped from where you had them crossed lazily over your stomach, the back of it nudging his. The kid even noticed it, tearless eyes glancing down at it then back to his dad.

Part of the Mandalorian wondered if it was purposeful, part of him aware that everyone has some agenda. But as he considered it, the question of what yours could be popped up. He showed up while you were asleep, was a bit difficult, made you trek through a forest at night, and watched as you sat in an unbearably hot room all for a kid that wasn’t even your own. It made something in him swell, something that tasted of hope and left him sweating for all new reasons.

His fingers, now barren, nudged yours ever so slightly, aware of how they twitched minimally with sleep. And it was if the kid himself willed it so, because the Mandalorian found himself intertwining his hand with yours, relishing in the warmth of another he rarely got. And sure it was uncomfortable, both your palms clammy, but you sighed damn near dreamily against him, fingers curling into his.

It came out of nowhere he thought again.

Not just the sickness, but the kid, the life he was now leading, the person he had become, the people he'd met.

It, everything, you...it all just came out of nowhere.

[thelordofdarkreunion]

The Great Game

This is kind of a sequel to “Man Behind the Curtain” and prequel to “The Misty Planet.”  I decided to write a bit of an explanation story for some of the things that are going on, and some of the things that are about to happen.  Be aware, that I have not written every player of the Great Game into this story, and I probably forgot a couple that I’ll add if I ever write another story like this.  None of these characters are mine.  Enjoy!

“There is no death.  There is nothing to keep us in check… except each other.  We are what you would call gods, and this is the eternal game for absolute dominion over all.  Now, there are new players to be dealt in.  Welcome to the Great Game, my enemy.  Our journey has just begun.”

It was empty blackness.  Nothingness.  But yet, it was something.  Something different… something that mortals could not comprehend.  It was utterly anathema to all normal senses, to Euclidean geometry, to the laws of time, space, and reality themselves.  It was completely indescribable, except to the players themselves.  But, to a mortal, it might be described as something like this:

Beings, sitting around a massive table.  

There were a lot of newcomers this time.  They were attracted by this… the Great Game.  The game of gods, all vying for power over each other.  Originally, there had been three players.  The three original Dark Gods of Chaos, all battling for cosmic supremacy between each other.  Then, a fourth was born.  But with the fourth came someone else: the Anathema.  The End of Chaos.  The Supreme Ruler of Mankind.  The King of all Human Kings.  

It was then that the Great Game got a lot more interesting.  At last, the Dark Gods had an opponent different from themselves.  The Emperor of Mankind wished for His species to thrive, and wanted to impose His order throughout the stars.  The Dark Gods disagreed.  The Primarchs, genetically crafted sons of the Emperor, were corrupted.  The Emperor was mortally wounded, and his physical form confined to the Golden Throne of Terra.  But He still fought ever onwards against Chaos for the protection of His race.  The game continued, uninterrupted, for ten thousand years since then.  

Then, through a series of completely random circumstances that none of them saw coming, eight other universes were thrown in with theirs.  Some of them did not have gods in any sense, but many did, which brings us to the present setting.  

If it could be described, the table would have been utterly massive to accommodate the bulk of many of the players.  They were gods, after all, and most liked to make their forms as big as possible.  On the table were layers upon layers of… things.  Layers upon layers of images of planets, galaxies, people and creatures all flashed past.  Each individual god had their own “color” if it could be described as such.  Each of the holdings, or pieces in the Game, were tinged with the color of the god they belonged to.  Gods moved individuals as they saw fit, for the lives of mortals were simply pieces on their chessboard. 

The figure of the Shadow Broker, tinged with the cerulean blue of Tzeentch, died as his broken figure was gunned down by his own guards.  The ever-changing, utterly unknowable form of Tzeentch flashed a thousand different emotions at once.  

“Well then.  There goes one strand of fate.  A pity he did not succeed.”  Tzeentch leered at its fellow players.  “It does not matter in the end, though.  Or does it?  One really can never tell.”  A bird-like face formed on the mass the was Tzeentch, followed by a tentacle-like arm that scratched it thoughtfully in a very mortal fashion.  “I’m still wondering whether to leave this strand alone, or continue to spread my… taint to this galaxy.”  Tzeentch grinned over to the Emperor of Man.  “Is that not what your followers call it?”  The figure opposite Tzeentch scowled.  

“Because that’s what it is.  You Dark Gods have meddled in the affairs of mortals for far too long.”  The Emperor was clad in ornamented golden armor, with the symbols of His rein etched into the surface.  His features were those of a man born in the wilds of ancient eurasia, in the very first human civilization.  His skin was a blend of bronze and burnt umber, and glowed with the golden radiance that seemed to swirl around His person.  His hair was shoulder length and solid black, held in place by a golden laurel wreath.  But it was the eyes that betrayed his true power.  They glowed solid gold, with endless depths promising eternal vengeance against the enemies of humanity.  Golden electricity crackled around His eyes and face as he stroked his chin, considering His moves.  He turned to his left and right.  “What do you think?”  

The slim figure to the Emperor’s right shrugged.  

“I’m not really sure.”  This figure had short cut black hair, and took the form of a human man wearing the uniform of the United Federation of Planets’ Starfleet.  He gave a quick grin.  “Although, this group that unknowingly defeated Tzeentch’s opening move shows a lot of promise.”    The enigmatic figure of Q gave a mischievous smile once again.  “Yes… they show promise.”

“The balance of fate may hang on their shoulders,” replied the figure to the Emperor’s right.  He took the form of a human man, a very familiar one to many people.  He had a shock of blond hair beneath a pale face.  An eyepatch covered one eye, while the other glowed green.  Deus, or the one who had been tasked to play the Game, wore the form of Admiral Adam Vir.  

“Be a shame if they were… corrupted.”  The voice that spoke was so completely, utterly perfect in every regard that mortals quite literally would have died at its sound.  Another figure, glowing with pink and white light, sat opposite the human gods and next to Tzeentch.  Its form, just like its voice, was entirely perfect, combining the best features of a thousand different races into one.  However, there was something wrong, deep down, with it.  Many of the less powerful gods, and certainly any mortal, would feel the urge to vomit at its sight.  To look upon it was to die.  This was Slaanesh, Dark God of pain, pleasure, and unimaginable excess of the senses.  

“Yessssss.  Corruption, though, exists in many forms.”  This voice was a deep baritone, filled with phlegm and rasping coughs.  The form of the god was massive and bloated with oozing boils and rotting skin.  Organs spilled out from the bulk, and necrotic flaps of flesh covered it.  Nurgle, Lord of Pestilence and Decay considered the board.  “And if they are to be corrupted, then it will be my corruption to take ahold of them.  Not yours, Slaanesh.”  

“And how do you know it will be any of your corruption to reach them?” asked another voice.  This one was deep, growly, and distinctly human.  It had the sort of dark edge to it that made one instantly wary around it’s user.  The user himself was wearing heavy black hooded robes and gloves, and considered his moves carefully from behind his dark hood.  

“You’re not even a god, Tenebrae,” boomed another voice.  This one swirled with untamed power, and hissed with darkness.  A shifting mass of darkness, convoluted into a humanoid head, stared with glowing purple eyes.  

“Yes, and no,” replied Tenebrae.  “I am not a god, though I should have been.  But it matters little.  In the end, I, and I alone, am the Dark Side of the Force.”  Tenebrae paused for a moment.  “Plus, you, Dormammu, lost to a mortal.  Stephen Strange, if I remember correctly.”  This was said with a malicious grin.  

“So did you!” raged back Dormammu.  “Revan and the Hero of Tython.”  Tenebrae scoffed.

“I defeated Revan and bound him to my will.  I controlled him once, and tricked him twice.  He is nothing by a piece under my possession.  And in the end, my defeat did not matter.  I am still at this table, am I not?”  Out of the corner of his eye, the Emperor watched Tzeentch discretely move another pawn.

“Enough of this bickering.  No one will be corrupting them,” He announced.  

“Indeed,” remarked Deus.  “Now, my move.”  A misty red planet came in front of him, and he moved a white orb from one place to another.  “This shall ensure that.”  Deus smiled.  “No corruption today, I’m afraid.  They are already earmarked as our champions.”  He looked over to Q.  

“Shall I touch yours?  Just in case?”  

“Eh.  Why not.  Can’t hurt,” replied Q.  

“And yours, Revelation?” Deus asked of the Emperor. 

“No,” replied the Emperor.  “He is already marked by me.  No other power shall touch him.”  The gods of humanity made their move.  

I will be out with the direct sequel to “The Misty Planet” ASAP.  As always, if you have any questions, comments, concerns, criticisms, or requests, feel free to ask!

[gothamstreetcat]

I’ll Show You How to Keep Warm  ★  For my friend, Sophie @selinaakyle

It was close to twelve in the morning by the time the rain started to slow. The sky still heavy with water swelling in the gutters of Chicago's city streets. The tall buildings were just starting to become a bit more visible from above, and the haze of people’s faces became more to resemble faces rather than blurs. Regardless, they were strangers and the only familiar surrounding being the heavy, wet stench in the air reminding them of home. 

They were already soaked.

Bruce and Selina sat hunched together under the bus shuttle while the rain patted against its rusted metal frame and water ran down the plexiglass sides like teardrops. The neon blue light pulsating above them signed: ‘Bus.’ The sound emitting from its twisted frame, turned from a sizzling hum to a crackling pop. It was a ‘not so stable roof above their heads’ but a roof all the same. Even when the wind howled against them causing the structure to groan, it was keeping them from getting increasingly wet in spite of leaving them exposed to the cold. 

They were thankful, even as their new squat sat halfway across the city, still. Selina had just enough time to pull them under safety before it really started to pour. Pulling Bruce tightly by the cuff of his now ragged jacket so he didn’t slip and fall; becoming a victim of strangers’ shoes she was sure would walk right over him. Now, they sat shivering and starving like hairless cats abandoned alone on a frozen winter’s night. Ignored and stepped around by the passing patrons struggling in the wet slush and ice, slipping and sliding themselves on the sidewalk as they tried to gain their footing. Painting their fancy shoes and over expensive trousers in the dirty white snow. Bruce and Selina would have laughed under different circumstances. 

Yet,  they were both too weak to move. 

Selina closed her eyes together. Visualizing the hopeful image of herself sinking into the clawfoot tub by the time the sun came up. Hot water and steam filling her nostrils, the warm bath healing her skin instantly. Maybe she’d dig her fingers into the stash of floral-scented soaps and body rinses that their unknowing tenants left out. Just a little, she thought. Even if the smell bothered her, she would be clean. She would feel clean. Despite being familiar with the grime and dirt that caked under her nails and hung over her clothes, there was nothing in the world like being clean. 

Yet, while Bruce appreciated the privilege of being clean and being able to bathe, he welcomed said dirt. Which made Selina smile ever so little at how being dirty didn't bother him, even if it did evoke her into feeling sorry for him. He felt as though those ‘necessities’ were not as prioritizing as society made them seem. Even the thought of them was exhausting, to say the least. It was as though being dirty comforted him in some peculiar way. Wrapped around him like a child with a blanket in the middle of the night, escaping from their bed to get a glass of water from the kitchen. Selina couldn’t understand if it was his stubbornness for such tasks or his passion for living the way others were forced to live, but somehow beyond logic and reason, slumming it with the poor and unwanted made him feel more at home in the world then he ever did in his manor. 

He was still Bruce, of course. The same good morals, semi-perfect posture, and brain with knowledge beyond any schoolroom, but something inside him appeared to be different somehow. As though he was where he wanted to be and it made him happy. Not regular happiness either. The kind of happiness you feel in your chest and you can’t stop smiling. The kind of joy that makes you wanna lose yourself and do crazy things. Yes, he was still Bruce Wayne, just… another layer of Bruce Wayne. 

Selina sat trying to decode everything with her legs swinging along the edge of the bench to keep her body warm. Both her and Bruce’s fingers wound tightly against the damp wood where they would soon get splinters she was sure. As sure as the known fact that they both desperately needed to escape the cold. 

Bruce was shivering more than her. Even as he tried to keep a dignified composure and act cool, he was far from it. He could barely sit still while almost leaning himself against the sides of the bench. It was clear he was horribly sick in spite of himself denying it to both of them. His nose would run constantly, all the way down his chin. It was unclear to Selina if he noticed it at all or was too weak to do anything about it. He had chills and sweats all through the night. So, when he was cold she threw extra layers over him, everything she could find. When he was hot, she helped strip them all away, sometimes leaving him only in his boxer shorts. Combined with his erratic nightmares, every chance he did manage to fall asleep turned into a recipe for chaos. His body was failing him and one could only imagine his mind was sure to follow. 

The worst part? When he tried to hide it from her. The urge to cough or attempts to take smaller breaths, only to be thwarted into looking physically sick. Selina could hear the mucus and phlegm rattling around in his lungs--even from the other room. At night she would beat on his backside to knock things loose. Leaving him feeling a little better afterwards but it was never enough and he’d still be breathing sick in the morning. He needed a doctor, only he’d refused. The hospital and emergency center met with the same response. He didn’t want to go and risk them being discovered only to be sent back home. Therefore, whatever medicine they found in the apartment they used, however faulty. Tylenol, fever reducer, and cough syrup seemed just enough to keep him breathing but Selina always worried for how long. 

Bruce was tough and a good sport. But regardless, a rich kid like him had no business surviving in a world like hers. Dirty and hungry, while being used as the world’s punching bag. The city viewed them differently no matter how they looked. It was always the same, they were trouble. And while Bruce’s skin may have been tough enough on the outside to handle all the foul language and physical abuse thrown his way, his body was simply unable to handle the conditions. 

One instance, Selina remembered, it was freezing in the middle of winter. She was rather desperate and Ivy was terribly sick. Just like Bruce and wearing her usual three sweaters over a long-sleeved shirt. Her stockings frayed from months of wear under a skirt that no longer went past her legs. She was the thinnest weight Selina had ever seen and fading quickly, even as no hospital would take her or even look at her for such a matter. So Selina, in all her amateur bit of wisdom and quick wit decided to take Ivy down to the pharmacy on the corner. There, Selina snuck behind the restricted area while the night serviceman was sleeping on duty, snatching a couple pill bottles at random. She made Ivy swallow them all so she could call for an ambulance and they had to admit her. A couple weeks following and they were reunited once again, with Ivy turning up again in the same part of town carrying a few more pounds on her. 

A chill ran its way through Selina’s shoulders as she imagined Ivy’s potential state in her absence. Hopefully, she got together with the stoner, hippy kids from The Flea and boarded a city bus leaving Gotham. Besides, she couldn’t help Ivy from so far away anymore. She had another little stray under her wing now to keep alive. 

When she glanced in Bruce’s direction she noticed his nose was starting to run except this time it ran blood instead of snot. A nice crimson trail clearly seen even in the dim street lights. Tenderly, she tucked her thumb into her hood sleeve and reached between the small distance separating them. Her thumb caught the blood just before it reached his lower lip and she swiped upward to wipe it away. She pressed the finger against his nose while her other hand snuck over the back of his neck where she cradled his head against her fingers. His head came back with ease but it was his body that became the trouble. As if her slight touch made him feel colder somehow. He struggled to breathe as mucus clogged his lungs and for a second he considered if what he was experiencing was the feeling of death. Choking on one's own blood. Drowning perhaps? 

