#prompt: can't move

[medusas-graveyard]

Can I have like,, an au where Danny & Damian knew each other while they were tiny kids (whether or not they're brothers or if Danny was like. A kid from one of Raa's servants) where, while Damian is now a better version of himself, Danny has fallen from grace.

Picture; Danny that isn't as op but concerningly smart????? Mad scientist Danny? Mad scientist Danny. Who've been betrayed for too long so now he just... Snaps.

(TW: IMPLIED SUICIDE. CONTINUE WITH CAUTION.)

Gone was the scared teenager that went through loss after loss, after loss. The teenager that was betrayed by the people he served and the 'parents' that took him in, the boy who lost everything. Now, as he stood beside his creation— the one who will end the world itself, Danny is eerily calm, as he looked at Damian that stood across him with a gentle, soft smile. There's acceptance in that smile of his; and he couldn't help but reel on how they both can still change.

But Danny—the sweet, sweet boy that he once knew, simply chuckled and shook his head.

"And this world is merely a dot in the vast universe. Then, our souls will wonder about the vast stars, isn't it beautiful?"

"Bshoufak, Dami." He smiles, "when Time will inevitably reconstruct this universe to a new one, and taking us with it—"

"—I hope, fate will be kinder to the both of us."

[buglaur]

she's live

now you can see what everyones height is in my head because i refuse to download height sliders. look at ass <3

[pollyna]

It takes three days for the fever to pass and the meds to work, and another week for Mav to understand where he is. There isn't a moment in all that time when Pete stops asking about Tom or he stops searching for his hand between the hospital's sheets.

(It doesn't get better when he wakes up.)

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 5: Pinned Down

Read on Ao3

- Sky & the Chain

- Summary: in the depths of a cave, Sky encounters a deadhand

CW for allusions to claustrophobia and blood and injury

------------------------

Sky can’t say he particularly likes caves. The one on Skyloft had intrigued him as a child, to be sure. But stepping inside of its constraining walls, stumbling and falling in near-darkness, praying that he won’t be attacked by a keese or chu…that is an experience he will never forget.

The ones on the surface are even worse. The surface air already presses down on him (he wonders if he’ll ever grow accustomed to it.) But inside the caves it is nearly suffocating. It only adds to their stifling feel, closing around him like a vice.

And now, as the door slams shut behind him, caging him and the other heroes in gloom he decides that he doesn’t just dislike them. He hates them.

He and his brothers had entered the cave earlier this morning. A nearby town had reported that a monster had made its home there and the heroes had decided to look into it. Which had led them here to this tiny room…where arms stick grotesquely out of the floor.

Sky takes an unconscious step back and bumps into the barred door. An unnatural horror creeps through him, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Slowly, he draws the Master Sword.

Its glow is a comfort, but only slight.

“What in Hylia’s name is that?” Wild asks. He stands beside Sky with his own weapon in hand and a look of disgust on his face.

“A deadhand.”

Their leader answers in a voice that lends no reassurance. His tone is steady and cool, but Sky can detect the fear hovering just past it.

He swallows, hard.

“And what, pray tell, is that?” Legend inquires, snappishly. His discomfort is plain to see, even past his front of annoyance.

Time unsheathes his sword in one swift motion. Though his face is hidden from view, Sky can see the tension in the way he holds himself, hear the catch in his breath when he speaks.

“A terrible monster that burrows beneath the ground to await its victims.” He turns now, skewering his companions with a piercing glare. “Do not let it grab you.”

“So,” Hyrule says, slowly, “how do we kill it?”

A grim smirk lifts Time’s lips. “You can either walk right into its clutches and hope you can squirm away before it removes your head from your shoulders,” — Twilight's eyes go wide — “or you can do this.”

He produces a small, circular object from his pouch and holds it up to his eye.

“Hey, that's cool! What is it?” Wind pipes up, but Warriors shushes him.

“I’ll tell you later, sailor.”

