#・+ in character . * ━ salutations! it’s good to be back on the air ❜

[staticheck]

+ ❛ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐊𝐒! Wowza have I got a special treat for my loyal listeners : 𝑳𝑼𝑪𝑰𝑭𝑬𝑹 𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹 joins us tonight with beloved guest 𝒁𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑰𝑨𝑳 aiding in the studio! Tell us your majesty do you prefer :

𝟷. 𝙱𝙴𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙰𝙻𝙺𝙴𝙳 𝙳𝙾𝚆𝙽 𝚃𝙾. 𝟸. 𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝚃𝙰𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰 𝙺𝙽𝙴𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙱𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚃𝙰𝙽𝚃𝚁𝚄𝙼𝚂 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚂𝙾𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙻𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙷 𝚆𝙾𝙴𝚂!

THERE'S NO WRONG ANSWERS, ONLY PAIN, MISERY AND SELF LOATHING! ❜

[statiicstag]

[ tag dump ]

[pomefioredove]

Hiii!! I was wondering if you could “I can’t stop thinking about you” with Jade? If ur prompt things are still open of course! If not that’s totally okay too!!

o7 anon

summary: "I can’t stop thinking about you" type of post: short fic characters: jade additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not specified to be yuu, not proofread and maybe a little ooc a part of this event

"And don't forget to lock the doors when you leave,"

Azul sighs, hovering in the doorway of the Mostro Lounge with his hands on his hips.

"Luckily, nothing was stolen last time I let Floyd take the closing shift, but luck is fickle,"

He pauses, turning to you. "I'm sure you, at least, will be able to handle something so simple."

You salute the tired-looking merman before the soft swoosh of the kitchen door interrupts the conversation.

"My, you have such little faith in me, Azul. I'm wounded," a smoother, much less tense, presence follows it.

You'd always wondered how Jade is able to sound imposing without ever actually raising his voice.

Azul huffs. "I clearly was not addressing you. Good evening to the both of you... Don't stay up too late,"

And with that, he's gone.

As soon as the door is closed and Azul's inky silhouette has vanished, you turn to look at the gentleman behind you.

"I didn't even know you were here,"

"I'm not supposed to be," Jade smiles, offering little explanation.

By now, you're sure he does that on purpose.

You don't feel like being baited into a conversation, but when your only other option is silence with Jade...

"So?"

"I was taking stock," he says. "Both metaphorically and literally. We're short on limes."

His strangeness radiates off of him like a mist. You narrow your eyes at him; he's hiding something, you're sure. But what are you supposed to do- interrogate him?

"I'll leave a note," you mutter, turning your attention back to sweeping.

This is your very first closing shift at the lounge; no customers, no Azul, no sounds except for your own breathing.

And Jade's.

He smiles again. "Shall I help? You'll be done faster with another set of hands,"

He could just leave. He's not even on the clock... if this is him looping you into some ploy to get overtime, you swear...

"If you would like,"

"Excellent,"

Jade disappears into the kitchen, taking that strange air of tension with him, and returns with a rag and cleaning solution.

He's completely silent, perusing the lounge as if it were an art museum, admiring the specks and stains on each table before wiping them down.

"You seem nervous," he says merrily, not even looking at you. "Are you afraid of the dark?"

"No," a half-truth. "I'm just tired." a lie.

"I've read that many human children develop a fear of the dark. What's more, is that it's not considered irrational. How fascinating,"

You focus on the bristles of the broom in front of you. The Mostro Lounge does get rather dark at night... all of Octavinelle does.

"It's not irrational," you mutter.

"Perhaps for you. But in the sea, a child being afraid of the dark would be as silly to us as a child being afraid of sunlight would be to you,"

You pause to look out one of the windows in the lounge, the thick pane of glass separating you from the inky depths. It's almost pitch black at this hour.

Ugh. You're letting him get in your head.

You hum. "Is that why you're here, then? Protecting me from the dark?"

Jade smiles, watching you out of the corner of his eyes. "No. I was only making conversation. You seemed uncomfortable with my presence,"

"I just was expecting to be alone,"

"So was I,"

You pause, turning to him with a questioning glance.

As vague an answer as ever, you think, though there's a certain gleam in his eye that's daring you to find out for yourself.