Where the city became the ocean and the rain transformed into the water and waves. Pushing… pulling him down further deep into the dark abyss. His fingers reaching for the surface if there was a surface to reach for at all. If he was able to move his fingers even slightly, but they were frozen. His skin was coated in a thin layer of ice. His cheeks, nose, and even his toes curled under two pairs of socks and a pair of decently worn boots frozen as well. 

A low moan escaped his throat. Soothing and soft, Selina couldn’t help when her lips turned into a quirky half-smile. He couldn’t hear himself but he felt the noise deep in his throat as Selina was starting to tickle her fingers through his hair. It was exceedingly comforting, how soft and slow she could be. How gentle just by barely touching him. Caressing the wet locks peeking from underneath the hat on his head, soaked exactly as the rest of him. He relaxed more on the bench and before he knew it his eyes were closed deeply, his head resting on top of Selina’s lap. She continued running her fingers in his hair, removing his soaked cap and brushing his hair back, combing through it with overgrown nails. His feet and legs were now resting on the other end of the bench as he curled himself into her.

Now, in a moment of vulnerability, Selina reached a hand over his torso. His ribs, she could feel were molding to his skin beneath his clothes. He was almost as bad as herself during her first days on the street. Feeling her touch he leaned up as much as he could to look into her eyes, as if asking if he was alright and if she was too. She could only manage a small smile to him. She wasn’t going to lie and say everything was okay. Instead, she combed two hands through his hair and he settled against her again. 

Selina let him lay there for quite some time before pulling him upward and resting him along her shoulder. Among the chatter of passers-by, the rain, and the cars he couldn’t hear her even though he knew she was speaking to him. Something regarding how the rain was sure to stop soon, but it didn’t bother him to be stuck in a smelly bus shuttle because of the rain. It didn’t worry him how sick he’d increasingly become or the knowledge that he’d only get worse. He was with Selina. Kind, gentle, and loving Selina. Someone who aided in the passion he was pursuing. Who could say if they were to die they’d suffer a better fate then he? 

Then he realized the cold in his fingers had somehow melted away. His skin had begun stinging and throbbing a little. When he opened his eyes, he saw Selina’s emerald irises closed off to him. His hands over her mouth and her fingers cupped gently around them. She was breathing into his palms slowly. He blinked while each breath of hers’ restored feeling into each of his fingers. The ice melting away into water pooling into his palms.  He tried to say ‘thank you’ above the noise but he knew Selina was unable to hear him and even the silent mouthing of his words were not enough. So he carefully traded his hands for hers, cupping them along his cheeks as she had done, breathing as deep as he could. Like his, her hands were frozen, and he had to pause every now and again through his coughing fits, but she let him warm her. 

Soon enough, however, his hands were starting to tremble again. Quickly, Selina released herself with ease and pulled him close beside her. Even with the rain and being soaked through their clothes, their combined body heat didn’t seem enough to sustain them. At least it was something.

One arm clung tightly around Bruce, Selina reached her free hand to the pocket just above her thigh. Her fingers brushing along the quarter-sized dent she’d been holding onto for days, checking several times a day just to be sure she hadn’t lost it.  

She was saving it, as Christmas was coming soon if it had not already passed them by. The lights hung around the streets on lamp posts and street signs were an indication. Shop windows were even painted in bright colors and markings that read: ‘Sale.’ People even found it in themselves to be just a bit nicer to them when they were walking down the street. Waitresses would give them coffee and sometimes a plate of food. The bus would let them ride for free and occasionally ride them till the night was over and the day had just begun. It felt strange to be so far from home in a place where they were the stranges, and during a time like Christmas. Even though it wasn’t Selina’s first time without a family, a tree, or even the stupidest little hand-wrapped gift, she felt a painful knot in her stomach from the guilt of leaving everything behind and taking Bruce with her. The coin in her pocket provided a bit of relief. Bruce could call home and speak to Alfred. Maybe even Jim Gordon if it suited him. She whispered, quietly promising herself she would make this Christmas mean something, but only when Bruce became better. Then he could make his calls. 

Not only was Bruce enduring his first Christmas away from home. It was his first Christmas without his family too, without his mom and dad with presents over a warm fire and the overall atmosphere of ‘family.’ Again, Selina’s gut twisted inside her with guilt. Before they stumbled upon their temporary home, they were unapologetically sleeping in the bathrooms of subway stations. Surviving off the trays of ‘free samples’ muffins and cookies from restaurants. Long days spent in the cold exerting energy they didn’t have before ducking into a 24-hour diner for relief. Sucking down shitty coffee in cracked mugs using the last couple dollars Selina had crumpled in the bottom of her pocket. It wasn’t ideal, surely, but Bruce never once complained. He always smiled and pushed his half-eaten crumbs in her direction as they laughed by the window, long before he was ever sick. 

It became clear how it didn’t matter where he was or what he was doing. Bruce was happy with the person he was with. Even if it was only the two of them leaning themselves heavily against some random bench in some faraway city, Bruce with his head resting against Selina’s shoulder and Selina with her head bobbing back and forth along the plastic walls of the shuttle. Her eyes nodding heavily as she tried to fight sleep. 

By the time they opened again, she came to realize she’d been asleep for a long while. The rain was gone completely, now replaced with a light snowfall as tiny flakes were cascading down around them. It was beautiful from the rooftops, Selina knew. Yet just as pretty watching from below but looking up instead. The way the snow hit her face caused her mouth to curl from the sides for the third time that morning.

She shifted and jabbed two fingers into Bruce’s chest. Pointing upward so he could see it for himself. He tried smiling but was too weak. However, all the joy and wonder in that moment of looking over the sky she was seeing in his eyes. Always a first look type of gaze as if he was seeing things for the first time. Selina knew because he had once looked at her the same way too. 

He struggled to get himself into a sitting position beside her. Wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket as another chill ran through him. Breathing in snot he coughed again and again until the rattling in his chest subsided. He then looked to the tops of the skyscrapers where he could see the flurry already beginning to accumulate on the window panes and roof. Perhaps it was his sickness tricking him, but each snowflake looked like stars falling from the sky, every one of them something to wish upon. 

He shifted instead, losing focus as Selina threw her jacket loose over his shoulders as she helped straighten him to his feet. His legs quivered under his weight but he felt safe knowing Selina was there to hold him steady. The Chicago crowd was long gone by the hour, having left something for Bruce and Selina to find their way home with. Their footprints, a mess in the pavement and embedded in the snow that looked almost blue. It was something they could use to find their way home. Together, they hobbled out of the shuttle, each of their arms swung around one another in a protective embrace. They walked slowly in the direction of the City’s lights, being touched by every shooting star as they passed.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Pluralistic: 12 Mar 2020 (No health care for part-time TSA screeners, Akil Augustine on Radicalized, Wendell Potter rebuts Joe Biden, best Covid-19 explainer, Boeing's self-inflicted wounds, EU Right to Repair, virtual classrooms)

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@doctorow

Pluralistic: 12 Mar 2020

TSA boss doubles down on taking away health care from part-time screeners: They're touching your junk with diseased hands.

Akil Augustine on Radicalized: My book's Canada Reads champion lays out the case for Radicalized.

A former top Cigna exec rebuts Joe Biden's healthcare FUD: Wendell Potter is the prodigal corporate villain.

Ars Technica's Covid-19 explainer is the best resource on the pandemic: Beth Mole has outdone herself.

Boeing is even worse at financial engineering than they are at aircraft engineering: The $43B they incinerated through stock buybacks would sure come in handy about now.

Senate Republicans kill emergency sick leave during pandemic: Sick leave is cheaper than pandemics, but pandemics generate cost-plus contracts for the donor class.

The EU's new Right to Repair rules finally come for electronics: Snoods cocked at Apple and other US Big Tech monopolists.

How to run a virtual classroom: Masterclass from the 14-year-old Stanford Online High School.

This day in history: 2010, 2015, 2019

Colophon: Recent publications, current writing projects, upcoming appearances, current reading

TSA boss doubles down on taking away health care from part-time screeners (permalink)

TSA agents handles the personal belongings and touch the bodies of millions of fliers. Part time agents don't get health-insurance. If they think they might have Covid-19, they might not be able to afford to seek care.

https://www.cnn.com/2020/03/11/politics/tsa-health-care-part-time/index.html

TSA chief David Pekoske told Congress that the Trump administration's decision to take away health-care from part time TSA employees was a good one: "I have no intention of restoring health care coverage for part-time workers. I think that was a good decision."

About 100 TSA agents have been sent home after it was believed they came into contact with Covid-19. The TSA will not try to track down passengers who also might have come into contact with sick people.

Akil Augustine on Radicalized (permalink)

My book Radicalized is a finalist for the Canada Reads national book prize. Each of the five finalists is defended by a Canadian celeb: my champion is the amazing and articulate Akil Augustine.

Akil just appeared on the @CBC's Canada Reads podcast to give us a preview of his defense, which he will field during several nights of nationally televised debates next week.

http://www.cbc.ca/player/play/1708600899815/

He did an OUTSTANDING job! Here's the MP3:

https://cbc.mc.tritondigital.com/CBC_CNDAREADS_P/media/cndareads-3NLwEPaV-20200309.mp3

A former top Cigna exec rebuts Joe Biden's healthcare FUD (permalink)

In a recent and important essay, Maria Farrell wrote about the road-to-Damascus conversions that ex-techies are having in which they recant the damaging product design work they did and begin to campaign against their former employers.

https://conversationalist.org/2020/03/05/the-prodigal-techbro/

Farrell noted that these techies had missed an important step in their transformation from venal attention mercenaries to noble attention freedom-fighters: they had yet to hit bottom, to truly repent their earlier sins.

They skipped like stones over the waters of privilege, and never sank, unlike so many of their victims.

Contrast those journeys with that of Wendell Potter, the former Cigna exec turned whistleblower, who has devoted decades of his life to revealing dirty tricks and lies. Potter campaigns tirelessly – and shrewdly – for Medicare for All, and is always at pains to point out that the anti-M4A talking points his adversaries parrots were all developed by him, when he was on the wrong side of history.

Take this thread, rebutting Joe Biden's FUD about M4A, delivered in the midst of a pandemic that has been worsened by the 77 million un- and underinsured people who can't get care or screening and disproportionately work in food-service and cleaning.

https://twitter.com/wendellpotter/status/1237438497218105344

As Potter points out, Biden's assertion that M4A costs $35T is just a lie. Once you factor in the savings of not paying for private healthcare, M4A SAVES at least $450B/year.

https://www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736(19)33019-3/fulltext

Biden's plan to cap premiums on a public option at 8.5% of your income is more than double what M4A would cost you. The corporate plans Biden lionizes shackle good workers to bad employers, and put millions at risk of having their care arbitrarily withdrawn or limited. And, of course, private care doesn't cover much. Surprise bills, deductibles, co-pays, out-of-pockets… Our plan – a blue-chip employer's top-of-the-line Cigna plan – costs us $24K/year.

We're rationing our family's health care because in addition to the $20K/year we're paying out of pocket, Cigna refused to cover a pain procedure that my doc – the most-cited pain doc working in California, who runs a major university pain clinic – says I would benefit from. That procedure might let me get a good night's sleep for the first time in 15 years and allow me to live a more normal, pain-free life. But because Cigna won't cover it, it would cost $55K, which we do not have. So I'm foregoing it.

Ars Technica's Covid-19 explainer is the best resource on the pandemic (permalink)

I've been reading Beth Mole's outstanding science journalism for many years and I've always admired it, but even by the high standards of a Beth Mole explainer, this soup-to-nuts Covid-19 explainer is just spectacularly good work.

https://arstechnica.com/science/2020/03/dont-panic-the-comprehensive-ars-technica-guide-to-the-coronavirus/

Mole's calm and comprehensive coverage relies on the most reliable sources and turns the results of our best evidence-based studies into a coherent narrative, from the disease's origins to its spread to its symptoms to its resolution.

Just this symptom-by-symptom breakdown was enormously informative and filled in a huge gap that I had previously mentally signposted as "flu-like".

According to data from nearly 56,000 laboratory-confirmed COVID-19 patients in China, the rundown of common symptoms went as follows:

88 percent had a fever

68 percent had a dry cough

38 percent had fatigue

33 percent coughed up phlegm

19 percent had shortness of breath

15 percent had joint or muscle pain

14 percent had a sore throat

14 percent headache

11 percent had chills

5 percent had nausea or vomiting

5 percent had nasal congestion

4 percent had diarrhea

Less than one percent coughed up blood or blood-stained mucus

Less than one percent had watery eyes

The sections on transmission, self-protection, and care during a social distancing lockdown or quarantine are likewise levelheaded, clear and informative.

This is a tab you should just keep open in your browser, IOW. Mole's updating frequently, too.

Boeing is even worse at financial engineering than they are at aircraft engineering (permalink)

Boeing is experiencing a potentially terminal slump. Between losses due to its 737 Max scandal (a self-inflicted injury), and the dropoff in travel during the pandemic, it has had to draw down its entire line of credit and institute a hiring freeze.

https://wolfstreet.com/2020/03/11/boeing-crashes-as-43-billion-in-past-share-buybacks-turn-into-existential-threat

Obviously, Boeing can't be blamed for the pandemic.

But you know what is absolutely the company's fault? Its financial engineering.

Since 2013, Boeing squandered $43 billion on stock buybacks, whose sole purpose was to goose its share-price.

As Wolf Richter writes, Boeing, this "master of financial engineering – instead of aircraft engineering – blew, wasted, and incinerated $43.4 billion on buying back its own shares."

The company just had to borrow $13.825B. Its shares are down 46% since March 2019.

The entire company – a jewel of American industry – might not survive, because it focused on short-term enrichment of shareholders, rather than safe aircraft or financial prudence.

Reality has a well-known anti-capitalist bias, part MMMLVII.

Senate Republicans kill emergency sick leave during pandemic (permalink)

Senate Republicans have killed emergency sick leave legislation, a move that will force millions of low-waged cleaning and food-service workers to choose between homelessness and potentially spreading Covid-19.

https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/us-politics/coronavirus-paid-sick-leave-us-republicans-block-senate-bill-new-york-washington-a9395821.htm

The GOP says that paid sick leave will endanger the fragile bottom lines of employers and also that the feds have no money to pay for such a thing – despite finding it easy to blow $2.3 trillion on tax-cuts for the super-rich.

https://www.politico.com/story/2018/02/28/tax-cuts-trump-gop-analysis-430781

They also found $20 BILLION in the senate's sofa cushions to give to the Pentagon, an agency whose auditor found more than a trillion dollars in off-the-books transactions in its financial records.

https://www.defensenews.com/congress/2019/12/19/pentagon-finally-gets-its-2020-budget-from-congress/

Refusing to help poor Americans stay fed and sheltered isn't just cruel, it's lethally reckless, and it demonstrates the moral hazard of oligarchic capitalism. Subsidizing sick-leave would merely afford survival to millions of Americans, after all.