Time remains still for a moment, studying the ground. Sky leans forward, peering at the spot, trying to see what he sees. But the ground appears empty.

…except for the horrifying arms sticking out of it, of course.

Then, the older hero draws a bomb out of his pouch. Bending, he sends it into a gentle roll. It slows around the middle of the room and tips over. Its fuse begins to spark.

“Prepare yourselves,” he says. “When it shows itself, aim for the head.”

Sky shifts, his grip on the sword tightening. The tension in the room makes the atmosphere even more oppressive and he struggles to breathe through it.

But the sound of the bomb going off shatters it. And in the next moment, something large and white and horrifying erupts from the ground and Sky can focus on nothing else.

It turns its long neck, angling itself to face the heroes. Grinning at them with massive, crimson-tinged teeth, it begins to move its gelatinous form forward.

Time lunges for it, sword held high, and the other heroes quickly follow suit. But even as he moves, more arms emerge. He cuts them down with a swift, horizontal swipe and then lifts his weapon, ready to cleave through the deadhand’s skull. Multiple others erupt in front of him, though, and he is forced to leap back. He only just evades their grasping fingers.

“Are these things supposed to have this many arms?” Wild asks as he fights his way through some that have come up around him. 

Time lets out a grunt of frustration and exertion as he slashes at the offending arms. 

“These monsters have infinite limbs. Neglect to kill them quickly and they regenerate. But no, they don’t normally have quite this many. There may be a second one still hiding.”

“Well that’s reassuring,” Legend snarks. 

Sky can’t help but agree with him. He casts a glance down to the ground beneath his feet, praying the second monster isn’t lying in wait there. 

“Can anyone reach this one’s head?” Four asks. “If we cut it down, I’m guessing these arms will retract. Is that right, old man?”

Time nods, just barely dodging another claw-like hand.

Sky takes a deep breath, forcing the idea of the other monster from his mind. “I can reach it.”

He raises his sword, waits for the telltale zip of power, then frees the beam. It soars toward the deadhand’s head. But at the last moment another arm shoots upward like a gory plant and absorbs the hit.

The monster turns toward him with more speed than Sky would ever have imagined it possessing. He grits his teeth, steeling himself. He raises the sword again.

“Sky! Look out!” 

The sailor’s shout is just a moment too late. A new bunch of limbs erupt around the Skyloftian like a morbid cage. Eyes widening, panic streaking through him, he tries to cut them down. But they are too fast.

They snake outward, dagger-thin fingers clamping onto him like vices. They curl around his neck, his arms, his legs and waist. He chokes on the rancid air he can no longer inhale. The Master Sword clatters to the ground. 

“Hold on, Sky, we’re coming!” 

The sounds of the struggle surrounding him fill his ears, yet Sky hardly hears it. He fights desperately. But his efforts are useless. Hands continue to come, grabbing at his face, dragging fingernails across his scalp, tightening around his body. 

And then, the second monster appears. He rises from the ground only a few feet from him, enormous mouth already beginning to open.

Sky chokes on a mouthful of tears and blood. Already the world has begun to take on a grayish tinge. Unconsciousness is coming fast, heralded by the tightening of the hands around his neck. But not fast enough to block out the sight of the deadhand.

It is inches from him now. Sky drags in short, fast breaths that garner him no air. His heart thunders in his chest, every beat reverberating throughout his body. He is smothered by his unearthly bonds; by the walls that press close on every side; by the terrible, inescapable stench of death and decay. 

Desperately, he tries to reach for his fallen sword. But the hands constrict further, as though they know what he is attempting to do. For a split second his vision bleeds white, ears filled with a ringing and rushing that sets his stomach churning. And when it clears the monster is right in front of him. 

He has mere seconds to steel himself for what is about to come. 

The gaping maw is all he can see now, a dark chasm filled with yellowish teeth that drip with blood. 

How long has it been since this thing last devoured someone? He wonders, distantly. Who was the unlucky soul who suffered such a fate?