He meets your gaze. "You interest me,"

Jade says it plainly, his tone soft, as if he thinks he might scare you away with any sudden movements.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he hums. "And I hope you understand my meaning... I do not seek to make you uncomfortable."

You set the broom against the wall. "You're not,"

He mimics you, setting the rag and bottle aside. If you didn't know any better, you could've sworn you caught a look of relief on him.

"Good. I have no malicious intentions... This time,"

You take that as a joke. It's not very funny.

Jade chuckles. "Ah, don't roll your eyes at me. I'm only lightening the mood... I would like to get to know you better, after all," he pauses. "As a confidante."

There's something oddly genuine about this.

He's as calm as ever, but you can tell there's a current of vulnerability hiding beneath the surface.

You can't help a smile at the thought.

"Not an informant, then?"

He smiles back. "Not with you, no,"

[staticheck]

+ 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄, 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐀 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐙𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐘. The first sign of wet tears forming at the corner of their eyes over decades past of memories that come flooding back like a freight train that has hit them hard and fast with a resolute to 𝙺𝙸𝙻𝙻. A vignette of shadows reaching from the corners of crimson walls and newly pressed wallpaper as the laughter goes on.

Their reaction may seem at first as if they were treating the question as some sort of [ 𝙹𝙾𝙺𝙴 ] which, to the defense of their knowledge, is in modern terms. Shoulders rise as they inhale the very life essence of their younger self, their forgotten shadow back into themselves. Then Alastor exhaled, bending forward with their palms resting against their knees.

Claw tips puncturing red velvet pants.

They shouldn't have worn something so lavish today. They didn't feel so hot anymore with such an absurd question. But they don't feel ire towards Charlie. There was a presence within them that had grown to be warm — their oath to Lilith, and even as they had come and gone they always ended up right here: looking at their greatest achievement. So pure, and not evil at all. How truly ironic for 𝑽𝑬𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑨𝑵𝑪𝑬.

❛ Oh 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙻𝙸𝙴. ❜ Alastor exhales in a sing-song manner. ❛ Why you're past being an infant my darling. Look at you dear, so tall and strong. ❜ And one day, it'll be Charlie's turn to leave. Even if they'll always be the babe that Alastor held in their arms way back then. The sting of molten lava tearing into their flesh is ever so brilliant in their memories. They dare raise a finger and give that button nose a poke, feeling the prick of hellfire against their skin. Alastor tilts their head with a smile.

❛ A̵N̶G̶E̴L̵ ̵D̶O̸E̴S̷N̸'̵T̸ ̴K̷N̴O̸W̷ ̴W̴H̴A̶T̴ ̴H̵E̸'̶S̷ ̷F̴U̶C̶K̵I̵N̷G̸ ̵T̶A̷L̷K̴I̶N̶G̵ ̴A̵B̶O̵U̶T̶.̴ ❜

@staticheck

"alastor! i need you to settle an argument between angel and i. am i baby?"

[nevernonline]

✧.* just for one night; yjh

for jeonghan's birthday he teased the gift he wanted wrapped in a pretty bow this time was you. little did he know that his joke would turn into his favorite present.

𐦍 paring: jeonghan x reader.

𐦍 genre: romance, bad humor, fluff, "friendly" date.

𐦍 warnings: drinking,  s3xy times, swearing,  smut, minors dni, reader has female genitalia.

𐦍 word count: 2.0k

𐦍 content: non-idol characters, food/drink, cursing, slightly- suggestive, pet names, afab! reader.

𐦍 note: I meant to post this on 1004 but.. maybe forgot to queue it LMAO. this wasn't intended to go this way and I don't rlly write smut often (or read it often tbh) so pls all my baddies who read and write smut give me feedback. (pls) lolol. anyway!! enjoy kk. ily.

It was that time again, time to find a gift for a friend who had nearly everything. Scouring around shops and market places, trying to find something special that had any meaning to the two of you. Sure, you could buy a lux gift or a fancy dinner, but that was basic and well beyond the things Jeonghan had given you. 

You scroll back through texts and posts over the last few birthdays you had spend celebrating him, stumbling across a photo that gave you a good idea. You were sitting on his lap as he blew out his birthday candle. After that wish was put into the universe you recall his lips coming so close to your ear his lips were almost making contact with your pierced lobes. 