Whereas the crisis that this will produce – a pandemic that is made worse and longer – will cost billions more, but that money will go to the donor-class, the Beltway Bandits whose cost-plus, no-bid contracts will transfer even more money from the poor to the wealthy.

It's disaster capitalism at its worst. The Senate GOP is dooming you and everyone you love to the risk of disease and death because preventing that risk would help millions of poor people, whereas creating the risk helps a handful of ultrarich people.

The EU's new Right to Repair rules finally come for electronics (permalink)

The EU Commission's latest "Circular Economy Action Plan" has enormous significance for Right to Repair and electronics.

https://ec.europa.eu/environment/circular-economy/pdf/new_circular_economy_action_plan.pdf

In addition to a host of eminently sensible, long overdue measures (bans on single use items and the destruction of unsold goods), there's a renewed emphasis on electronics, through the "Circular Electronics Initiative".

https://techcrunch.com/2020/03/11/european-lawmakers-propose-a-right-to-repair-for-mobiles-and-laptops/

The initiative mandates that components be reusable, repairable, and upgradable, and requires long-term software support to keep IoT devices useful for longer. These mandates – also long overdue – show that the EU is finally willing to ignore the priorities of Apple and other US Big Tech companies in favour of Europeans' rights to the long-term enjoyment of their property and the right not to drown in e-waste).

https://pluralistic.net/2020/03/08/ghost-flights/#eurighttorepair

How to run a virtual classroom (permalink)

For 14 years, Stanford Online High School has been running fully virtual classrooms, with continuous, ongoing improvements in their tech and methods. They've just published a new guide to "the essential steps for preparing to teach online in a short period of time." They're also conducting a series of webinars on the subject.

https://ohs.stanford.edu/how

(I just realized that I've got a decade-old mail rule that autodeletes anything containing the word "webinar" that I probably need to turn off now that the term is being used by people other than hustling spammy grifters)

This day in history (permalink)

#10yrsago Leaked UK record industry memo sets out plans for breaking copyright https://craphound.com/BPDigitalEconomyBillweeklyminutes.pdf

#5yrsago Portland cops charge homeless woman with theft for charging her phone https://news.streetroots.org/2015/03/06/homeless-phone-charging-thief-wanted-security

#5yrsago How Harper's "anti-terror" bill ends privacy in Canada http://www.michaelgeist.ca/2015/03/why-the-anti-terrorism-bill-is-really-an-anti-privacy-bill-bill-c-51s-evisceration-of-government-privacy/

#5yrsago RIP, Terry Pratchett https://web.archive.org/web/20150312202353/http://www.pjsmprints.com/

#1yrago Security researcher reveals grotesque vulnerabilities in "Yelp-for-MAGA" app and its snowflake owner calls in the FBI

Colophon (permalink)

Today's top sources: Slashdot (https://slashdot.org), Naked Capitalism (https://nakedcapitalism.com/).

Hugo nominators! My story "Unauthorized Bread" is eligible in the Novella category and you can read it free on Ars Technica: https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2020/01/unauthorized-bread-a-near-future-tale-of-refugees-and-sinister-iot-appliances/

Upcoming appearances:

Museums and the Web: March 31-April 4 2020, Los Angeles. https://mw20.museweb.net/

Currently writing: I'm rewriting a short story, "The Canadian Miracle," for MIT Tech Review. It's a story set in the world of my next novel, "The Lost Cause," a post-GND novel about truth and reconciliation. I'm also working on "Baby Twitter," a piece of design fiction also set in The Lost Cause's prehistory, for a British think-tank. I'm getting geared up to start work on the novel afterwards.

Currently reading: Just started Lauren Beukes's forthcoming Afterland: it's Y the Last Man plus plus, and two chapters in, it's amazeballs. Last month, I finished Andrea Bernstein's "American Oligarchs"; it's a magnificent history of the Kushner and Trump families, showing how they cheated, stole and lied their way into power. I'm getting really into Anna Weiner's memoir about tech, "Uncanny Valley." I just loaded Matt Stoller's "Goliath" onto my underwater MP3 player and I'm listening to it as I swim laps.

Latest podcast: A Lever Without a Fulcrum Is Just a Stick https://archive.org/download/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_330/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_330_-_A_Lever_Without_a_Fulcrum_Is_Just_a_Stick.mp3

Upcoming books: "Poesy the Monster Slayer" (Jul 2020), a picture book about monsters, bedtime, gender, and kicking ass. Pre-order here: https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781626723627?utm_source=socialmedia&utm_medium=socialpost&utm_term=na-poesycorypreorder&utm_content=na-preorder-buynow&utm_campaign=9781626723627

(we're having a launch for it in Burbank on July 11 at Dark Delicacies and you can get me AND Poesy to sign it and Dark Del will ship it to the monster kids in your life in time for the release date).

"Attack Surface": The third Little Brother book, Oct 20, 2020.

"Little Brother/Homeland": A reissue omnibus edition with a very special, s00per s33kr1t intro.

[xsteriism]

I Got You!

by celestial-irondad

1, 612 words

again, i should be studying but i—

found this on pinterest, but credit goes to @anna.pellizzari on instagram :)

bio!dad tony, so :)

warning: panic attacks, depression (?), suicide attempt

also: tony has a metal arm

for @sbiderman-ironcan, your angst and fluff. also, i know you said a lot of fluff, but this turned out more angsty than fluff, so i’m sorry in advance

——

After Peter came back from his trip to Europe, he hasn’t been the same. The kid kept looking at him from across the room, and always seemed to relax whenever the older man was around.

At first, Tony chalked it up to him going overseas for the first time without him, but his behaviour was getting worse. Peter would constantly be next to him, and have anxiety attacks when he wasn’t around. It was getting concerning, because he really didn’t want to see his baby to suffer in any way.

He had no idea what happened on his trip, but was aware that his kid had met Fury. Was there something more that he’s not telling him?

——

“Dad,” Peter’s voice cracked as he reached out to him, and Tony’s reminded of when Peter was four, eyes red and face flushed. He remembered his child having a nightmare, and the cuddling afterwards.

Tony tried not to frown down at Peter. “I’m just going to the kitchen to get some snacks, Pete. I’m not leaving.”

“Dad,” his broken voice called out again. “Don’t go.”

And his eyes were glazed over and Tony knew he was having a panic attack. Peter yanked his hand back when Tony grabbed it, screaming and crying. Tears streamed down his face steadily and Tony regretted not having just sat down.

“Baby, I’m here,” Tony whispered, crutching down. He looked up at Peter, who had his hands fisted tightly in his hair, eyes wild and body trembling.

“No, Daddy, don’t go. I’m sorry!”

The genius choked back his own sob. What happened in that trip? How dare Fury mess up his child, his pure and innocent and loving child?

Damn it all, why hadn’t he left New York as soon as he heard some sort of water monster attacked Venice?

Tony placed his hand on Peter’s kneecap, movements slow and tentative to not scare his child. “Hey, baby, I’m here. I didn’t go anywhere.”

“No! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Peter screamed, choking on his sobs, coughing up phlegm. “I promise I’ll do better, dad! Don’t die!”

The billionaire was taken aback. Don’t... die? He knew bringing Peter to the battle field was a bad idea, but was he that affected by his snap? Peter didn’t say anything before that wretched trip to Europe, but after...

Tony made a move to carry Peter, but he backed away, slapping his arms away. “Don’t touch me, Beck! No! I didn’t kill dad!”

Who was Beck?

“Peter,” the engineer’s voice was firm and strong. “Baby, listen to my voice.”

His kid quietened down, eyes still glassy, body shaking. Tony continued. “You’re in New York, Pete. You are home with me, your dad. Who is very much alive.”

Peter’s tight grip on his hair loosened, arms wrapping around his body instead. Tony gently touched Peter’s leg again, relaxing when Peter didn’t scream this time. The rubbed circles into his child’s leg, smiling when Peter calmed down significantly.

“Hi, baby,” Tony smiled, when Peter seemed coherent and conscious enough.

His spider-ling placed his own hand over Tony’s, looking smaller in size. Peter looked at him with wet and red-rimmed eyes, squeezing his hand.

Tony got up, legs protesting and back cracking. “I’m going to carry you now, is that okay, honey?”

Peter’s hair bounced as he nodded, and lifted his arms so that Tony could carry him easily. After the bite, Peter barely even weighed anything anymore, and Tony was sure he had lab equipment heavier than the teen, but carrying him was also easier, so he didn’t complain.

His kid was wrapped tightly around his body, face buried in his neck. The engineer reached his bedroom, deciding that Peter should sleep with him tonight.

——

The first time Tony went up to the rooftop of the tower was because he couldn’t find Peter in his room. It had been a few hours after his bedtime, and when the genius checked in on him, the bed was empty.

So he asked F.R.I.D.A.Y, who told him that his child was on the roof. Tony had rushed up, frantic and desperate. When he saw Peter, eyes blank and feet dangling off the side of the roof, Tony nearly had a heart attack.

“Baby?” He has asked, and Peter seemed to snap out of whatever, looking over to Tony with a small smile.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” Was all he said, as if he didn’t look like he was going to jump. Tony just nodded shakily, yanking Peter over the edge gently, and buried his head in his hair.

He ordered F.R.I.D.A.Y to alert him whenever Peter went on the rooftop after that.

Tony was in the lab when his A.I told him, calmly, that Peter was on the rooftop again. He hit his head in his haste to get to his child, not bothering to clean up his mess properly.

He reached the rooftop too late, a second after watching Peter fall with his own two eyes.

The genius screamed, slamming his hand over his arc reactor, not waiting for the armour to properly encase him before he was diving after his child. Peter was out of it as Tony shouted at F.R.I.D.A.Y to increase thruster speed, only snapping out of it when Tony shouted, “I got you!”

Fear filled Peter’s eyes, as if Tony hadn’t just seen his own flesh and blood jump off a skyscraper deliberately. “Dad— Dad!”

Tony nodded, feeling the restriction from the helmet. “I got you, baby, I got you!”

He caught Peter just in time, the feet of the armour scraping the pavement as Tony flew back up. Peter was shaking in his arms, like he’d woken up from his haze in the middle of the fall. Which, to be fair, was what happened.

Once the father-son pair got settled into the living room of their private floor, Peter burst, crying as he told his father what happened on the trip.

How Quentin Beck used him, manipulated him, tricked him and made him see all those trippy illusions. He told a shocked and angry Tony that Fury had found him in his hotel and demanded he fight those things, even when all the kid wanted to do was to enjoy his trip.

By the end of his recount, Tony was ready to suit up again. He had the fury of a thousand hellhounds, the wrath of a hundred gods.

“I’m going to kill that—”

Peter grabbed his metal arm, the one they built together after Thanos. “It’s okay, dad, I’m okay.”

Tony didn’t really want to leave his child, anyway.

——

The next time Tony sees Fury was during an official Avengers meeting. Fashionably late, tinted glasses and all, Tony strolled up to the director and slapped him. Hard. With his metal arm.

To say the sound was satisfactory was an understatement. Tony wanted more. He wanted to hurt Fury. How dare the pirate hurt his child? He has to pay, and pay he will.

The director glared at Tony with his one eye, while the rest of the room gasped in shock. “What the hell, Stark?”

“Touch my kid again, and we’re gonna have problems,” Tony growled, eyes narrowed, flashing behind orange tinted glasses.

“Tony? You’re alive?” Steve asked, confused and a little scared.

Okay, so maybe Tony forgot to tell the other Avengers that he was alive after the snap, but could anyone blame him? He got to live in peace without having to worry about being called in to save the world, or to fix weaponry, or to invent something new.

He could just be a stay-at-home dad, caring for Peter and Morgan. What else could he want? Money wasn’t an issue, and he was surrounded by the people he loved.

“You have a metal arm.”

It was Bucky’s voice that brought Tony out of his head. The soldier sounded like he was in awe, and was blatantly staring at Tony’s arm.

“Peter made it with me,” Tony didn’t know why, but he gave that information up willingly. Maybe because the soldier also had a metal arm, or because Tony didn’t mind him.

Fury, on the other hand, seemed furious. “You were alive this whole time— and you didn’t bother to even tell us? We were told you were dead! Even had a funeral and everything.”

Tony snickered. “Oh yeah, the funeral was fun, Peter was an excellent actor, and Pepper was the best.”

The director with the eye patch looked like he was three seconds from actually murdering Tony this time. The billionaire acted like he didn’t notice, strolling to pull a chair out, sitting down with the grace of a swan and the confidence of a peacock.

——

“So,” Pepper started the moment Tony saw her. “I heard you told them that you’re alive.”

Tony laughed, the sound bright and light. “More like I waltzed in and slapped Fury with this baby,” Tony waved his bionic arm, grinning as he continued. “Then told them I was never dead.”

Pepper gave him what seemed to be a disapproving smile, and Tony immediately dived in to explain himself. “It really wasn’t my fault, I was really going to behave for once and listen to you, but Nick hurt my baby and I couldn’t just—“

Pepper shushed him, giving him an eskimo kiss. “Tony, I know. I’m not mad, you did what you had to do.”

And then, after a hot second— “Did F.R.I.D.A.Y get the footage?”

“Of course, what do you take me for?”

——

[pheenick]

TITLE: quite contrary SUMMARY:

The hand in his own starts to rub circles into the back with a familiar calloused thumb. Surprisingly, Phoenix doesn’t look devastated at all. Simply concerned for Miles’ wellbeing when he's the one in bed with a fever approaching 37.5° and the one who laid himself bare on the pavement.

Or, the soup is definitely expired.

Written for Narumitsu Week 2019, Day 7: Domestic.

AO3 mirror

There are vegetables bobbing in the soup.

Miles squints. He pokes at them with the spoon and watches as they sink below the surface only to rise up moments later. He supposes that’s fine. Vegetables float, after all. It would be more worrisome if they just sunk to the bottom like stones.

He takes it up to Phoenix, glad he had taken the initiative to purchase a tray and cloche ages ago. At the very least he can bury his shame on the way up the stairs.

“Phoenix,” he calls out from behind the door. His lips twist when he sees that it's open just a touch, allowing him a sliver of vision inside the room even though he knows he had left it closed. There is a telling scuffle and hurried movements against cloth. “I’m coming in,” Miles announces dryly.

He shoulders in, disappointment already applied thickly to his features. The rebellious lump on the mattress lays perfectly still.

Miles sighs. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“I am resting,” comes the muffled response. The lump shudders as Phoenix sneezes, a hand waving out to pluck a tissue from the nightstands. A few moments and balled up sheets tossed away, the snot-ridden face of his partner emerges from the thick wedge of sheets. 

"And now you're eating,” Miles says definitively. He artfully slams the tray on the overbed table.

Phoenix sniffles at him. Were it any other day, Miles might have been merciful. That particular well, however, had dried up sometime between tracking down Justice in the park and the brief but unfortunate wade through the sewers.

Now he just wants to stuff Phoenix full of soup and see the man off to sleep. Hopefully, the sodium-filled concoction will knock the man clean out. There are dark purple rings lining the underneath of Phoenix’s eyes. The bloodshot look and weak limbs. He wants to be rid of all of that and it starts with sleep.