Terrified as he is, he can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for them. 

But just as quickly as it comes, it is gone, replaced by a vice-like panic. Because in the next moment, the deadhand’s mouth closes around his face.

Sky goes rigid, a strangled scream breaking free of his constricted throat. Pain explodes across his face. The smell of blood and death and centuries-old decay fill his nostrils, smothering him. He chokes on it. 

He can feel his own blood trickling down, now, from the places the deadhand’s teeth have sunk into. It stings his eyes, cascades past his lips. The sickly taste of iron sits heavy on his tongue. 

Sky has seen sinister creatures on the surface — grinning bokoblins and leering moblins, chasing him with their clubs and swords, eager to bring him down. But never before has he been prey to one like this. 

It moves closer, ravenous for human blood and flesh, fingernails penetrating deep into his skin, hold continuing to tighten until Sky is certain his bones will break. 

Desperately he tries to thrash, gulping gasps of rancid air that never make it to his lungs. His fingers stretch outward, trying once more to pull the Master Sword to him. But she doesn’t budge. 

Tears stream down his cheeks, mingling with blood and dirt. He is suffocated by agony and terror. This is so different from the sky, where everything is fresh and cool and free. Where the biggest threat are the octoroks he and Zelda used to plow through with ease. 

Down here, there is no air, no safety, no escape. There is only darkness and gloom and whatever horrors may hide within it.

Oh, how he misses the sky.

“-ky, Sky! Hang on!”

Hang on. He can do that, can’t he? Yeah, he can…he…

Another breath catches in his throat. A nauseating crunch sounds from far away. Pain rockets through him so fast he nearly blacks out. But through the darkness that crowds his vision is the tiniest bit of light. He clutches it with every bit of his remaining strength.

And in the next moment, he is free. 

There is a terrible jolt that sends shockwaves through his aching form. Then an unearthly scream fills his ears, as the monster finally disappears in a cloud of black smoke.

The arms go with it and Sky crumples without their hold. But Time is there to catch him before he hits the ground. He cradles the Skyloftian to his chest and Sky blinks dazedly up at him.

“T-time?” He mumbles and the old man nods, eye sharp with worry. 

There are scratches carved along his face, their bloodied lines stark against his skin. Sky frowns, trying to find the words to ask if he is alright. But he can hardly manage to cling to consciousness, much less formulate a complete sentence. So, he settles instead for lifting a clumsy hand, trying to brush the blood off the old man’s cheek.

Time catches his hand before it makes it there, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips.

“Don’t worry about me, Sky. Rest. You’re safe now. The monsters are gone.”

Sky blinks again, then nods. Gentle hands brush his face, turn his head slightly to inspect his wounds, and he lets them. Everything hurts and his lungs are on fire from too long without air. The stench of death still clings to him like a disease. 

He feels oddly light too, as though he is floating. Floating on waves of agony and an eternity of darkness. 

He drags in another breath, thankful at least that he can breathe once more.

“Is he okay?” Someone asks. Wind, Sky believes.

With an effort, he opens his mouth to reassure the sailor that he will be. But all that comes out is a rasping cough. It sends waves of pain through him and tears spark hot in the corners of his eyes. 

When at last, it ends, someone maneuvers his head up and tips a potion to his lips.

“Here, drink this.” It’s Warriors now. “It’ll help.”

“He’ll be okay, sailor,” Twilight is saying from far away. “We’ll patch him up.”

“And then we’re getting the heck out of this cave,” Legend says. “We took care of the monsters, yeah? There’s no need to stick around and see if they regenerate.”

A glimmer of hope alights within Sky, shining just past the haze he drifts in. And as the potion slides down his throat he does his best to swallow it all. He’ll do anything he can to make the healing process faster, so he can escape this place. 