“All I want next year is you wrapped in a pretty bow.” 

Maybe he wouldn’t remember that wish, but you did. It was silly and stupid, but your friend did always know what he wanted and wasn’t shy to ask for it. 

You sprinted to the stationary store in order to find a big pink bow in under thirty minutes, so you could make it back to your apartment where Jeonghan was meeting you before his big night out with all of his friends. The options were endless, a sea of glitter, metallic, curling, satin, but you decided to be simple, just a large bound pink ribbon. 

After an overwhelming time spent pondering over pink fabric, you made it home with ten minutes to spare. Lacing yourself up from your sneakers, to your hair, your bag, even a dainty piece wrapped around your neck as a finishing touch just as the doorbell rang, you told him to open up where he found you laced in pink, wearing a black dress, holding a cupcake flame ablaze. 

“Happy Birthday, Hannie.” 

A smile creeped in as he came close to blow his candle out looking at the pink adorned ribbon tied all over you, he remembered. 

“My present I presume?” 

His fingers pointed towards you, again smiling from ear to ear like he couldn’t believe you remembered his wish. 

“Think I’d forget?” 

“You tend to forget your own name while drinking, so yes. I love it.” 

Jeonghan’s hands reached to run his hands over the ribbon in your hair, pausing before he touched the one on your neck. 

“So this means you’re mine for the night?” 

“Your wish is my command, birthday boy. Should we go?” 

“You know when I wished for you to be my present, I meant much more than you wearing bows right?” 

You huffed, watching his eyes still on your neck. 

“I did. I really will oblige any wish, as long as it’s legal and safe.” 

“No promises, babe. Let’s go.” 

Walking hand in hand into Jeonghan’s not so surprise party was not out of the norm for you, you’ve always been the type of friend that clung to close, even for your own comfort. Something seemed to linger in the air around you as a pair. 

“Mind getting me a cocktail? I’m going to go say hi to the guys and thank them.” 

“Again, here to please. Vodka Cran or G&T?” 

“Gin, please.” 

With a small salute as a send off you walked into a line behind three other partygoers in line. 

“Y/n? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in pink before?” 

The voice was Joshua’s coming from behind you. He wrapped his right arm around your shoulders in a half hug greeting you hello. 

“Really? Well, it's for Jeonghan’s gift. Last year he wished that I gift him myself, so here I am adorned in pink ribbon.” 

“You really took him up on that? You are one good friend.” 

“I know that you're thinking it's probably a mistake, you’re right.” 

“Na, he’d never hurt you or let anyone else. He likes you far too much.” 

Your eyes rolled now facing the bartender and placing the matching drink order before turning back to Joshua. 

“Come find me later okay? I need a Shua Hong dance for my payment for being Jeonghan’s bitch for the night.” 

“It's the least I can do.” 

Hours passed by just as quickly as alcohol entered your system, you haven’t left the side of your male counterpart for hours, he wouldn’t let you slide away other than grabbing more drinks or running to the ladies room.

Your buzz is far more prominent now. Jeonghan’s hands slid to the lower half of your body, resting between your bare skin and the hem of your dress and your heart followed along to the beat of the edm music playing over the club loudspeakers. 

“Dance with me, pretty?” 

His eyes burning a hole into your head, you obliged, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him into the center of the purple lights and faux fog. 

Jeonghan’s hands found a comfortable spot resting on your hips as you twisted around placing your back onto his chest, grinding slowly to the song. 

This proximity between you has never existed, while you’re touchy or clingy the feeling from the warmth of his pants's friction on your upper thighs made you feel differently about your so called friend. 

Thoughts swirled in your brain as you turned back to be face to face with his plump lips and siren like eyes. A hand, that same hand that was resting comfortably on your lower half snaked its way up to your neck, the ribbon placed there was now further from your skin as his fingers laced their way under it. 

“You want to know what else I wished for?” 

You opened your mouth to speak, no words formed other than some incoherent ones that sounded like soft moaning. 

“I wished that you’d be my present forever, not just for the night. I can’t let anybody else get this gift.” 

Your hands reached from the nape of his neck to the side of his face, trying to give him a clue that you wanted him as badly as he wanted you. 

“Come home with me?” 

He placed a small peck onto your cheek, nearing the site of your lips that so badly wanted to feel the crash of his on them. 