There’s a fair bit of wriggling, but they manage to prop Phoenix up. Miles ignores the sad look and crocodile tears when he does not fluff up the pillows.

“Vegetable soup,” he presents with a flourish.

Phoenix stares at the cubes floating in the murky water. “Uhh,” he says, elongating the noise.

Miles’ cheeks heat up. The mess of red colours his skin in uneven blotches, obvious and thick. Of course, he can’t have everything. There’s no smooth gradient of flushed brown like the heated tones across Phoenix’s cheeks. No, Miles has to suffer the same fate as that sad looking tomato he had to cut up a while ago. That perfect cube shares the same dimensions and sharp cut as the others, but it's still pathetically oversized.

“Eat,” he orders.

Vindication thrums through him when Phoenix laughs only for a sneeze to barge right on through and rip through his chuckles. More sneezes, more violent than the last.

“Thanks for the food,” Phoenix rasps, phlegm stringing his vowels together. He lifts up a chunk, tilting the spoon to see it land back in the soup with a soft sploosh. He grimaces. A myriad of emotions flickers across him then, tugging every which way at the corners of his mouth and wrinkles around his eyes.

"Eat," Miles nearly growls. And then Phoenix does. Every last drop, dutiful under his vigilant eye.

They lay him back down and Miles preens when he tucks Phoenix in, blankets all the way up to the chin. He smooths down the thick duvet, checking the ends to make sure they’re even and the creases at the corners are nicely shaped.

Phoenix watches him. Intently following him around as he cleans up the tray and confiscates the laptop and phone his partner had buried underneath the pillows.

“Yes?” Miles asks, feeling the hairs on his neck stand up. 

There’s silence, for a while. Phoenix searches his face, piercing despite the haze of his fever. Sleep tugs at the edges of his lids and those long lashes brush against skin. Still, he remains laser-focused; utterly dedicated to the task at hand—to finding the truth to a question only he knows about.

Miles used to be afraid of this look. His feet used to turn to stone when those gasoline eyes stared down a witness on the stand. Felt his teeth grit and throat lock tightly when Phoenix looked up at him, hands on the bench and brow drawn taut.

(There are those who can speak for the dead and make the dead speak. Phoenix gives voice to the secrets buried six feet deep. Perhaps that is more terrifying than hearing an old loved one's voice from beyond the veil. At least when a spirit is channelled, the person shifts to match. No such consideration is given here.)

Now, however, Miles can meet that gaze on even ground.

“What is it?” Miles prompts gently.

“Can I ask you something?” Phoenix asks. Miles bites back the sarcastic quip when he hears the grave tone. The exhaustion wearing at the layers, seconds from passing out. 

Miles digs out a hand and interlaces their fingers together after thorough disinfection. “Always,” he says with equal weight. “Always. You can ask me anything.”

“Will you marry me?”

Miles blinks. The air in his throat evaporates. “I’m sorry?” he asks, voice backflipping into the most illegal octave in his range. Miles presses his free hand against Phoenix’s forehead, ignoring the way his heart is hammering against his ribs. “You’ve gone delirious. Maybe we should head over to the ER just to be safe.”

Phoenix is undaunted. He wavers, but that single-minded stubbornness keeps him anchored on this side of consciousness. “I’m not that sick,” he says plainly. Then he coughs for a good three minutes, Miles rubbing into his back. “You know that.”

Miles feels the terror sink in. Phoenix barrels on. “I mean it though. This isn’t the fever talking.” A pause. “Well, not entirely.”

“Oh,” Miles says dumbly. His skin tries to drift away from his bone, but Phoenix squeezes his hand and suddenly he’s being drawn back to earth. Both feet touch down on the plush carpeted floors, silver eyes being searched.

“Oh?”

“I just—” the rest of it gets caught. Miles bites his lip and looks away. The silence lingers for a second longer, stretching and expanding until it's a heavy thing on both their chests. “I didn’t think my soup was that good.”

Phoenix tips his head back and laughs.

“You asshole. I come out here and place my heart in your hands and you just—” Phoenix breaks off, laughing a little more. He settles back into bed, tilting his head to look at Miles a little better. Miles feels a bit faint. Perhaps a little sick himself, stomach turning at the words that Phoenix had the audacity to say.

The hand in his own starts to rub circles into the back with a familiar calloused thumb. Surprisingly, Phoenix doesn’t look devastated at all. Simply concerned for Miles’ wellbeing when he's the one in bed with a fever approaching 37.5° and the one who laid himself bare on the pavement.

Miles can only stare with his jaw hanging open. Briefly, the notion of running away to Germany again trills through his thoughts. To put as much distance as he can between them and come back in a spectacularly dramatic fashion to start over again. To do it right. To do it properly.

The worst part with that thought is that he knows Phoenix would stay. He always does. Always the one to remain and never the one to flee. A lighthouse fashioned upon the rocks, guiding fisherman safely to shore.

(An old conversation, from forever ago: "Come with me." "You know I can't do that.")

There's something to be said about how far they've come. People tend to forget that they've only faced off in court a handful of times. One to three days of intense courtroom drama isn't the best foundation for a relationship, even though they technically started all those years ago in a sunset-walled classroom. There have been less stressful, more emotionally laden conversations in the defendant's lobby, yes, but those were fifteen minutes to the three years Wright had been a lawyer.

Even week-long liaisons in Europe can hardly stack against everything else. 

He’s not sure the few months they’ve put into their new relationship of theirs is enough for this level of commitment to be made. He certainly doesn’t deserve it yet. 

He looks again at Phoenix who’s still watching him, patient and kind. More asleep than awake.

No, definitely not. That man’s been through enough trials with placing his trust in the wrong people from rushing in rather than going through the proper procedures.

"You're thinking a lot this." Soft. Slurring a bit as the veritable oven Phoenix has tucked himself into slowly cooks him alive. Phoenix gives him a little smile that sends his heart racing all over again. 

“Of course I am,” Miles whispers fiercely. “This isn’t something—where did this even come from Phoenix Wright?”

Phoenix shrugs. "I've been meaning to ask you for a while."

Miles’ voice cracks. "You have?"

"Yeah. I didn't think it'd be that surprising."

And it's not, really. There are enough betting pools surrounding the eternal question of will they won't they. It had never been a question of if—only when. Miles has long come to terms with his own feelings and the feelings Phoenix has for him. They're no less novel or surprising every time he's reminded of how Phoenix loves him, but he's stopped running away from that at least.

No, what's really surprising is that it’s Phoenix who had asked. 

"I was expecting something more dramatic," he manages to stammer out. "There's not even one rose petal on this bed, Phoenix. There's no abomination of violins and piano that you dare classify as classical. No dreadfully sentimental outpouring of your heart."

"Oh. Sorry." A yawn, eyelids straining. "Maybe I'll do a proper one later."

Immediately, he is struck by how much he doesn't want a proper one. 

The ring he’s hidden in his Steel Samurai shrine seems like a flimsy plastic thing compared to the half-curve of a smile Phoenix’s face has slouched into. The curated list of restaurants should be burned alongside the suspect cans of soup in the cupboard. He should go out and cancel the plans for the quartet and the park he was going to section off for a special picnic.

He wants to grab those hands and say Yes, kissing his partner, snot and all. 

"Perhaps there is something wrong with me," Miles says instead. He brushes back a few wayward strands, smoothing out the hedgehog’s mess Phoenix likes to call hair. "I've dreamed of this moment for years, you know? I've always imagined it to be perfect. To happen upon a picturesque view after a truly perfect day out with the one I love most."

Soft snores start to fill up the room and Miles feels his heart swell with fondness. "You will never tire from tearing away my flights of fancy, will you? Always having to pull me into the present moment and make life so irresistibly appealing that I can't even bear to imagine it any other way."

He kisses Phoenix's forehead.

"I love you so much. More than you'll ever know, you utterly foolish man."

And he’ll have the rest of their lives to prove it. 

[flyswhumpcenter]

Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me requests according to this marvelous card! (Red cross is the completed prompt, character headshots are prompts I’ve already filled. I don’t have any request left, so feel free to send in suggestions for this card!). 

["Android Girl" in the background intensifies]

I'll most likely sink with this ship, I'm afraid. I therefore makes it my task to bring the ship another sickfic, and even if it's kind of the same as before, it's still different in its own way I think. It's kind of OOC here, this much I'll admit, but I got carried away and couldn't stop. It's been a while since I've allowed myself to go wild and far, so this was a bundle of fun and I hope someone else appreciates it!

yeah boi it's another sylvgrid sickfic what ya gonna do 'bout dat

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Tastes Like Iron

Summary: There is a turning point in Sylvain's life and vision of the world around him. A point that just so happens to take place in the middle of a college corridor.

Fandom: Fire Emblem: Three Houses (Modern AU, pre-timeskip personalities) Ship: Ingrid/Sylvain (pre-relationship)

Wordcount: 2.8K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

----

It’s early in the morning when Ingrid comes up to him, emerald eyes staring right into his soul. She looks angry at him (when isn’t she? She always seems to be angry at him for a reason or the other, this won’t change soon), footsteps heavy in the echoing corridors. It’s not a sight he hasn’t seen before, frankly: they’ve been like this since they were children, only their appearance and buildings around them changing over the time.

It’s a dynamic that feels comfortable, though, so Sylvain is starting to wonder if he isn’t feeling better with this company around. This is a real paradox in itself: who likes to get scolded?

 He’s on his way to class when she bumps into him directly, as she always does to convey her words to him. She takes his scarf in her hand, gets his face nearer to hers (it’s kind of awkward, but he likes it), fury raging in her stare.

“Hello, Sylvain.”

Yet, her frowned eyebrows aren’t of anger, or at least, not as much as one would have thought would they not know Ingrid personally. However, Sylvain knows better than that, knows her better than he’d let on; and guesses this isn’t just going to be about skirt-chasing tendencies he’s trying to keep in check anyway.

Blame it on the butterflies.

 “Oh, hi, Ing,” he tells her as he musters the best grin he can give her right now. “What’s up?”

He keeps a coughing fit in as not to prove the point she’ll inevitably present him with.

“Well, I’d like to know what’s up with you, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t see what you’re talking about,” that fit escapes from his throat anyway. A few passers-by stare at them, but Ingrid seem not to give a single damn about that, so he focuses back on her.

“This. You absolutely know what I’m referring to, Sylvain. Quit granting me for dumb.”

Well, what can he reply to that? She’s already had him figured out, as she’s always done. This is getting tough, but he’s always liked having a challenge, hasn’t he?

“What’s ‘this’, huh? I’m afraid I don’t understand!” But he coughs again and his head feels stuffed, heavy on his shoulders, and he can only hope he’s doing a decent job at hiding how it really is on the inside.

“Stop taking me for a fool.”

 He may have known her since they were children, but that doesn’t prevent Ingrid from surprising him and play him like a fiddle. It’s something she has that people who have tried dating him for his heritage doesn’t have: honesty, frankness, an insight into who he is aside from his surname. There’s no point wallowing in that misery, because he knows where he’s going to end up anyway, and spending time with his childhood friend is worth more than what his family wants him to be.

And it’s because Ingrid has known him since she was a little girl that she does the thing nobody would have in the middle of a corridor like that: put the back of her hand on his forehead, keeping his weight in balance as her frown deepens. He’s spotted for sure.

 “Have you still not seen a doctor, Sylvain?! Take your health more seriously than that, you’re going to infect everybody in the school!”

The way she says his name with heavy insistence, a manner unique to her shall he add, as if she was putting a seal on it to enforce her speech, hurts in a strange, agreeable way.

“I thought you’d be the kind to scold me for not attending class.”

“Urgh, don’t try and smooth-talk me out of this! Go back home before you get someone else sick!”

He shrugs.

“If you insist then…!”

 Without a forewarning, his focus having shifted from retaining the cough in to sounding convincing in his, a fit breaks out in his throat, making its way outside, as he finally stumbles out of her grasp. His body falls forward, hands almost failing to catch him before he can entirely meet the floor. It hurts deeply and seemingly doesn’t stop, until he feels something in there wanting to exit.

Kneeling in the middle of a corridor, Ingrid’s hands wrapped around his chest, he puts a hand against his mouth as the trembles racking his chest push against his palm. The thing who wants out eventually does so, spilling between his fingers, and it doesn’t feel like harmless phlegm having formed because of the infection.

 When the fit lets off, Sylvain glances at the contents of his hand, only to realize how deep he’s gone.

Red slips off from his fingers, some dripping onto the floor, and he suddenly feels much sicker than before. No injury has ever made him react this way.

 He glances at Ingrid, panting, to notice her expression has changed from concern to horror. Her mouth is in a sort of awe as she gulps, her hands moving on their own to put his back against the wall while her stare doesn’t let go, eyes trying to search for an answer.

“This is it,” she says with a trembling voice trying to sound steady. “Sylvain, you’re seeing someone, even if you don’t want to.”

Yeah, he wasn’t going to go against that anyway.

 Sounds and images alike grow distant, even Ingrid’s voice as she speaks into her phone with vigour and a sense of urgency, even the irritating noise of his own cough. He’s drenched in sweat, his hair sticking to his skin in front of his eyes, the shift in temperatures never letting go and biting harder every time. Pulling his knees against his chest, wrapping his arms around his lap, he’s waiting for the moment where the tempest will calm down and allow him to make a run for his life.

The tempest never soothes and, instead, Ingrid’s eyes try digging into his with a sense of desperation, the phone now gone and maybe not even calling anymore.

 “Sylvain, can you hear me?!” She asks with her hands on his shoulders, slightly shaking him in the commotion.

He nods while in the midst of a coughing fit, that phlegm escaping again.

“Thank goodness…” She whispers to herself, before she changes gears entirely. “How the hell were you still standing…?!” She muses as she puts her hand on his forehead again. “It’s risen too… You’re the biggest of fools, Sylvain, do you know that?!”

“Was… aware of that by now…” He tries laughing, but it only comes out as forced. “Keep telling me that…”

“Then apply them, once and for all! Where do you think that brings you?! What the hell is going on in your head?!”

Ingrid looks aside before her glare comes back, eyes shimmering, and the world disappears behind her. Her voice echoes in the distance, yet so near him, anguish painted all over the picture he can make out of her with his tired eyes.

“Why do you always scare me so much, you jerk!”

 His breath is stolen away, lungs locking for a solid moment before he can exhale again. The hands on his shoulders weaken.

“I’m tired of cleaning after your mess, skirt-chasing or not! Even if I tell you crystal-clear, even if I insist on having you finally behave properly, you never take anything seriously and I always have to be behind you so I don’t end up losing you in the long run”

Her finger brushes against his face, right under his mouth, and she shows him a red stain left on her skin.

“This, Sylvain. Do you see it? Do you even know how much hassle you’d avoid for yourself if, for once, you’d take things seriously? If you just listened, we wouldn’t be there!”

“W-well… It’s only my business, right…? I don’t know why you get so worked up for me… Is it because we’re friends…? Are you in love…?”