It seems the others agree with him. Because once they have bandaged Sky and he is secure in Time’s arms (the old man had staunchly opposed his offers to walk, despite his assurances that the potion had greatly helped), they practically race through the cavernous hallways. Sky closes his eyes as they turn down paths that all look the same, blocking out the memories of his horrifying ordeal and waiting for the wonderful moment when the sunlight will fall on him once more.

He only reopens them when Wind cries, “hey, look! The exit!” And then they’re stepping out into the blinding light of day and he is gulping great mouthfuls of fresh air, staring bravely up at the sun, heedless of the way it makes his eyes tear up.

“Doing alright, Sky?” Time asks as he carefully sets the Skyloftian down beneath the shade of a large tree. They all need a short breather before setting out to find a good place to camp for the night.

Sky smiles up at him, reveling in the feel of grass beneath him. “I’m alright. But I would rather not explore any more caves for a while.”

Time chuckles. “I believe we can all agree with that sentiment.”

And sure enough, a chorus of assent erupts from the group. With a small chuckle of his own, Sky leans back against the tree and closes his eyes.

[heavywoolcoat]

[jiiyawns]

my favorite episode of sonic x is the first one

[kochanski]

Here's another concept from my drafts folder:

What if the gang finally had an opportunity to get back to Earth in the correct time and place, but Lister tries to sabotage it? After a lengthy drawn out attempt to get him to confess the reason, he starts to admit he's got sort of like… prison syndrome. He believes he wouldn't be able to survive on Earth after years of just scavenging and living off Red Dwarf's storage, and feels he's lost whatever carefree spark it was that kept him afloat when he had no hope of reaching Earth before. This anxiety spirals and finally Rimmer is the one to talk him down of all people because Rimmer actually understands how that type of rejection feels.

[bylertruther]

the crazy thing abt will and mike is that we mostly learn will is gay because other people tell us he is, but we learn that mike is gay (despite him telling us he's not, begging us to pls see tht he's not gay) because literally everything that he does is so fucking gay. because in him trying to not be gay he is just being so unbelievably extra fucking gay without realizing. like. el is literally his red herring idc i'll say it stone me if u must but the truth must be said !!!!

[sugar-roll-cookie]

Gilan: a helpful gentleman

Jenny's stove being broken: Gilan: I can fix that Jenny: I am calling a professional Gilan: I AM a professional Jenny: A more professional professional

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Meddling Mar

A warning this chapter for a mention of Dark Warrior Program related violence (because Praxis is just. The worst.) It will be in italics for those who wish to skip it.

Click HERE to go to the chapter index for this fic

(From last time:)

The king studied him for an uncomfortable moment, then his lips twisted at the corner into a smirk.

"You let me fix that haircut you gave yourself, and I'll call it even."

Jak did not appreciate Daxter's howl of laughter. Or Mar agreeing on his behalf.

Nonetheless, he had nothing to trade, and so he grudgingly agreed to let this bizarre ruler fix his hair the following day. Thankfully, Damas didn’t comment on how absolutely abysmal Jak’s handiwork really was. Instead, he just asked questions about preferred length, and what he wanted his hairline to look like.

"What do you mean hairline? I mean, doesn't it just kind of look like that normally?" Jak asked, a little bewildered.

Damas muttered something under his breath, but his expression was kind when Jak turned around.

"You have options, you know. Look at your brother’s hair. We could do it like that, or you could do a fade-"

"A what?"

"...alright, we're starting at square one, then." Damas stood up. "It's a tapered cut, essentially shaved on the sides and "fading" into the rest of the hair. Give me a minute, I think we're going to need the comb my wife uses."

"You're married?!" Mar demanded with an incredulous expression.

"Yes?" Damas raised an eyebrow. "Am I not allowed to be?"

"Well where is she, then?"

The king pointed to the window in the ward, towards the ocean.

"Fishing. She spends two days a week at sea overnight, barring storms."

"Oh. Like Ollie."