The whole ride back in your taxi, your hands rubbed up his thigh. He knew you looked nervous, but also that you would tell him if anything made you uncomfortable. 

Truth be told he was nervous too. This was a line he never thought would be crossed. Jeonghan knew for years that he wanted you and only you for that matter, but he waited for the perfect moment to be put in your hands. 

Saying a quick thank you to your driver, you basically sprinted into his place, not even having a second to throw your jacket and bag down at his front door before you had your back against his white walls in the dark. 

The sense of urgency to kiss you was obvious. A near feral feeling. He tasted like cherries and gin as he kissed you quickly, helping you out of your outerwear and pulling you into his apartment that was only lit by the beautiful view of the city below. 

“Help me?” 

Your voice came out as a whimper, turning your back to him as an indication you needed help out of your dress. 

His cold hands wrapped around the zipper of your dress running a finger down your spine as it unzipped. 

“Wow.” 

His confidence suddenly washing away as he looked at your semi naked body only wearing a matching pink slip dress to the color of your bows and a pair of matching panties below. 

“Dressed up for me too?” 

“Nope. Just like to match.” 

The ‘P’ of your nope popped onto his face and a devious smile appeared. 

“Don’t be bad, gifts shouldn’t talk back to their owner.” 

His hands found his way to the place they didn’t seem to leave all night, your hips as he placed you down onto his fresh sheets. 

“Sorry, Hannie.” 

“It’s okay, just be a good girl."  

You nodded as he began kissing you starting at your lips and followed a trail all the way down to your sternum. 

“You know the best part about gifts is opening them.” 

Jeonghan’s fingers now wrapped around the waistband of your underwear as he slowly pulled them down below your knees, around your ankles and onto the floor. 

A pause from kissing came as his pointer and middle finger entered into your mouth and prompted you to spit on them so he could rub circles onto your clit before entering another space he had never been to before. His first finger came in slowly penetrating you softly, when he saw you getting needy his second entered and the beats became more rapid as he used his tumb to rub circles around your much more sensitive sweet spot. 

Your moaning became louder, reminding him of your voice yelling over the sound of the music in the club as you reached your first orgasm of the night. 

Sitting up now watching as Jeonghan places the same two fingers that were inside of you into his mouth, savoring every last drop of the finish you had because of him, you crawled onto you knees now prompting him for some pleasure. 

Undoing the button and zipper of his pants, letting him and his cock catch their breath before going down on him. You placed soft kisses along the pale skin of his stomach, making sure to nip his skin in between as you make your way down his torso. Just as you reach the waistband of his boxers, a hand comes to cup the hard thing lying beneath. 

“Wanted me that bad huh?” 

Jeonghan, now dethroned from his previous position of power, just groaned as a beg to have your mouth wrapped around his pulsing cock. 

“I’ve wanted you forever.” 

Hearing his breathless moans you released your hands from his cock and finished unwrapping yourself for him, leaving that small pink ribbon tied around your neck, before going back down to kiss your lips at the tip of his dick. 

As your hands and mouth worked their way around in unison all over his engorged flesh, it takes only a few minutes for him to fill the dirty mouth that was teasing him just before. 

“Didn’t take you for such a lightweight, Yoon.” 

“Shut the fuck up and please get on top of me.” 

Your legs came to straddle around his still sensitive cock as you teased your entrance. 

“Someone’s so needy.”

“Someone is supposed to be doing far less talking and far more fucking.” 

His arms pulled you down fearlessly so your lips could fall back into place and also so he could shut you up while you finally let him inside of you. 

“Fuck, I didn’t expect you to be so tight.” 

Jeonghan knew he wouldn’t last long being inside of you, not because you were tight, but because of the way he felt about you and how much he dreamed about watching your breasts bouncing as they hovered over his face while he fucked you. 

“I- Uh, Fuck.” 

“You what, pretty? Can’t handle me? Can't it last long? Want me to fill you up as you ride me?” 

“Yes, yes, all of it. Please, Hannie.��"

As his hips pounded their way onto yours, both of you running out of stamina maybe due to the alcohol or maybe the adrenaline reached your climax near the same time. 

“Can you come inside me, please?” 

You were practically begging him to mark you and since you looked so pretty he couldn’t say no to you. 