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear that dying voice of yours!”

“Oh c’mon, that’s kinda mean…”

“Healthy people don’t cough up blood, you fool! Stop talking about it as if that was just the cold it was two weeks ago!”

“Still… My business, not yours, Ing;” His flirtatious tone is nowhere to be seen.

“It’s my business too because I don’t want to lose you!”

Her voice breaks, a part of his heart follows.

“… I don’t want to lose someone again,” she mutters as her gaze lowers. “Especially not like that.”

The rest of his heart crumbles under the weight of the feelings it stores endlessly.

 He musters what strength he somehow has left, brain almost entirely numbed by a fever blurring his sight and rendering his touch inaccurate, and pulls her against his chest, asking for no cue. There is a puddle of blood in the back of his throat, but he tries smiling if not just for her, and realizes in his daze just how much he’s fucked up.

“It’s not usual for you to lose your composure so much… Ing…” He whispers, the ring of classes beginning drowning in his swimming vision.

She doesn’t reply, her heart almost against his, their beats never matching.

“I’m sorry for worrying you so much, Ing…”

His consciousness is dimming as he sees dots appearing in front of his vision, but not having to retain spitting blood on her.

“Didn’t realize until now… that it mattered to someone…”

 Everything disappears before him before he knows it.

  When he eventually comes to, Sylvain is surprised he’s still actually part of the living world. It’s no better than being a corpse right now, considering his entire body stopped responding efficiently. There’s no distraction when his vision is mostly a black blur, so he has the time and peace of mind to think about how, yeah, this has been a fiasco and he can only blame himself for it. Not like he’s ever blamed anything but fate, the order of things, the world’s strange whims and himself. His business, not his, after all.

It should have only affected him, but then Ingrid burst into his secrecy, and the entire order of things got taken apart.

 His eyelids are heavier than shields and barely open at first, but they eventually allow the light to enter his sight. It hurts at first, worsening the pounding headache settling under his skull’s surface, until he gets over it and observes the change in scenery: this isn’t the corridor where he last spoke to Ingrid. In fact, aside from similar neon lights, it feels different: the smell isn’t the same, the air isn’t the same and, if he glances with how little his neck can move, he can conclude that the furniture isn’t the corridor’s.

Not that it wasn’t a dead giveaway all along, considering he’s lying in an actual bed and not against a wall, and that there are familiar emerald eyes looking in his direction.

 “I… Ing…?” His voice sounds worse than before, it’s like he’s still half-asleep.

“Sylvain,” she replies with a calm voice, her usual stern tone, and he can’t help but smile. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah…” He continues glancing around. “What’s this place…? I don’t recognize it…” He still has the urge to cough, even though it’s less violent than before. That’s a nice change of pace.

“The hospital. Don’t worry, you won’t be here for more than a day or two.”

“…makes sense.”

 The silence following this is only short-lived, as Ingrid picks the ball back up merely moments after, just enough to allow him to cough a little more.

“You’re lucky your life wasn’t directly threatened by what’s festering inside your chest. I was surprised myself how fortunate you’ve been with this.”

“I wouldn’t exactly describe being sick… as lucky, Ing…”

“At least you’re recognizing you are, now. It’s progress, I suppose.”

“How can I deny it when I’m like this?”

“You can’t, and that’s a good thing.”

 She doesn’t look as angry as she did before, but he can still tell she’s got a problem with something. Most likely him.

“Wait, you’re not in class…?”

“I’d like to officially inform you that you made the professor sick with your germs. Fortunately, he was prevented from making class by the collective efforts of Mercedes and the other professors. Which brings me to the point I wanted to discuss with you…”

Here it comes.

“Can this please serve you as a wake-up call, once and for all?”

Huh, that’s less painful than he expected it to be.

“Oh…”

 He’s too tired to play pretend and too conscious of her feelings to pretend like he doesn’t know what she’s referring to. It’s been years since he’s started taking less and less things seriously, to the point his own future is something he’s not worried about for a long time, and he’s just realized how harmful this has always been. He’s something more than his heritage, this he now knows for sure, but this wasn’t the way to go.

This has never been the way to go around with this, and Ingrid has always been right; but he’s been too deaf to hear her until now.

 “I finally see why you’ve been so insistent; or so I think…” He’s not sure of much anymore.

“To say that I had to see you cough up blood to hear you say that…” She sighs. “At least, I can hope this means I won’t always be to be behind you, right?”

“Yeah… Sorry for worrying you all the time, Ing…”

“You better be sorry!”

The small laugh she tries to contain is the cutest thing he’s heard in ages.

“Still… Thanks for always having my back. I don’t thank you nearly enough…”

He’s still weak, this much he can tell by how low and gravely his voice sounds, but he’s grateful and doesn’t want to close his eyes if it’s for her to vanish by the time he awakens.

 This, in itself, reminds him of how much Glenn’s death had an impact on Ingrid back then; and he cannot help but hate a part of himself for failing to notice that before.  

After all, if he wants to win her heart over, he has to take in account her feelings, right? It’s only normal, he has to work more on that.

 “I have to say,” she continues leading their conversation, “you’ve made an effort, recently. I see you flirting with anything that moves less than usual.”

He blinks. He’s surprised, but she’s right: he’s been less preoccupied with girls, recently, but he didn’t think it was actually noticeable. Blame it on the butterflies again. Right now, they’re rampaging throughout his abdomen.

“I just wish you’d be more careful to your actions and yourself, that’s it. I won’t be there to keep you in check, one day, you know.”

“I know… That’s why I didn’t want you to worry, but I guess I couldn’t prevent that…”

He coughs again, the iron aftertaste never letting go, but never coming back either.

“How bold of you to assume you could stop a friend from worrying about you.”

 He wishes they were more than friends, but he’s a coward and she’s too good for him. The irony: she’s the one girl he knows doesn’t hold an interest in him only for his bloodline, and yet she’ll never be more than his childhood friend because she knows him too much to accept dating him, even as a joke.

The red he sees creeping on her cheeks has to be a feverish delirium.

 “Anyway, I hope this bronchitis will make for a good lesson,” she scolds him again.

“Yeah, same,” he replies as he looks back to the ceiling. He hopes the blushing he senses on his own face is hidden by the splotches of fever he could see in the mirror this morning.

His eyelids flutter without his consent, and he sees her less and less per second, having run out of strength to keep himself awake.

“I should let you rest at last,” she eventually says as she begins getting up, which is when he notices her hand leaving his. His skin feels cold again, hair on his arm rising underneath clothes he wasn’t wearing earlier today.

“But… Will you be there, when I’ll wake up…?”

 His question, his façade slipping up and shattering to the ground in its fall, makes her stop in her stead and, instead of facing the door, she turns her head in his direction.

“I’ll try my best. I can’t always be behind you, right?”

“I get it… Have a nice day, Ing…”

“Goodnight, Sylvain,” she tells him as the door opens and closes.

It feels soothing to go back to sleep.

[thescrybe]

Warwick, The Uncaged Wrath of Zaun

Warwick is a monster who hunts the gray alleys of Zaun. Transformed by agonizing experiments, his body is fused with an intricate system of chambers and pumps, machinery filling his veins with alchemical rage. Bursting out of the shadows, he preys upon those criminals who terrorize the city’s depths. Warwick is drawn to blood, and driven mad by its scent. None who spill it can escape him.

Though many think of Warwick as no more than a beast, buried beneath the fury lies the mind of a man—a gangster who put down his blade and took up a new name to live a better life. But no matter how hard he tried to move on, he could never escape the sins of his past.

Memories of that time come to Warwick in flashes before they’re inevitably lost, replaced by searing echoes of the days he spent strapped to a table in Singed’s lab, the mad chemist’s face looming above him.

His world a haze of pain, Warwick could not recall how he fell into Singed’s grasp… and even struggled to remember a time before the suffering began. The scientist patiently carved into him, installing pumps and hoses to inject chemicals into his veins, seeking what an alchemist always seeks: transmutation.

Singed would reveal his subject’s true nature—the deadly beast hidden within a “good man.”

The chemicals pumped into Warwick’s veins boosted his healing, allowing Singed to gradually and painfully reshape the man. When his hand was severed in the course of the experiment, Singed was able to reattach it, augmenting it with powerful, pneumatic claws, and bringing Warwick ever closer to his true potential.

A chemical chamber was installed on Warwick’s back and integrated with his nervous system. Whenever he felt rage, or hate, or fear, it would drive liquid fury deeper into his veins, fully awakening the beast within.

He was forced to endure it all, every cut of the mad chemist’s scalpel. Pain, Singed assured his subject, was necessary; it would prove to be the “great catalyst” of his transformation. Though the chemicals enabled Warwick’s body to heal through most of the physical damage, his mind was shattered by the unending agony.

Warwick struggled to recall a single memory from his past... All he could see was blood. But then he heard a little girl screaming. Screaming something he couldn’t understand. It sounded like a name.

He’d already forgotten his. He sensed that was for the best.

Pain soon overwhelmed all other thoughts. Blood was the only thing left.

Though his body and mind were broken after weeks on the slab, Warwick stubbornly resisted the chemicals transmuting him. Toxins leaked from his eyes in place of tears. He coughed up gobs of caustic phlegm that sizzled against his chest, before burning shallow holes in the floor of the lab. Restrained against the cold steel of the table, Warwick writhed in agony for hours on end, until his body finally gave out.

With the untimely death of his subject, Singed disposed of the corpse in a charnel pit deep in Zaun’s Sump, before turning his mind to the next experiment.

But death proved to be the true catalyst needed for Warwick’s transformation. As he lay cooling atop the pile of corpses, the chemicals could finally complete their work. The chamber on his back began to pump.

His body contorted unnaturally, bones bending and snapping, teeth growing, sinews tearing and then healing with a faint alchemical glow, dead flesh replaced by something new and powerful. By the time his heart started beating once again, the man Warwick had been and the lives he’d lived were gone.

He awoke to hunger. Everything hurt. Only one thing mattered.

He needed blood.

First, it was the blood of a nearby sump-scrapper, rooting through the charnel pile. And then a priestess of the Glorious Evolved, seeking a member of her flock. Then a Piltovan apprenta taking a shortcut, and a philter-faced merchant avoiding a gang, and a dram-dealer, and a tallyman, and a chem punk...

He set up a den not far from a place that itched at the back of his now-animal mind. There, he continued the slaughter, not caring who fell to his claws. So long as blood dripped from gnashing teeth, he would feel nothing but a smear of red on his conscience, the hunger in his gut overwhelming any concern for his random victims.

Yet, even as he surrendered to the beast, glimpses of his past began to haunt him. He saw a bearded man reflected in the eyes of a beggar as he tore out his throat. The other man looked somber, somehow familiar; there were scars on his arms. Sometimes, as he fed in dark alleys on stray gangers, the flash of knives would remind him of an old blade covered in blood. Blood passing from the blade to his hands. From his hands, to everything he touched. Sometimes, he remembered the girl again.

And still there was blood.

It had always been there, he realized, his entire life, and nothing he did could wash it off. He’d left so many scars that even if he didn’t remember his past, the city would. When he peered into the eyes of Zaun’s criminals—the gang bosses, murderers, and thieves—he saw himself. The chamber on his back would fill his body with hate. His claws tore out of his fingers.

He hunted.

No longer content to kill indiscriminately, Warwick now pursues those already covered in the stench of blood. Just as he was the day he was dragged to Singed’s door.

He still wonders if he’d truly wanted this. He can’t remember details, but he remembers enough. Enough to know Singed had been right all along—the good man had been a lie, before disaster had burned it away, revealing the truth.

He is Warwick. He is a killer.

And there are so many killers to hunt.

[translightyagami]

“Come here. You’re shivering.” for Lawlight please :)

L stood in front of the closed door and looked down. Fromthe slight crack at the bottom spilled the low, orange light of their bedsidelamp. Every two minutes or so, a thick, unhappy cough came through followed bya loud groan. With a deep breath, he took hold of the door knob and went intotheir bedroom.

Propped up by three pillows, Light laid with his eyesclosed. His cheeks were highlighted by bright, red spots which stood outagainst the pale illness coloring the rest of his face. One thick layer oftheir cotton blue duvet was piled over his body and remained askew on L’s sideof the bed. Thin fingers clutched a handkerchief over his mouth while Lightshook from the force of his cough. He hardly moved besides that. Then, upon hishearing L’s entrance, he turned his head in a slow little motion.

L dawdled in the doorframe, still acting as though he had noidea what he was doing or who the person in bed was. His hands were kept in hispockets while he ambled over but he paused each time Light coughed. He stoppedat the foot of the bed and gawked from there. After ten minutes of his staring,Light peeked one eye open and frowned.

“Are you going to do anything?” Light’s voice was a weedattempting to grow through concrete. It hardly grasped the words he said but hefought through another cough to continue. “You look childish just standingthere.”

“I’m not sure what to do.” L shrugged. “Watari told me Ishould come.”

“Oh, how thoughtful.” Light snorted and then winced inimmediate regret. “I guess you’ve never seen me sick before.”

“I’ve never seen anyone sick before.”

“That’s ridiculous.” With only one eye still open, Lighttried to adjusting his position. He grimaced and sank back down in defeat. “Ugh.Come sit next to me. It’s too hard to talk to you all the way over there.”

L hesitated but then followed Light’s order. One leg at atime, he crouched next to Light who held up the other side of the duvet. Hedropped it when L shook his head and coughed again—this one much wetter innature. A terrible urge to vomit came into L’s throat that he fought down ashard as he could. To distract himself, he continued to talk.

“I’ve never been sick myself,” L said. “Watari has alwayssaid I was a very healthy child. Once he thought I had a cold but I was onlyplay acting.”

“Why would you pretend to have a cold?” Light spoke with thefirm tone of someone trying very hard not to sound groggy. His resistance tothe phlegm in his throat was not strong enough and he sounded frogish.

“Oh. I wanted attention.” L began to teeth on his knuckle.He didn’t know what to say—a situation he loathed to be in. Especially aroundLight with their every conversation still a game of sharp wits. They walkedaround each other not on eggshells but instead the most exciting ofknifepoints. Except now, with Light sluggishly ill and L without a single goodconversation to start.

He was surprised then when Light started laughing. The soundwas thumping, almost like he were six feet underwater. With its jaggedplayfulness, Light’s laugh filled the room and some of L’s unsteadiness eased.Ah. So his Light was under that sick creature after all.

“You always want attention,” Light said, a littlebreathless. “So you’ve never had a cold? Never had the flu?”

“Not once.” L leaned back on the headboard and took hishands from his mouth. “Have you been sick before?”

“Of course.” With another, shorter laugh, Light’s featuressoftened into something more nostalgic. “When I got a cold, my mom let me stayhome from school and I’d lay in bed all day. She would bring me tea and sit onthe bed so we could talk. It was sort of boring because she never had anythinggood to talk about but it was nice to have someone do all that stuff for me.”

“You just enjoy being waited on.”

“Mm.” Light swallowed and smiled. “That’s just what people do when you’re sick. You get special treatment.”