Damas didn't know who Ollie was supposed to be, but the name obviously meant something to the older boys. (Older boys: plural. That was going to take some getting used to, trying to remember that the orange mustelid looking thing was evidently a teenage boy with a very unusual condition.)

"What's she like?" Daxter asked, tiptoeing as if he could see her through the window, "Is she hot?"

He quailed under a stern look from Damas.

"She is to be respected. And while I will settle for a verbal warning for a first time, -- considering you have likely not been subjected to particularly reputable influences in Haven -- she is within her rights not to."

Daxter flattened himself against the bed, ears pinned back against his skull. He mimed zipping his lips closed and covered his mouth with both hands. Jak rolled his eyes at his friend.

"Disreputable influences, huh," he snorted. "That would be "loudmouth KG on every street corner and hour shift" in our case."

"And Torn," Mar chipped in.

There was something unusually bitter about the way Jak answered, "Sure. Torn too."

After an awkward few seconds, Jak added, "You can do the fading thing I guess. I don't care either way."

"You should," Damas grumbled, "Didn't anyone ever teach you how to take care of yourself?"

"Nnnnope."

The boy didn’t sound nearly as concerned about that as he should have.

"Ye gods and little fishes," Damas muttered under his breath.

He needed to come up with some kind of guardian, and soon. If he let these three attempt to survive on their own, his wife would skin him alive.

"Alright then. Fade it is. You make sure that razor is sharpened -- run it on the leather strop. Yes, like that -- I'm getting the comb."

It was a calculated move on his part, leaving Jak with a sharp object. It was a gesture of trust -- or more of a leap of faith. Giving Jak the sense that no one objected to him being able to protect himself, while also showing him vulnerability. If the kid was inclined, he could very well try to slit Damas’s throat. Of course, he hoped Jak wouldn't do that. It wouldn't end well for anyone involved. But maybe he'd find the gesture comforting.

Damas dug around upstairs through his wife's cluttered washroom. As sparse as it was, he was amazed by how much junk Phobos managed to drag in. It was always "I'm gonna make something out of that", but then she hopped from project to project as time allowed, leaving half finished blades and combs and cups all over every available surface -- and even some unavailable surfaces.

By the time he'd actually found the comb, Damas had accidentally knocked over a box of shells in the process of being ground up into paint, dislodged a sketch hanging over the mirror, and gotten pigment dust all over the right side of his head when he'd stood up too quickly and knocked his head on a shelf.

His attempts to hide the evidence were mostly successful, but not enough to keep the little Not-Mar from noticing a streak of gold on his cheekbone and hair. He let out a delighted shriek of laughter and pointed, so of course Jak and Daxter turned and stared too.

Ah, the judgement of teenagers. Just what everyone needs.

"Phobos booby-traps her bathroom, I swear," Damas sighed. "At least there were no snapping turtles in the sink this time."

"This time?!" Daxter echoed, alarmed. He fell back onto Mar's pillow. "Eesh. Jak used to do that too, til we got the dog."

Mar stiffened in something akin to panic. "Chopper! Where's Chopper? Did they take her too?"

"Calm down, squirt." Daxter patted Mar's knee. "I left her with Tess. She's gonna be fat and spoiled when we get her back, but Tess won't let anyone hurt her."

Mar relaxed. "Oh. I remember her, she's good."

Daxter grinned. "See? I know what I'm talkin' about." He elbowed their little brother. "Hey hey, maybe Spike King should put some of that glitter on Jak, since he's already having a spa day, huh?"

"Shut up, Dax," Jak huffed.

Jak would never have expected a haircut to be soothing -- embarrassingly.

Nobody was yanking through his tangles, complaining loudly about how "unmanageable" it was. No one was sloshing burning plant extracts into his hair, untwisting his coils into stiff, "good" hair. And somehow, Jak wasn't afraid.

The Baron’s prison had never bothered to cut their victims' hair; they hosed prisoners off to avoid vermin and wash away blood and that was the extent of it. But the Baron still had a habit of yanking prisoners around by the head on his few "inspections".