With the two of you now finished, his cock still inside of you. Jeonghan placed soft kisses on your lips. 

“I don’t want this to stop.” 

His hands came to untie the pink fabric now slightly wet from your shared bodily fluids. 

“Me either. I love you, you know?” 

You lifted your body off of him, now under his covers with your hands placed on his chest. 

“I love you too, Happy Birthday.” 

“Be my present forever, okay?” 

“Okay, handsome.” 

And with another year gone, Jeonghan finally got the birthday present he truly wanted. You.

[tadc-harlequin-au]

Morning Routines (non-canon?)

A quick note! This is NOT canon (at least at this moment), it's simply just a test fic that I'm using to write possible early character interactions between Pomni and Caine.

══════☸☸☸════════════☸☸☸══════

“There’s always a bright side to things; I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

A hazy, feminine voice spoke to him.

In an instant, the voice was no more.

Caine blinked the sleep away from his green eye first, then his blue eye next. He was in his office, the sun bore down it’s morning rays through the glass of the elegant aperture, and he briefly thought that he should’ve closed the curtains last night.

No matter. Perhaps today will be a good day.

CRASH!

ON SECOND THOUGHT…….

The sounds of metal being continuously pummeled outside has him rushing to his windows to inspect. The “newest” addition to the mansion, the Combat Harlequin; Pomni…. was WRECKING HIS LATEST PROJE- NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Wiping away the sweat that formed on the top of his gums, he rushes to grab his cane.

Words could not amount to how much Pomni was insanely bored. The sun assaulted the grassy plains outside, and Caine was still sleeping. She awaited her first mission today with too much energy that she needed to dispose of. So, the Harlequin did what she always does best: FIGHT.

Bubble chewed and chewed through the metal of the unknown apparatus, and she whistled for the Blimp.

“Bubble!”

“Yeah?”

“Toss that thing to me! I wanna see that scrap of metal SPARK!” She readied her blade.

The blimp saluted, grabbing the destroyed device and twirling it around in the air, before tossing it downwards to the blue-and-red outfitted brunette.

She manages to leap up high into the air and slice it in half, sending sparks to rain down onto the Harlequin and she lands on both feet athletically. Bubble clapped and twirled into the air, flashing his signature sharp smile. “Ooooh! Destruction! Wooo!” Bubble cheered and whistled.

Caine frantically ran outside to the mini-mayhem the two were causing, and visibly gasps at the sight of his recent project mangled beyond recognition.

“No! MY POOR BABY! What did she do to you…” He clutched at the apparatus with a seemingly sad expression etched on him as if he had just recently lost a loved one, before he pouted and glared disappointingly at the Harlequin. Pomni merely stared back with an unamused and blank expression.

“What? It fucking swung at me first.” She defended herself.

“IT WAS TRYING TO SERVE YOU COFFEE.” He clutched at the broken machine in his own hands. He sighs, dragging a hand across his eyes. “Why were you in the cellar anyways?”

“Duh, I was looking for something to entertain myself with, since you were fucking sleeping your ass off.” She shrugged, crossing her arms. “And then this bitch tried to punch me.” she pointed to the same device that she had been mangling for the past hour or so.

“IT’S A COFFEE MACHINE, POMNI! IT COULD NOT HURT YOU EVEN IF IT TRIED!!”  He woefully points one of the broken mechanical pieces of the coffee maker at her, and then it snaps to half in such a pathetic manner.

Today was totally NOT shaping up to be a good day for the Puppetmaster, and he groans.

Pomni leaned her sword onto her shoulder, and checked her left arm for any signs of damage as if checking her nails, unbothered by the situation. Her left arm was only oil and coffee stained. “Oh really? Well I didn’t know.” She looks away nonchalantly, not even an apology leaving her lips. Caine half-sobbed as he tried to look for ANY sign that this project was salvageable, but the Harlequin had broken it beyond belief.

He officially gave up trying to save it, grumbling and tossing it to the side carelessly while pouting like an angry toddler having their toy taken away from them instead. He then shifts his gaze to Bubble, who had merely been flying in place and staring at him with the same blank expression.

“And YOU! Why were YOU helping HER in the first place??” He pointed both arms to the blimp; then to the Harlequin –who was trying to swipe at a poor, nearby butterfly minding its own business with her sword– with his eccentric exaggeration, to which Bubble shrugs.