He opened both his eyesand rolled his head over to look at L. The skin around his eyes was a lightpink and his mouth was chapped. As L studied his face, he realized he’d neverseen Light so unpleasant. Even in the mornings, when Light was just rolling outof bed, he still kept a clear face and innate calmness that stilled his everyfeature. Cloistered in his sick bed, Light’s stillness had ruptured and lefthim scraggly. L reached out and skimmed his palm over Light’s cheek. He found him to be the most attractive person on Earth at the very moment.

“You’re so spoiled,” he said. “You must be so upset with theservice here.”

“No.” Light pressed his face into L’s touch. “Watari hasbeen more than helpful. But I suppose there are others who could work on theirattitude.”

With that, he went to kiss L but doubled over in a coughingfit. His hand flew to his face with the handkerchief and, as Light shook, Lnoticed the tiny “Q.W.” stitched into the corner. An uncontrollable comfort tunneledthrough him. While he was confident in his relationship with Light, it was goodin a way he couldn’t explain to know Quillish approved. It was an all-encompassingsense of wellness that came with the knowledge that the two most importantpeople in his life liked each other.

Shaking himself from those sentimental thoughts, L waitedfor Light to finish his coughing before sliding his hand into the sweaty clutchof Light’s hair. He tugged him upward and into a kiss that was more open mouthedthan was safe. But he hadn’t kissed Light for the whole day, too worried abouthis illness, that he couldn’t be bothered to take precaution. Instead, L dovein and held his mouth to Light’s in a none too gentle press. Light dropped thehandkerchief and clasped the front of L’s shirt.

Light pulled away first, his chapped lips now a brighter shadeof red. His eyes were glassy and he groaned, pulling at the covers.

“Ugh,” he said. “My head’s spinning.”

“Come here,” L said. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m not.” Light tugged the covers up further with shakingfingers. “Why did you do that? Now you’ll be sick.”

“Well.” L scooted into a reclining position and took Light’shand in his. He pulled him closer until they were wrapped in each other. “I’vealways wanted to try being sick, at least once. Will you wait on me?”

“Hand and foot,” Light said.

[sunriseoverastorea]

Blossoming Tongues

♬ Jeremy Soule - In the Forests of Tamriel

The first thing she feels is cool, lush grass, pressing against her back. When she opens her eyes, tall, leafy treetops spin against a starry sky, buoying this way and that, as if on a shifting sea of space. A high pitched ringing fills her ears, drowning out whatever else might surround her, and when she licks her lips, she tastes blood. She is an empty shell, dazed beneath the late night's gaze, and for a while, the only thought to punctuate her conscience is that she can't feel her hands. A muted panic rises in her chest, but her breathing never quickens. She only stares at the stars, tears welling in eyes that have forgotten how to blink, even as a warm trail drips down her forehead and fills her left eye with scarlet film.

After a time, the trees grow still. The grass becomes hot against her back, and the trance has been broken—she shoots upright, screaming out in terror as if she had only just fallen to the ground. A vision of the void flashes in her mind, and she whimpers, grabbing her head in her hands and squeezing her eyes shut. From head to toe, she trembles violently, and although she begins to sob, no tears fall upon her cheeks. She merely heaves and shudders and twitches, jerking her face away as those streams of shooting stars play across her eyelids. She can't escape them, embedded in her head, but she thrashes around as if she could, as if it was not futile to seek shelter from something that's a part of you.

As she hunches over, a sharp pain in her chest abruptly pulls her out from the vision. She opens her eyes, breathing unsteadily, and a searing, prickly burning sensation spreads across her skin. She looks down at her legs, where her pants are almost entirely shredded, and swollen, deep red skin fills in the gaps, blood glistening wetly on the surface. Her back feels similar, if not worse, and though she doesn't have hands of flesh with which to reach over her shoulder and touch, she is certain the burns are there as well. All the way up to her neck, where she discovers with a clumsy grasping of fingers that her braids have burnt off, leaving a jagged fray of hair at chin length.

She holds her hands in front of her face, staring at them quizzically. She moves her pinkies, then forefingers, she cycles through each finger, gritting her teeth with frustration as they scrape and screech, some little bits deeply hidden in the machinery knocked out of place so that she can barely move them. After a few seconds she manages to form fists, which she pounds against the ground, just once, shaking her head as a cruel, bitter smile breaks through the dried blood on her face. She begins to chuckle under her breath, the low, rolling laughter of a slightly mad woman, as she forces herself to her feet in one swift movement, the earth swaying precariously under her steps.

A long groan of pain escapes her lips as she straightens her back, bones and cartilage shifting unnaturally in her chest, and she gently brushes her fingers over the top of her forehead, coming away smeared with scarlet grime. Taking a long, steadying breath, she turns in a slow circle, surveying the clearing in which she stands, even as she grits her teeth to keep from bawling over the hideous pain that  sets her legs and back afire with every mild movement.

Only a few trees were mowed down by her arrival—three trunks lie splintered across the ground, the remains of her airship scattered amongst them. A pile of charred books lying at one end of the clearing, pipes and gears at another, her most precious possessions strewn out alongside huge slabs of white sheet metal. She limps over to the nearest piece, one end stuck securely in the earth, and brushes the ashes from the face.

Horiz, says the pale blue lettering. Her heart drops to her stomach, and all at once the void returns to the forefront of her mind, mentally smacking her in the face and sending her reeling through the air, though in reality she still stands in the grass, and she jerks her head to the side, keening and murmuring unintelligibly. Her hand seems to move on its own—steel fingers suddenly dig into the pulverized flesh of her thigh, and she screams out in pain, baring her teeth, wild eyes staring ahead at the soft, shadowy forest.

Pulled free from the vision by more tangible suffering, she finally finds words in her parched throat.

“Fuck,” she rasps, barely audible, “Fuck, fuck, ah, fuck. Fix it. Fix it Marea, fix, yourself. Fix--”

She spies her focus lying nearby in the grass, unharmed, the white luster of the skull perhaps even brighter than before, and she stumbles over to it, picking it up in her sluggish hands, and reaching. Reaching out into the plants and the air, feeling around for energy, not with her limbs but with unseen spectral intent, just as she always has, for the last two years of semi-successful necromancy she has indulged herself in.

And the air is dead. It does not hum or tingle with life. She can find no strain of magic to follow, no leftover impressions of some great and recent feat. The breeze stings against her skin, and she feels as if she stands in a vacuum, a bubble within the void where there is existence, but it is empty and hollow as the void itself. It seems impossible, in a copse of rich forest, as real and familiar as Kryta, that there could be nothing for her to latch onto, not even the tiniest inkling of magic, too small to help but just enough to comfort.

“How,” she breathes out, fingers squeaking as they tighten their grasp on the Separatist skull. “How? Hello? Is this real?”

Crickets reply, chirruping rhythmically into the silence. Accompanied by the snap of a twig.

She whirls around, staring in the direction of the snap. She carefully sets her focus on the ground, and looks over her person, finding one weapon still intact along her belt—her tiny M pistol, blackened from the fire but otherwise not structurally compromised. The forest spins and pulses as she takes quick, unbalanced steps into the thick of the trees, making straight for a lantern light not too far ahead. Just the golden glow of it fills her with relief, but still, with great lethargy she makes her fingers wrap around the handle of her gun, held at the ready by her hip.

Gradually, two figures come into view. They stop in their tracks at the sight of her. An older man, wearing the simple patchwork garb of a farmer, with a scruffy beard, and a loaded crossbow in his hands, pointed at the ground. And beside him, a small boy, dressed in slightly nicer rags, carrying the lantern, and gazing at her with wide blue eyes, his face lit up as bright as day.

Marea holds her hands in the air weakly, leaving several lengths between them.

“More humans. What did I expect,” she jests, immediately coughing up a bloody ball of phlegm, and spitting it on the ground. She takes a startled step back as the man raises the crossbow, taking aim for her chest, and speaks in a voice full of bravado, yet wavering with fear. And what comes out of his mouth is gibberish.

Flowering gibberish, gibberish that seems to paint a vast landscape in the air, strange, alien tones like music played in reverse. Marea stares at him with wide eyes, dumbfounded, and he repeats what she assumes is a warning, as he inches slightly closer.

“Help,” she says loudly, intonating each sound as clearly as she can. “Help. Hurt. Lost.”

The man's reply rolls off his tongue like a babbling brook, chased close behind by a burst of lilies, lilting, ethereal tone sharpened into an obvious threat as he squints one eye shut, hands trembling as he braces to loose the arrow.

“No!” Marea exclaims, a bit more forcefully than she intended, stretching a hand out to caution him. “I don't want to hurt you, I'm hurt, help, please, I need help, heh-elp, look at me, just goddamn--”

The man's finger twitches, and the pistol comes down and shatters the peaceful cricketing of the woods. One lone shot is like thunder, critters in the trees scattering with the wind. The man drops to his knees, crossbow shooting off into the grass, and the little boy, after a moment spent staring at Marea in pure terror, takes off into the night, like a pale ghost fleeing the reaper.

Marea watches his fading form. She glances at the farmer, lying face down in the grass, blood pooling around his head. And with an agonized, drawn out groan, she begins to stomp after the boy, each stride of her ruined legs jostling her broken ribs and leaving her bloody head ever more woozy.

The homestead is not too far off. She comes to the edge of the forest, long after the boy has passed through, and sees the farmhouse, a stout stone abode, windows lit with warm light, behind it a small stable and fenced in pasture, and beyond that, she can just barely make out interweaving, sprawling hills in the silver moonlight, dancing against the horizon like waves carved of marble.

She limps up to the door of the house, and knocks a playful rhythm, before pushing it open and peering inside.

A small but cozy kitchen greets her, fireplace lit, round dinner table set for three. A roasted chicken sits on a cutting board, untouched, and Marea slowly creeps inside, examining the counters, stacks of dishes and bundles of greens strewn across them, a basket of apples and a peg on the wall holding a large ring of skeleton keys. As she picks up an apple, taking a ravenous bite out of it, her eyes travel to a knife rack, fastened up next to the keys. Curiously missing two of the blades.

A floorboard creaks, and she whips around and strikes at the first thing she sees. Her apple goes flying, as does one of the missing knives, catching the light of the fireplace as it skitters across the floor. A young, simple woman, not much older than herself, is already reaching for the second knife from under her bodice, and Marea knocks it from her hands just as easily, grabbing her by the shoulders, and forcing her back against the wall as she screams and quakes before Marea's madwoman visage.

“Listen!” she shouts, bloody spit misting over the poor woman's face. “Help! Help! Me!”

She releases her with a jerk, stumbling a few steps back to collapse in one of the dining chairs, sighing with relief. She takes her pistol from her belt once more, lazily pointing it in the direction of the woman, who gathers her long, full skirts in her hands, as if to hide behind them.

“Please,” Marea says more softly, trying to sound calm. “Everything. Fucking. Burns.” She points one stiff finger at her pulp of a thigh. “Though I'm pretty sure my nerves are damaged, because it should be way worse. And I gotta hunch you don't know what nerves are.” She pauses, narrowing her eyes at the woman's bewildered face. “I mean. Help. Heeeeeelp.”

Though the woman gives no sign of comprehension, she scurries over to a cabinet beneath the counters, and pulls out a small wooden chest, setting it quickly on the table next to Marea, before backing away as if afraid she were contagious. Marea flips the lid open, and a powerful stench of medicinal herbs makes her eyes water. She sniffles as she nudges around the contents, some familiar plants and pastes, and others foreign, almost as unusual as the sound of the strangers' voices. And all decidedly primitive.

She pulls out a salve with an antiseptic smell, and begins lathering it onto her legs, hissing through gritted teeth. She leaves the gun sitting on the table, still pointed at the woman, and watches from the corner of her eye as the little boy peers around a corner, rather high up, perhaps coming down a set of stairs.

“See? Literally all I needed,” she calls to him. Realizing he's been spotted, the boy tries to retreat, but Marea immediately jumps to her feet, gesturing from the woman to the boy, back and forth.

“Get him! Get him, now, both of you, here.”

The woman rushes up the steps, grabbing the boy by the arm and dragging him back with her, whispering what is likely words of comfort in her odd, blossoming tongue. Marea falls back into her chair, and continues slathering her body in silence, aside from the occasional whimper and whine. The process is long and the pain exhausting, and when she has coated her burns in medicine, she lifts her fingers to her forehead, flinching as she prods them into her open wound, trying to get a feel for how deep and severe it is. Yet she can tell little better than if she was using a random stick, and ends up drowning the gash in paste, before wrapping a long bandage around her head, sealing it up tight.

“Sure would be nice if you had an actual doctor, huh?” She wipes her slimy hands on the remnants of her leggings, and picks up the pistol again, scratching at a mysterious crust on the barrel. “But no, you're just lowly, humble farmers, with ye olde herbal concoctions. Not your fault, I'm not holding it against you.” She gestures to herself with the gun. “Marea. My name is Marea. Muh-ray-uh. And you?” The gun flips back to the woman, and she holds the little boy tightly to her side. Though her posture is defensive, some of the fear seems to have faded from her face, replaced with wariness.

After a pause, her name falls from her tongue like sunlight against chilled skin on a fair autumn evening.

“Maegan,” she says simply, and then, placing her hand on the boy's head, “Tomas.”

Marea blinks, leaning forward slightly. “Say that again. Again.” She waves her hand, signaling to repeat.

This time, the words take shape in her mind, and the glittering sounds of the strangers' language fall into a familiar, if altered, mold.

“Maegan and Tomas,” the woman says bitterly, brown eyes fixed on Marea. “Wife and son of Frank Ferny, who you murdered.”

“Shit,” Marea interjects, completely missing the bit about murdering, “You're speaking Common. You've got Tyrian names. Can you understand me at all? Me, Marea?”

“Marea,” Maegan mimics, nodding to her.

“Alright, that's a start. Who am I kidding, not like I'm much better. Medicine,” she proclaims clearly, pointing at the chest of herbs. “Burns,” she gestures to her spongy flesh, “Gun,” she waves her pistol in the air, and both mother and son attempt to squash themselves into the rivets of the wall, clearly frightened by the firearm.

“Gun,” Marea repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Everybody and their grandma has one. Unless—nobody does.” She bites her lip, thinking for a moment. “Because, because you haven't gotten to gunpowder yet. Sorry, I'm fucking up your timeline. But hey, don't tell anybody about this and it will be like it never happened. Okay?”

Maegan shakes her head, pressing her son's face against her chest. “I don't understand your harsh tongue.”

“My what what?”

“Wut wut?”

Marea sighs heavily, throwing back her head, and daring to close her eyes, just for a moment.

A wave of lights and darkness throws itself upon her, and she shouts and jerks her head and her eyes pop open. Maegan and Tomas stare at her, more bewildered than ever.

“I—had a hard time getting here. I traveled. Travel. From far away.” She wipes tears from her eyes, goosebumps standing out on what little of her skin is not crisped or metallic. “Tyria. I come from Tyria. My world is called Tyria. Is this Tyria?”

Maegan shakes her head, mousy hair coming loose from the bun that once held it back. “Middle-Earth,” is all she offers. Marea tries to make an encouraging smile, though it hurts her face.