Especially Jak.

The worst had been a moment when they'd thrown him into the blood-soaked "training course", with the few other surviving members of the experiment. When Jak had refused to salute the Baron. A day when he'd been brave enough to spit in Praxis's face. Enraged, the Baron had hauled him bodily from the ground, hard enough to rip a couple of hairs from his head. He'd flung Jak headlong into the half-cover brick wall for his insolence. It had knocked out one of his canines on impact.

He still hadn't saluted.

Jak was glad they'd never figured out that his first dark transformation had completely regrown his missing tooth. He had absolutely no doubt that the experiments would've taken horrifying new turns if they'd learned about the regeneration. Jak's muscles twitched in a suppressed shudder.

Less than a second later, Damas quickly withdrew his hand.

"What is it?" he asked, "Did I hurt you?"

How had he known that had been a reaction? Even Daxter had trouble telling what was a fear reaction and what was just a spasm.

"Muscle spasm," Jak lied, "Sorry. It happens sometimes."

"....uh-huh."

Damas didn’t sound like he was completely convinced, but he didn't say anything more about it. He rinsed his comb in a bowl of water and continued easing through Jak's hair, gathering it up with a clip on the top of his head. Once or twice he sat back and made thoughtful humming sounds.

"Well, young man, now we find out how well you sharpened that razor." Damas held a hand out, just waiting.

Jak held his breath.

And handed him the blade.

"Well done. I'll be quick," Damas murmured. He trimmed and shaved in careful motions, pausing whenever the castaway tensed up. "This won't take as long as your brother’s hair did-"

Then he whispered, "-and clearly I won't have to bribe you to sit still like I had to with him."

After pausing to imagine the strange king trying to comb a squirming, thrashing Mar's hair, Jak scoffed and grinned.

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

They descended into silence, and Mar lost interest after a minute or two. He slid off his bed and began boldly rifling through Damas’s bag before the man reached back and caught his wrist.

"Excuse you!" Damas scolded, "What do you think you're doing?"

Mar shrugged. "Looking for the peg game."

"So ask, barbarian!" Damas gently pushed Mar away. "Pick a pocket like that in the city and you'll bring more trouble down on your head than it's worth. No more of that, understand?"

The little boy scowled. "Your hands were busy! Asking makes people mad at you for bothering them, anyway. What are you scolding me for?"

Wolves. They were raised by wolves. For a moment, Damas felt like he was dealing with one of Mar’s tantrums.

He stared at the little boy incredulously and leaned forward.

"Ask. First. We aren't mind readers. And this isn’t Haven."

Mar's frown deepened. "Fine. Can I have the peg game?"

"I didn't bring it today," Damas answered, "But you may get the green canvas bag out and play Pathway if you like."

"That one's hard!" Mar complained with a frustrated grunt. Nonetheless, he pulled out the bag and undid the drawstring to unfold it into a game board.

Jak raised his brows and studied the nondescript grid on the mat. "How does this work?"

Daxter shuffled a stack of battered cardboard squares with lines on them and separated them from several tiny figures.

"You start at a corner and put down tiles to make a road. Can't cross another line or go off the board or you're out."

"You have to trap other travelers in loops or send them off the mat," Mar added.

He pouted.

"Daxter always wins."

This, Jak was shortly to discover, was not an exaggeration. At their warden/potential new boss person's encouragement, Jak picked up a token and joined the game, only to find himself cornered within three turns. Daxter wasn't even that good at the game; Jak and Mar were simply too impulsive to consider strategy on something that wasn't life or death. (And even when things were life or death, they were still reckless.) Now and then Damas made an observation or suggestion, but for the most part he focused on Jak’s hair.

After getting his token run off the board for the seventh time, Jak was getting frustrated. Still, he was too stubborn to admit defeat -- especially in front of someone he was probably going to end up working for. (It was the only way he could think of to pay off whatever their medical care had cost, anyway.)