“I dunno, I like seeing things get broken. They’re pretty funny when they are!” The blimp replies, and Caine feels like the whole world is against him. Nonetheless, he stands up from his position, brushing himself off of some stray grasses that stuck to his clothing as he sighs.

“Whatever. Just- clean this whole mess up, will you?” He scratches at the side of his lower jaw, and the Blimp does a backflip in the air.

“I’m on it boss!” Bubble flew downwards… and chomped at the pieces slowly. Caine stared at him with the most disappointed look you’ll ever see from someone. “Why are you like this…?” He asks the blimp, who did not pay him any mind at all.

Pomni however, had just slain her most dastardly, dangerous opponent yet; a blue butterfly. So now she’s turning her attention to the Puppetmaster, crossing her arms again as she awaits a new command from him.

“I THOUGHT you were gonna give me SOMETHING to fight today.” She crossed and tapped at her arm in annoyance. Caine was already tired, and he just darn woke up. A quick sigh escapes him, he wants to quickly get away from this situation and just have a darn drink, for god’s sake.    

“And I will eventually, but now that you’ve ruined the coffee machine I finished making last night, I think that today’s schedule will be a bit delayed; I can’t hear myself think when I haven’t had my morning coffee yet.” He explains while rubbing his "temples" (which would be the sides of his top jaw), then pulls out a normal pocket watch to check at the time.

09:25.

Darn it, he woke up late again. He really needs to get a better alarm. Hm.

He turns back to face the Harlequin again. “Fine. Go out and slay a few marionettes to entertain yourself, would certainly give me enough time to settle and think of a plan of action for today.”

Pomni scoffs. “I don’t need your fucking permission to do anything-” yet she’s already heading out in the same direction as the gates as soon as he was done speaking. Bubble flew close to Caine, finishing up the last of the debris and mimicking swallowing, black smoke coming out of his mouth. “All done, boss!” the blimp reports.

“Bubble, keep an eye out on her as per usual. Tell me over on the comms if anything goes ever so slightly wrong.”

“You got it, chief!”

This has been their chaotic routine ever since Pomni, The Combat Harlequin Puppet, began staying inside the mansion, and he surmises it’s been almost a year since then, only by rough estimates. She’d be antsy, not sleeping at night nor day, always wanting to swing her sword at something… And Caine would wake up to the terrible noise of her either beating something up, or just straight up destroying one of his projects that he accidentally leaves hanging around.

Sometimes he wished he could do something effective about her situation, and figure out how to make her into a more aware person like he is; she hasn’t shown any interest in things except fighting. If anything, the closest she’d recently shown interest in would be a fish sandwich; salmon, to be more precise. She seemed to like the sensation of eating, at the very least. But that’s as close as to finding a crumb on a brick wall.

For now, she’s stuck in this cycle that she keeps perpetuating due to the lack of proper guidance, and he needs to figure this one out without having to resort to the other option yet.

‘She’s not ready’, he convinces himself. He needs to be crafty with this approach. He didn’t earn his awareness overnight by being told long, boring details anyways, heck, it took him longer than she did now.

She needed to discover it for herself.

The Puppetmaster heads on inside to try and make himself a morning brew to combat his tiredness. He hadn’t even noticed in his panic earlier that the main lounge had one too many sword slices on the walls; no doubt her handiwork. That’s another one of the damages on the checklist today. His destination is the cellar, where he retrieves coffee beans to brew.

His communicator flares up, and Pomni’s voice peers through.

“CAINE!”

The panic in her voice makes him almost drop the bag, and he fumbles through his coat to grab the communicator. “Pomni! Is everything alright in there?!” he asks, attempting to maintain composure, but there’s a pit forming in his stomach.

“I-I don’t know, I just found this- this HUGE marionette and I- AH!!!” There’s a lot of crashing in the background, and he has the urge to blink as fast as possible to their current location.

“HOLD ON! I’M COMING!” He was attempting to grab his Wondrous Apparatus for Cohorted Kindred (souls) on the Yonder to check for what part of the city they were in, until he heard Pomni and Bubble laugh through the communicator.

“GOTCHA! HAHA, we’re fine, I was bored so I decided to fuck with you a little to scare the shit out of you.”