“What Earth?”

“Middle.”

“Myeetel—middle. You're saying middle. Um, what's on either side of it? Afterlife sorta thing?”

Maegan shrugs, brow furrowing distastefully at hearing the name of her home from Marea's lips. Marea mimics the expression, and pushes herself to her feet, rolling her neck and her shoulders and squeaking in pain as her broken ribs shift.

“Well, this has been a great talk, but I need to find a doctor so I don't puncture a lung. Don't move,” she says, waving the gun at the pair vaguely as she roams around the kitchen, finding a coil of rope beside the fireplace. She hefts it back to them, and takes hold of Tomas's arm, prying him away from his reluctantly compliant mother.

“Not gonna hurt him. It's like insurance. I need to sleep before I can go anywhere, but I don't like kids, and he's probably gonna try to kill me. Y'know, the usual.” She loops the rope around the small boy, pulling it tight, so his arms are good and trapped at his sides. She does the same to Maegan, and once the two are snug as bugs, she ties the remaining rope to each of their ankles, and then back to the fireplace.

“There. Now you aren't killing me, or tattling on me.” Marea nods once, content with her work, and grabs a scarf from the back of a chair. She balls it up into a pillow, and lies down on the floor, resting her head upon it so that she still stares at Maegan and Tomas, pistol held gently in her hand, fingers always poised to pull the trigger.

“Now, before I go to bed, I have a few questions. Try your absolute hardest to understand.”

“Fine,” Maegan murmurs, staring her down with a look of utter loathing.

Marea pauses before speaking again, moving her lips and her tongue around, trying to get a feel for her own vocal functions. “Where is the nearest town?” she asks, lilting and drawing out her words in an attempt to mimic the Middle-Earth accent.

Maegan grunts as if she's been punched in the gut, and barely keeps from rolling her eyes. “Five spans north of here. It is called Archet.”

“Don't know what a 'span' is, but north, got it. Second question. In what ways do I look scary to you?”

This time the woman laughs, and Tomas huddles close against her, even without being able to clutch to her dress with his hands. “Everything, Marea. Your eye is strange, your limbs are stranger, your voice is hideous and you look like you've been burned alive.”

Marea can't help but grin, and even giggle a bit alongside her, letting her eyes droop closed. “So I've heard. I'll have to take care of that. I had another question, but—I'm so tired. I could sleep and never wake up—good thing I don't need to be awake for this thing to shoot people,” she adds hastily, eyes popping open just long enough to hold up the gun, before she nestles her face against the scarf again.

“Goodnight, Maegan and Tomas. Be good so I don't have to kill you.”

The mother and son offer no reply. Exhaustion finally overtakes her, overtakes even visions of the void, and Marea drifts into a deep sleep. In her sleep there is only blackness, but far from empty, it fills her with warmth, if impermanent, if only for a time. Sleep is the same wherever she goes. And on that fever dream evening, she clings to it like a lost friend.

[sneezingpotatoes]

Another Cold Winter [Part 1]

Wow, hello xD I’ve returned after a long-ass break with a new fic if anyone is even interested anymore since I’ve been inactive xD But anyway, whoever reads this, I hope you enjoy it xDD

SO THIS IS ASAHI SUZUKI <3 Aka my bae, aka I love him so much! I mean I love them both but he's my bae, you know?

http://photobucket.com/gallery/user/SeichiYagami/media/bWVkaWFJZDoxNDQyODEwNzA=/?ref=1

And this is Kaede Takahashi, Asahi’s bestest friend in the entire universe xD And probably his only friend... feels bad.

http://photobucket.com/gallery/user/SeichiYagami/media/bWVkaWFJZDoxNDQyODEwNzE=/?ref=1 

Okay so I used a random Anime Dress up website to make what my characters look like xD Sorry about the stupid pose they're in, I couldn't change it xD

Asahi hugged his arms tighter around his torso in order to stifle his violent shivering that rattled his spine. The cold winter air was already biting straight through his thin leather jacket, and he had no intentions of standing in it any longer. Damnit! Where the hell Is Kaede?! He mentally groaned, I don’t know how much longer I’ll last out here! Just the thought of staying out in the cold for a couple minutes longer made him grunt. He sniffled, softly at first, but a little rougher the second time, as he could feel the cold air loosening up his sinuses. He quickly brought up an index finger and attempted to rub away the burn that the cold winter air left behind from his rough sniffling, but cringes as he feels the cool burn turn into a prickling sensation in the back of his nose. He gives a quick twitch into his plaid scarf, releasing a firm sneeze into the soft piece of wool. “Huh-KSHht!” How damn cold is it, anyway? He grimaces, still feeling the strong sensation linger about. A shaky fist is brought up halfway, patiently waiting for the inevitable. A mumbled curse is heard through breathy hitches as he draws his fist closer to the cloth. “Hhuuhhhnn… Ikgsht-Kshht!!” Asahi aggressively jerked into his scarf once more, being overwhelmed by the pair of toppling sneezes. Always in triples… He drew in a long, wet sniffle, not wanting to get his scarf any wetter than it already was, seeing how the tiny droplets of sick on his scarf had already gone stone cold, making him cringe and shiver when his chin and lips laid up against it. “Ektsshuhh!!” Or was it quads...? No, I could’ve sworn it was triples. He blinks a few times, dazed by the force of the unexpected sneeze, and lets out a light cough, having felt the sneeze scrape the back of his throat.  He hated sneezing, seeing how his were normally pretty messy and there was never just one. There had to be multiples. Every. Single. Time. Whether he had a quick fit or maybe a fit where the last one gets lost at the airport and has a late arrival, who the hell knows! His nose can’t make up its damn mind. Asahi and cold weather never really got along, and today wasn’t going to be any different. He mainly hated it because cold weather meant that colds were going around, and that he had to wear restricting, heavier clothing. Since coats and sweaters weren’t Asahi’s idea of fashion, he always tended to under-dress around cold seasons. And today, this was going to bite him in the ass… hard. He pulls down his scarf as another shiver creeps up his spine, making him clench his teeth and squeeze his arms even tighter. He drew in another deep, liquefied sniffle, feeling his nose start to leak heavily. Damn him! Whenever I see his face, I swear, I’ll— 

“Asahi!” Kaede yelled as he rushed down the flight of stairs from his apartment room. “Sorry I’m late!” His panting breaths escaped his mouth in puffy clouds of vapor from the cold air. He gave Asahi a sheepish smile as if he were pleading for forgiveness. He really wanted to do a number on Kaede, but his warm smile and innocent nature served as a protective shield and flushed him with guilt.

“What the hell took you so long?!” His voice was grave with irritation written all over it, but of course, Kaede appeared to be immune to the wrath of Ol’ Asahi.

“I overslept again, my bad… I’ve been cramped up in my room all week studying for the AP exam today…” Asahi gave a stifled smirk at the word study. Kaede was the smartest student on school grounds that he knew of, so why would he need to study? Kaede sighs as he trails behind his best friend, waiting for the new puff of vapor to disintegrate completely before speaking once again. “I’m sorry,” He apologized again, “Can’t imagine how cold you are with that paper-thin jacket you’re wearing. If my mother were here in the mornings, she would’ve let you in.”

“It’s not that cold…” He lied right through his teeth, biting back a much-needed sniffle. The cold winter air was truly getting underneath his skin. All he wanted to do was get the hell inside, it didn’t matter where. He jammed his hand into his jacket pocket, having to force himself to leave his nose alone, unless he wanted to walk into the school looking like Rudolf.

“Are you kidding me?” Kaede yelled in disbelief, “It’s going to snow soon! I feel like I’m going to shatter into little shards of ice if another breeze hits me!”

Asahi bites his tongue in attempt to hold back a snarky remark. You weren’t the one standing out here for an hour and a half. Breaking his own rule, he brings up a curled index finger to gently brush up against the rims of his nostrils and freezes dead in his tracks. Clear phlegm had started to leak down unto his lips, since he stubbornly neglected to sniffle in front of his friend. He probably hadn’t noticed earlier since his entire face felt numb. “You wouldn’t happen to have any tissues on you by chance, would you?” He could feel his cheeks burning into a light pink as he asked that pride shattering question. He disgustedly cupped his hand to hide the leaky mess so that at least his friend didn’t have to see it.

“Is that even a question?” Humored Kaede as he reached into his jeans pocket, revealing a pack of travel tissues. “In this weather, it’s practically mandatory to carry these around, you know.” He takes a sheet of tissue for himself and hands the rest of the pack over to Asahi, who gratefully accepts them. He distantly watches as Kaede removes his glasses and gives a gentle, damp sounding blow into the tissues. My gods, everything this man does is pure perfection. The hazel eyed teen folded up the tissue and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, regretting the decision of grabbing one tissue instead of two. He brings up a gloved palm and presses it lightly underneath his nose, feeling it gently twitch against the touch of his hand. “Hiitssch!” The itchy sneeze sends Kaede whipping forward, nearly snapping at the waist. Asahi looks at his best friend with concerned eyes through his now soiled tissues before tossing his onto the ground and returning the pack of tissues to it’s rightful owner. “T-thagk you, I’b sorrhhy! I-I juhhs— Hh-hih…! Jus’… Hh’igssch’u! Hahh…” He froze for a moment, squeezing his nostrils shut, trying to kill the tickle rallying in his nose and to save himself from the embarrassing false buildup game. Even the way he sneezes are absolutely stunning. The way he tries to speak through his hitching is just breath taking. A sigh is released from Kaede as he blows his nose for the second time and tucks the other used tissue into his pocket. “Sorry about that,” Kaede chimes with a warm smile, still rubbing underneath his nose with a gloved finger, “I hope I didn't spray you or anything! It's been so long I almost forgot what a sneeze felt like... We should pick up the pace. We’ll be late.” The brown-eyed teen nods without saying a word, and instead spends the rest of the walk giving his friend a mental body check, trying to figure out any telltale signs of if he caught a cold or not, since he was too insecure to ask him about it.

***

After warming up and chatting in the cafeteria awaiting the chiming of the morning bell, the resonance from the bell finally fills the school and the two teens head to their math class together. Asahi made it his mission to keep an eye on his best friend Kaede, just in case he actually did have a cold, he’d be the first to know about it. Although there was nothing he could really do, since he was never prepared for these types of situations, he’d take him to the nurses’ office if he wasn’t feeling well, or he’d wait in the restroom with him for 3 class periods like he did last year. Asahi audibly sighed as he sat down in his desk, hating how he had math of all subjects to be the first period of the day. It wasn’t so bad since Kaede was also in his class period, and they sat right next to each other. The tardy bell rang and his teacher promptly locked the classroom door, not wanting to deal with any tardy high school students on a test day.

“Wow, such amazing attendance today. We’re only missing about a third of the class today. If only I could get this amount of students to show up to my class every day.” Mr. Yamamoto stated bluntly in a monotone voice, already grabbing the stack of tests from his desk. “Alright my star pupils, as you know, today is your AP Math exam. The test should be easy, yesterday’s 8th period said it was easy-peasy and the scantron results came back with a perfect %100. So, if you fail this exam, you’re a complete nincompoop and you need serious help.”

“Really???” A petite girl in the front row questioned with pleading eyes full of hope as if her dreams had come true.

“Heck no!” He erupted, “This is AP Math. Your brains will poof to ashes due to burnt out brain cells. I’m already scheduling your funerals.” The little girl slumped deep into her chair, arms folded, with an intense scowl directed at the math instructor. “You know the drill, no talking, no phones, yada yada yada. Once I hand out the first test, your souls are mine.”

Asahi followed suit and slumped down deep into his chair as well, already feeling his head begin to pound deep inside his skull. He hadn’t studied for this exam; He never studied for any of his classes, but this was also the only AP course he was taking, and not to mention he’s already failing it with a D-. If you count playing Dragon Blazers for 9 hours straight studying, then he would be the king of studying. He only took this class so that he could at least have one class with his childhood friend. He had straight hundreds for his daily work, since he would only copy Kaede’s worksheets, but he failed every test/quiz, and today would be no different.

“Good luck, champ. You’re gonna need it.” Mr. Yamamoto whispers to Asahi after he sets down the packet. Great. Thanks. He peeks over at Asahi, whose pencil was already scribbling and jotting down equations and answers on the exam packet. He would stop writing for a moment and bite on the eraser of his pencil, only to quickly begin his writing again. The brown-eyed teen rested his head on his desk, not even knowing where to begin. He picked up the packet and flipped through the booklet glaring at each question, the next one seeming way harder than the previous questions. Derivatives? Antidifferentiations? Integrals? God himself would have to do the test for him if he were to pass that exam. Maybe if I take a nap, last week’s lessons will just come to me. He foolishly thought, knowing damn well he hardly ever paid attention in this class. If there were a test about Kaede, he would definitely pass, seeing how every day he would focus his attention only on him. He knows that Kaede prefers wooden pencils over mechanical pencils, that every Friday Kaede likes to hole punch all of his graded papers and place them neatly behind his labeled math divider that he sketches on whenever he’s bored or has free time, also that he likes to be the last student to put away his math textbook so that he can meticulously straighten up the entire shelf for the next class period, and that he—

“Suzuki, lift your head up and get to work!” The slamming of a plastic ruler against Asahi’s desk causes him to jolt upright in his seat. It slammed so close to his arm that he felt the breeze from the swift hit wiggle through his bangs.  “If you’d like to take a nap, I’m sure the principle would love to provide you with a nice warm cup of after school detention!” Muffled snickering amongst the other classmates are heard as they buried their faces into their tests, not wanting to be the next victim of Mr. Yamamoto.  Kaede gives him a brief look of concern before returning to his exam. Asahi opened his exam, trying his best to hide the flush of embarrassment from showing in his cheeks, but failed horribly. Well I guess I don’t have a choice but to start working on this stupid exam…

***

Every minute that passed felt like an eternity for Asahi; He could’ve sworn that he’d been staring at question number one for five days now, and to make matters worse, he had extended class periods for the exams so he had to stay in this stupid hellhole even longer. Asahi rubbed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose, starting to feel worse than when he first entered the school. He attempted to discretely take in a light sniffle, but even the slightest inhale gave him the spotlight of the classroom. His nose was filled up with so much phlegm that it made a gurgling sound if he even attempted to breathe out of his nose. The room was so quiet that it felt like you could hear a feather drop. Asahi pinched his nostrils shut, feeling a familiar undesired itching sensation return. He tried to make as little movements as possible, as to not attract the attention of other students trying to work on their exams, but mainly so that he didn’t disturb Kaede. Despite his pinched nostrils, the itching still decided to wiggle its’ way under his fingers; his left eye began to twitch awkwardly from the sensation, and a stifled hitch barely escaped his grasp. Sick tears welled up on his eyelids and blurred his vision to the point where he decided to just close his eyes completely. He brought up a trembling hand to cup his mouth in order to muffle his now soft hitches. “HhHngh… Iihhehh…? HhHIEH-! Nnngg…” A few of the students that sat in the desks around Asahi gave him dirty looks, but he couldn’t see them. He was in his own little bubble just trying to figure out whether he should just release the sneezes or just quench the itching back down to a tolerable place.