He was about to demand another rematch when he heard the razor drop into the bowl with a soft splash.

Damas thumped him on the shoulder in a kind of rough, playful gesture and stood to shake hair clippings onto the floor. There was more of it than Jak had expected.

"You're done. Look in this and tell me what you think."

He handed Jak a small, scratched mirror, no bigger than his fist.

Jak stared into the glass and a stranger stared back at him.

The face in the mirror looked softer, rounder. More like Mar than he'd ever believed possible. He was still pale, but it almost looked like the dark circles under his eyes were fading away.

With one finger, Jak traced the sharp, neat, line delineating his forehead from his hair. It would take some getting used to. But he liked how the sides of his head looked.

"Oh," he said softly.

"Oh?" Damas repeated, "Is that good or bad?"

"Good, I think." Jak ran his fingertips through gold coils -- the green was starkly obvious at his temples now -- and idly twisted a longer strand around one finger. "I look..."

I look like someone cares about stuff like my hair. Never had that before.

"It's new," he settled on.

"Better than before, at least," the king said. He shook the last stray hairs from his tunic.

Someone cleared their throat from behind them, and both Jak and Damas turned to find one of the monks a few feet away at the door. She looked faintly perturbed by something -- Jak wondered if seeing a king doing menial tasks was normal or not here -- but waited to be acknowledged. Immediately, Damas gathered up the comb and razor and left their alcove.

"Strip your bedding after the noon rest," he ordered, a little distractedly, "You'll be moving to Alma's building tonight, so your beds need to be ready for new patients."

Then he hurried to the corridor to speak with the monk.

"Ruth, yes? What is it?"

The woman glanced over his shoulder at the boys, and the lines around her mouth deepened. "Word from the medical records keepers, sire."

She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, clearly uncomfortable. "It's about the young exiles."

Damas ignored the foreboding whisper in the back of his mind and held his customary facade of stoic thoughtfulness. "Already? I was under the impression that the cheek swabs wouldn't yield results for another two weeks."

A muscle twitched in Ruth's ghostly white cheek. "Tam sent me to inform you that their gene samples are causing some trouble in the system. He requires four extra days to ensure that there has been no contamination of the samples during transfer. In the meantime, he had a question regarding the childrens' fingerprint records. There is an anomaly we are unable to account for, despite it being completely impossible."

"What kind of anomaly?"

Despite the heat of the afternoon, Damas felt a chill across the back of his neck when the monk answered him.

"The younger boy's fingerprints are fully identical to the elder one's, down to the last line. In all ways save the size, they are the prints of the same person."

[academyofbrokenhearts]

As We Move You Can't Tell Us Apart

Suna is unusually silent and dismissive, and Kaya attempts to talk to her, with unexpected results. One-shot.

Author note: We saw Kaya implying that there used to be something between him and Pırıl in the latest trailer, and we also saw him touching her cheek. We also saw Suna apparently walking in on this.

As of now, I have zero idea what this will mean canon wise, but Twitter user hanasfx came up with a jealousy prompt inspired by the scenes in the trailer, so I took it and ran away with it. Hope I did justice to everyone who was expecting a fic based on this.

Title inspired by Klaxons's song "Twin Flames". I did struggle with the title more than usual.

AO3 link here.

Suna has been in the bathroom for a long time, and Kaya starts to believe something is amiss.

She has kept her distance from him the entire day, but he hasn't been very alarmed at first - he knows she goes through a difficult period (to put it mildly), and is perfectly content with giving her space until she sorts everything out.

Except that sorting things out seems to take her a lot more than he expected. She had been acting out with him the entire day after her fight with Pelin, but at least she had been talking to him, even if it was only to argue. Today she has been awfully quiet - and he doesn't like it one bit.

Right at the moment when he finally makes up his mind to go and knock at the bathroom's door, she gets out. It looks like she took a bath; her hair is still slightly wet, and her cheeks are pink and flushed, but her entire posture is rigid and cold, and she doesn't even look at him.