The Puppetmaster has to lean on to a nearby wall as he visibly tries to calm his shaking panic. “OH MY GOD, WOMAN. DO NOT DO THAT TO ME EVER AGAIN, I ALMOST HAD A HEART ATTACK.” He leans his back to the wall and clutches at his exposed heart.

“Idiot, Puppets don’t get heart attacks.”

“IT’S A METAPHOR!”

“Sounds like a stupid one”

…. Maybe it’s not too late to drop her off into the Circus arena and leave her there…

He shakes his head.

NO.

HE WILL make this work.

HE WILL NOT GIVE UP ON HER.

This is the most progress ANY Puppet has ever done in a long time, all it takes…. Is a little time…. patience… and effort.

There’s more crashing in the communicators as Bubble and Pomni lay waste to what seemed to be a struggling marionette, cheering for it’s destruction.

Sigh.

This is going to be an arduous journey. He’s going to need at least 3 cups today.

══════☸☸☸════════════☸☸☸══════

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Man 15

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Lloyd Hansen

Summary: a demanding customer complicates more than your work life.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

“Well,” Lloyd stops mid step and startles you as he spins on his heel, “you’re being quiet.” 

You sign thank you and he squints. You gesture apologetically and drop your hands, pressing your lips until they hurt. He takes a breath and swallows his agitation. 

“You can have a shower. I won’t say you earned it but it will give me some peace and quiet,” he sniffs. 

What would truly give him peace and quiet would be to let you go. The solution is right there in front of him. You can’t figure why he won’t see it. Why is being so stubborn? For you? You’re annoying. Heck, you annoy yourself. 

“You know, even when you don’t say a fucking word, I swear I can hear every dumb thought behind those eyes,” he sneers and grabs your arms, “come on. Time to clean my stink off of you.” 

He drags you into a large bedroom and you can’t help the gasp of awe that rushes from your chest. Wow. This place really is nice. You could see it on HGTV. Hell, you think it’s even too fancy for that. Once more, you have to wonder what he does to make all that dough. He makes you think of a Batman villain and yet even you know that’s not real.  

Hmmmm, he does look like he could be a trust fund kid. Well, kid would be long ago, wouldn’t it? He urges you across the room and shove you into the bathroom built into the other side. 

“How is it that you’re not saying a damn word and I’m still fed up?” He puffs. 

You face him and blink, arms crossed around the blanket over your chest. He sighs and yanks it from your grasp. You teeter on your feet as he growls. 

“Shower,” he points behind you. 

Your hand tingles. You want to salute him so bad. Instead, you try to see the positive. A shower! Well, you could definitely use one of those.  

You turn and strut over to the glass door of the shower. You open it up and step inside. You’re overly aware of his looming presence. He probably thinks you’ll flood the place. Well, you can handle a shower. You twist the faucet on and yipe as you’re sprayed with cold water. You bite down on your voice and adjust the temperature. 

You ease into the downpour and close your eyes. That’s nice. You lean your head back and bask in the clouding steam. You know what, this isn’t too bad. Aside from him. It would be paradise otherwise. 

You turn and let the water soak your back. You push your hands over your face and flick away the water. A gust of cool air makes you shiver and you let out a squeak of surprise.  

Lloyd steps in through the door and crowds you back so the showerhead splashes down your face again. 

“Oh,” you catch the air in your cheeks, puffing them out guiltily. 

“Ah!” He holds his finger to his lips in warning. 

Your eyes round as the flick up and down. He’s built well. I mean, you’re not surprised. You got a good look, and taste, of him yesterday, but the whole picture isn’t too bad. Minus that mustache. You almost want to lick your finger and rub it off his lip. 

“Turn around,” he demands. 

You obey before you can break your vow of silence. You hang your head and put your back to him. He reaches past you and grabs a puffy pink scrubby. There’s another hung nearby; black and silicone. He clicks a bottle and you hear the squirt of soap. He presses the scrubbie to your back and you throw your arm out to keep yourself from slipping. 

He scours you with the soap, lathering it over your skin wordlessly. It might be affectionate, even romantic, but he’s so rough it makes you squirm. He gets down your ass and pinches you. Before you can yelp, he tuts. 

“Not a word,” he reminds you. 