Kaede took a look at his suffering best friend, only to see his head tilted so far back that his chin was perpendicular to the white board, with his nose and mouth squeezed so tight he’s sure that if he squeezed any harder his face would tear off. The hazel-eyed teen reached into his pocket again and placed the pre-opened tissue pack onto his desk, giving three quick taps on his right shoulder before resuming his exam. The three gentle taps on his shoulder caused Asahi to jolt in his seat from the unexpected touch, making him lose his concentration on quenching the itch. The sensation erupted like a dam breaking, forcing Asahi to jerk into his partially cupped hands over his desk. “KSHHNXGT! Huh’kgxsht! Hekshhn-ktsshuhh! Hh-hhuhHHh-!” Asahi could feel his own cheeks turning a dark red as the class shifted their attention to him and irritably blessed him, waiting for him to finish what he’d started. He knew how awkward he must’ve looked and sounded while he was trying to relieve himself of this pestering itch, but he couldn’t help it. He knew this feeling. He still needed to sneeze even though he had already finished his quad. Why the hhheelll d-do I stil— “EGSHUH!! Hegshh-Eksshh-Keshhuh!” He took a moment to collect himself ignoring all of the blessings, still trying to wrap his aching head around what the hell just happened.

“Bless you, Asahi.” Kaede’s whisper cut through all of the embarrassment and self-pity he had to offer. Asahi couldn’t help but pry open an eye to look at the angel himself. Kaede gave him a smile so warm Asahi could’ve sworn he would’ve melted if they weren’t sitting by the cold window. “Are you feeling alright?” He mouthed the words this time, discretely, seeing how Mr. Yamamoto was already becoming restless from Asahi’s outburst. The brown-eyed teen slowly nodded, as he grabbed a handful of tissues from the pack and emptying out all of the phlegm he was storing in his nostrils, not caring about the opinions of others anymore. “Nngxt! Hh… Hngt!” He successfully stifles the double into his soaked tissues, still feeling a tickle lurking in his nostrils. He balls up the tissues and sets them at the corner of his desk and promptly grabs for the rest of the tissues that were in the travel pack, but before he can open up the tissues correctly, he violently dips forward into a cupped hand. “NNGXT’shuh!” Of course. The third. “God bless you.” The teen says, hazel eyes still locked onto his own exam. This time Kaede was the only one that blessed him; It made him feel soft inside, having a special ‘God bless you’ for all to hear. Asahi furrows a brow at his best friend. Normally he would’ve been the first one finished with his exam, but three other students had already finished ahead of him, and probably a fourth one was on the way. I wonder… Asahi blew his nose once again, still feeling a lingering tickle in the back of his sinuses.  Why the hell do I still need to goddamn sneeze for? He wondered, feeling very agitated with his ticklish nose. “10 more minutes everyone!” Announced the math instructor, “I repeat, 10 more minutes!” Asahi instantly picked up his pencil and quickly began circling random letters and filling in random bubbles all over the scantron; Anything to at least get a grade above a zero.

[sunnybimbo]

Read the chapter on ao3!

Prompt:  Painfully Polite - (character) has very strong feelings about how one should behave, and they are even more mindful when they’re not at their best, talking through a sore throat, trying not to cough, attempting to stifle sneezes, etc.

Allura’s body jerked for the fifth time that morning, and Lance narrowed his eyes.

“Are you alright, Princess?”

The other conversations around the table halted almost immediately, but Allura just smiled brightly as she turned her head in his direction.

“I’m perfectly fine, Lance. Thank you.” She cleared her throat, and they could almost hear the phlegm shifting around.

Truth be told, she was miserable. Her head felt ridiculously heavy, like it’d been filled with water. Speaking of, her eyes twitched at every movement, heavy with tears that she would not allow to fall as her throat twinged with every breath. Despite how wet everything else was, her throat felt dangerously dry, like someone had left it out in the sun until it was a cracked, leathery mess.

Still, she wouldn’t allow her neatly built persona to topple over so easily just because of an illness. Breakfast was always something the team did together, and she was a sucker for tradition.

That, and princesses should show no weakness.

Lance raised a brow, but decided to let it go. Hunk opened his mouth to ask again, but Lance quickly interrupted and had him roped into a conversation about sand versus salt as a weapon with a figurative snap of his fingers.

Pidge, of course, cut in about how salt would be more painful, what with the chemical reactants with the blood.

“It would totally suck to get shot by, say, a laser, and then a bunch of salt comes pouring out of nowhere. All of your neurons would go on the fritz, I’m telling you!” She scowled. “Salt is no joke.”

“You would know.” Lance teased, and Pidge flicked a piece of food at him.

“Yeah, but sand. Not only is it uncomfortable, but it would be absolutely bananas to get out of a cut. Have you ever cut yourself on a shell on the beach or something and had to walk to get it cleaned?” Hunk shuddered, arms crossing around himself as his face morphed into dread. “I had to go to the hospital like twice for that!”

“But discomfort doesn’t mean much in the middle of a fight.” Keith cut in. “The salt will make it hurt more, like an added distraction. They’d probably have slowed reflexes, too.”

“Okay, but - and just hear me out - sand comes with a bunch of bacteria.” Lance said smugly. “They would totally be down for the count if they caught something.”

“Yeah, if. ” Pidge said. “There’s only a slight risk, if they have a suckish immune system. Plus it would take forever to get infected, not instantly in the middle of a fight.”

The four overlapped as they argued their point, breakfast nearly forgotten as they more or less crawled on top of the table to illustrate their points.

“Calm down, guys.” Shiro said exasperatedly as he stood, gathering his dishes.

“Wait! Which would you choose, Shiro?” Lance said, diving to cling onto their leader’s arm to stop him from leaving so suddenly.

“Yeah! Team Salt or Team Sand?”

Shiro looked up into the ceiling as he thought about the silly question. But he would humor them, if only to get them to drop the subject.

“Both.”

“Cheater!” Lance pouted as Shiro tugged away. Before they could squeeze a reason out of him, Shiro escaped to the kitchen.

“Nice job being the tiebreaker.” Keith muttered under his breath as he slumped into his seat, arms crossed.

“It sounds to me like the salt is the better choice, if you’d like my opinion.” Allura butted in, and the four heads turned simultaneously towards her.

“Traitor.” Lance whispered accusatorily.

Allura blinked back her blurred vision, pausing as she forced her lungs to settle when they twinged. Coughing was so unsanitary, especially in the middle of a meal.

“However, if you have a choice between the two, wouldn’t it be better for each of you to pair off and attack with both?” She added as an afterthought.

Pidge lifted a finger, as if to argue again, but her mouth hung open noiselessly.

Then she shrugged, “She’s right! I mean, assuming that we all get to choose before we go into this hypothetical battle.”

Soft, murmured agreements echoed around the table.

“Heck yeah! Teamwork!” Lance jumped up and lifted his hand for a high-five. Hunk followed quickly, and pulled Pidge in at the same time. They turned to Keith, who paused with his spork halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he lifted his hand to join the jumbled pile of fingers.

Then, they turned to Allura, who paused in the subtle massaging of her throat. She eyed them thoroughly, before standing and placing her hand in the circle above their head.

A few beats of silenced ticked, before Lance burst out in a grin and yelled out an excited, “Teamwork!” and dropped their hands.

“Teamwork!” The others echoed, a bit less enthusiastic. Allura followed a few beats behind, and much more subdued.

Heavily, she leaned back in her seat and her eyes fluttered shut. The conversation around her lulled, and it was only when it was completely silent that she opened her eyes again to regard them, straightening her spine like a steel rod.

“Are you sure you’re alright, Princess?” Hunk spoke up this time. “Tired, maybe?”

“No, no. I’m doing perfectly fine.” She said, though her voice sounded thick and just a tiny bit hoarse. “Please, continue on.”

“I dunno, Princess. You’re looking kind of red around the…” Lance gestured vaguely to her cheeks. “Tattoos? Birthmarks?”

Allura touched her cheek, and the heat radiating from them had her pulling her fingers back quickly.

She awkwardly cleared her throat, but a cough caught and her lungs struggled as she held it in. “I’m fine.” Allura repeated, slowly inhaling so that her nose wouldn’t honk, what with it being congested.

Coran chose that moment to walk in, and his reaction of pointing at her in horror and stumbling over his own words had everyone jumping out of their seat.

“Princess! I thought I ordered you to bed rest today.” He griped, flying over to fuss like a mother hen. “You’re much too sick.” He reprimanded.

“I knew it!” Lance shouted triumphantly. “Wait… she’s sick? ”

“A small case of the Paformium, I’m afraid.”

“The Paf-what?”

Coran continued over them, “Not to worry! It doesn’t easily spread.” He turned back to the Princess. “I do hope you weren’t talking excessively.”

“I only spoke -.”

“Ah! No words! Sore throats need rest.” He gathered her up along with the remainder of her breakfast. “Come, come. I’ll put you back to bed.”

She stumbled a bit on the stairs out of the room, but Coran was there to level her out and lifted his bicep for her to hold onto.

“Consider this a free day, paladins!” He called just before the door shut with a soft click.

The four looked at each other, expressions varying levels in confusion.

“I hope she’s going to be okay.” Hunk said finally, plopping back down in his seat.

Keith, Lance, and Pidge all nodded. Then, Lance stabbed his spork into Keith’s breakfast to steal a bit (seeing as he’d already cleaned his own plate) and the two broke off into an argument.

It echoed through the halls, loud enough to reach even Allura’s bedroom. She could make out the noises- or at least the vibrations- if she focused on them as she snuggled into her mountain of pillows and blankets.

It was strange to think of them as ‘defenders of the universe’, but they were a pretty good team. Her team.

Of course, they would need a strong leader to guide them. Not a sick one.

Before she drifted off to her dreams, where Altea was still thriving and her people were happy, she wrote a mental note to herself. Find some salt and sand, and a weapon to use them with.

Zarkon would never see it coming.

[tipsycad147]

HERBAL FIRST AID FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY

Written by Algoth’s Grove

“Your garden is filled with medicine, and you spend hundreds of thousands on pharmaceuticals, when Mother Nature gives you her bosom of medicine with love.”

Information is at our fingertips. We need only make the move to research and learn to look after our families in the healthiest ways possible. Not everyone is a doctor, but Mother Nature shows us how to be healers and her medicine only costs love and care… and of course the seeds or plants if we choose to grow our own medicines. If you really look around most of your essential oils and carrier oils are not as expensive as they seem to be.

There are multiple ways to administer the medicinal plants, tinctures and how to make them can be found in the article on Medicinal & Magickal Tinctures that we published late May, you can find it here.Then there are ointments for sprains, headaches, fevers, wounds and burns. One extremely important thing when beginning your Herbal First Aid collection is write EVERYTHING down. Trying to remember everything is not going to happen and may cause a hospital trip. Always do extensive research on your herbs of choice. For example, Poinsettia is found in almost everyones gardens, and is excellent for fevers, headaches, milk production in lactating mothers, fevers but is extremely poisonous to pregnant women and in large doses causes blindness in a study on rats.

There are a thousand alternatives to every medicinal plant. Rather pick the safest herb and when creating medicine rather use a combination of two safe plants than one plant that has extreme side effects but is more potent. Another example is the use of Belladonna. Even though it is one of my most beloved plants, I would never dare feed it to my little ones. The simple fact that one mistake on my part could allow them to sleep and not wake, rather pushes me to give them Chamomile which is far safer and the side effects are almost non-existent.

So let us get down to the safest, most effective list of herbs that are safe for the entire family.

WARNINGS: If you are ever unsure, do a test on the inside of the upper arm. Rub the tincture or ointment there and leave for 24 hours to see if an allergic reaction occurs. If it does do not use the herb. If your baby is younger than 6months do not give them any herbal remedies without the consultation of a Doctor. When in doubt throw it out! Never ever administer any medication if you have any doubt about what you are doing.

Echinacea –

Echinacea is a must-have in your home. It is a powerful all round healer and immune booster. It relieves pain, relieves headaches and brings fevers down. It is an anti-inflammatory, antibacterial, and antiviral. Its one of the best cures for the common cold and used as an ointment can heal cold sores and those slow healing wounds. Its not the easiest plant to grow, but growing your own, and creating a tincture and an ointment and keeping it in the house is definitely one of the most rewarding experience, not to mention the most cost effective.

Chamomile –

Chamomile is the all round nerve calmer. Chamomile in tea calms the kids before bed and when they feel overwhelmed or stressed after school, a cup of chamomile just makes them feel all fuzzy, warm and happy. Chamomile used as an ointment and combined with 10 drops of lavender rubbed on the temples is also a great stress reliever and a wonderful end-of-day habit to let go of all the stresses during the day.

Stinging Nettle –

Stinging Nettle sorts out all urinary infections or problems. Its a powerful anti-inflammatory plant and can be used in an ointment to help with asthma. For men with problems concerning potency and prostate problems, drinking a tea or using a tincture combining Stinging Nettle and Basil will sort out even the worst of problems. Stinging Nettle is also brilliant for women attempting to fall pregnant. Stinging Nettle is also incredible as the main ingredient in Gout ointment.

St. John’s Wort –

St. John’s Wort is the most beloved anti-depressant of the entire plant kingdom. However, he comes with a warning. If you are on any medication do not touch St. John’s Wort as it blocks any other medicinal plants or medicines from being taken up by the body. A lovely ointment for a kiddo that has sadness on occasion is a blend of St. Johns Wort, Lavender and Melissa, rubbed on the temples before sleeping will make them feel all better, thats of course if the chamomile seems to not do the trick.

Mullein –

The leaves and flowers of the plant are used to create medicines. Mullein is the go-to-herbal-remedy for coughs, colds, ear aches, and sore throats. It is smoked to relieve hay fever and asthma, and tinctures can be used for tooth ache and ear ache. It is a powerful pain reliever and an ointment made solely from mullein can be used on the temples and back of the neck to relieve migraines. Do not ingest the seeds of the Mullein plant as these are toxic.

Fennel –

Fennel is a mothers best friend, after giving birth, and giving to a colic baby. Please make sure you do your homework and ask a doctor for the exact dosage for the size of your child. In both men and women it revs up the sex drive, and is excellent as an ointment for back ache. In old witchy tales it speaks of fennel being the witches best friend, and cures heartburn as well. In babies and adults who suffer from IBS fennel is one of the best remedies for expelling excess gas from the stomach. Combined with Echinacea and Lemon Verbena you have a powerful immune booster. Fennel also helps in an ointment for eye swelling infections and styes. Fennel does increase the heart rate so keep that in mind.

Lemon Verbena –

Lemon Verbena is easy to grow and its an excellent fever reducing plant. It assists in reducing inflammation, assists with weight loss by regulating the appetite and eliminates mucus and phlegm on the chest. The tea is absolutely delicious when mixed with a teaspoon of honey, and also reduces anxiety. Its safe for the whole family and really one of those pleasant herbs that must be in your home.

Yarrow – Please read our article on Yarrow here.

If you have any herbal remedies that you believe should be added to the list make sure to add it into the comments so that everyone can benefit!

Algoth’s Grove