He takes a deep breath. Not ideal to start this conversation in the evening right before sleep, but it does look like their bedroom is the only place where she can't successfully avoid him.

"Suna, care to tell me what's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing is wrong," she answers with a fake cheerfulness that doesn't fool him one bit.

She had the exact same smile when she had told him, before their failed wedding, that he was never going to be able to get rid of her. At that time, her words had bothered him deep down inside; he had understood her reaction only after she had confessed she knew about that horrible conversation he had had with his mother.

That's how Suna acts, at least with him. Walls up whenever she's hurt - or whenever she fears she might be hurt.

"No use to play this game with me," he says out loud, studying her carefully. "You forget that I do know you a bit better now. I know something is wrong."

"I can only admire your insight," she answers, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Did it take you long to come up with that one?"

"I don't mean the current general situation," he replies patiently. "I mean with you. You look like you are upset with me, and no, don't tell me this is about Pelin, because you did not act like that after the Pelin incident. There's something more, I know it. In fact..."

He pauses for a bit, tries to think of it. There was a moment during the day when he pinched Pırıl's cheek, but she cannot possibly be mad about that... can she?

Suna presses her lips together, her expression more stubborn than Kaya thought it possible. It's clear she is not willing to talk, and well, something's got to give, so he just says it, even if he doesn't believe it himself.

"Wait, is this about Pırıl?"

And then he watches in wonder his wife's cheeks reddening, She's lost for words for a few seconds, and then she explodes in a laugh that is just as loud as it is fake.

"Pırıl? Please, why would I even care about Pırıl? But it does look like you care about her a lot, I have to say I think it's interesting. I didn't know you were such good friends."

All the stars above, Kaya thinks in disbelief. She cannot be jealous. This is simply not happening.

"I just think," Suna goes on, voice raising slightly, "that it's a bit unfair to go on about how we promised to be honest with each other and have each other's backs and all that sweet talk, only for you to have friendships I am not even aware of. I do wonder how many other friends you have I know nothing about."

"Oh for the love of God," Kaya begins, only for her to cut him off immediately:

"And don't even bother trying to deny it, because I saw you, and I do clearly remember telling you not to play with me!"

"Wait a second," he says, increasingly angry. "Are you seriously accusing me of having a thing with Pırıl behind your back? For your information, when I make a promise, I always intend to keep it! I asked you to marry me, and I promised you loyalty and support, and I intend to keep that promise for as long as we are married! Or maybe you're implying we had a thing in the past - in which case, newsflash, everyone has a past! Even you have one! May I remind you that your ex is actually living in this house, and you have not heard a single complaint from me about this?!"

"Well, maybe you should talk about it, if it bothers you so much!" Suna explodes all of a sudden. "Maybe you should ask me about it! But it's very clear that it does not bother you in the slightest, and that I am the only one who is bothered by all of this!"

Before she can go on any further, he covers the distance between them in two steps and kisses her.

She's struggling at first, trying to escape, but then, when his tongue parts her lips and enters her mouth, she stops fighting him, and actually drags him more towards her, responding to his kiss with the same intensity. It goes on, and on, and when they finally stop, they're both breathless, and there are a few seconds of silence before Kaya finally speaks:

"Who the fuck says it does not bother me?"

And then it's Suna's turn to kiss him, and it's not any more gentle than the kiss he gave her. It's so intense that he feels just as weak in the knees as a teenager.

This woman is going to be the death of him, he thinks.

[megaawkwardhuman]

cringetober day 17: fake anime screenshot

... let's close our eyes and act like this looks more anime like than it does

ok? ok

[tvrningout-a]

hmm how would we feel if i remade

[youremyonlyhope]

why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up why won't my brain shut up

[dothegravitybounce]

i know why people dislike laezel but to me dealing with astarion is much harder

[watercolor-hearts]

.