You nearly tip at the force behind his tending and you find it hard to let out an ow or ouch. He grabs your shoulder and spins you to face him. Your feet slide and you crash into him, grabbing onto his sides to push himself straight. You can’t help but get a good feel of the muscle. 

Your eyes trail down and you don’t miss the very obvious erection bobbing up by his stomach. You give a sheepish grin and look him in the face. His forehead lines and his wordlessly challenges you to say anything. Instead, you stretch out your arms and posture so that he can continue cleaning you. He growls. 

He grabs your wrist and roughly drags the scrubbie down from your shoulder. He manhandles you, crossing to your other arm and wiping it down. He drags along your collarbone and lingers around chest, overly attentive as he tickles and stops to make your tits bounce. You let out a surprised squeak as he does. 

“Fuck,” he groans as if he’s in pain, “tell me why you make me so fucking hard.” 

You arch a brow and part your lips and he swiftly hushes you, the water splashing against your back and leaking down your front. You look down at yourself and back up. You’re not bad. You wouldn’t sell yourself short but you can’t really understand him or what he wants. If you were to measure his words and actions, he should absolutely hate you. 

“Come here,” he grabs the back of your neck and urges you forward as he flings the scrubbie, “you little fucking...” he searches your face as he tilts your head and his glare bores into you. His hard length presses against your stomach and his nostrils flare. 

He pushes you back, walking with you until you’re against the wall. You can only let him as the slippery tile and your shock have you in a precarious position. He moves his hand around the front of your neck and squeezes behind your jaw until you whimper. He bends slightly and reaches you feel along your thigh, lifting your knee to hook around him. 

“Think you can keep quiet, sweet lips?” He smirks. 

[cheeseanonioncrisps]

One of the more interesting aspects of Stayed Gone is the implication that, prior to his disappearance, Alastor must have been producing some quality programming.

Despite it's obvious importance in the modern world, TV apparently only started outcompeting radio in Hell after Alastor vanished. Seven whole years ago. And when Al returns, Vox's first response is to freak the fuck out about whether he's gonna keep his audience.

That's fucking crazy.

And we can be pretty sure that people weren't just listening in out of fear, either. Or because Alastor was making any major effort to crush all other forms of media.

If this was purely about which Overlord was the most powerful, then Vox's verses would surely have focused on emphasising his own strength. Instead, they're all about calling radio outdated. Vox is genuinely worried— apparently based on experience— that Alastor is going to outdo him in terms of sheer entertainment value.

Which raises the obvious question: what were Al's shows actually like? (Aside from those early broadcasts guest-starting the screams of the damned, obviously.)

We get kind of a taster in the song:

“Salutations! Good to be back on the air. Yes, I know it's been a while, since someone with style treated Hell to a broadcast— Sinners, rejoice!— instead of a clout-chasing mediocre video podcast. Is Vox insecure, pursuing allure? Fitting between this fad and that, is nothing working? Every day, he's got a new format! Is Vox as strong as he purports? Or is it based on his support? He'd be powerless without the other Vees! And here's the sugar on the cream: he asked me to join his team! I said no, and now he's pissy, that's the tea!”

Obviously he's doing it to music, so there's going to be some difference in the cadence of his voice from that, but still, he's talking noticeably quicker than he does in person. And he gets right to the point.

Compare it to his commercial in episode 1. There's a big difference in terms of both how much respect he's showing his audience (“well hello there, you wayward sinner!” vs “good to be back on the air”), and how much relevant information he delivers.

Alastor is a great character to watch, but most people who interact with him directly seem to find the experience either annoying, awkward, terrifying or all three.

Mainly because Al seems to go out of his way to put people off even when he's actively trying to get them to trust him, by making condescending asides or constantly dropping references to his own power. On air, however, he greets everyone politely and even drops what is almost an apology for being gone so long (“I know it's been a while”), then immediately gets to the information that he knows they're really listening for.

Alastor may not respect Charlie, Adam or Lucifer, but he does respect his audience.

And the content he's producing makes it clear why people are still tuning in. Al has the gossip. Katie Killjoy and Tom Trench may not be unbiased exactly, but they're clearly trying to provide sources for their claims and maintain some veneer of professional news reporting.

Al, meanwhile, is quite happy to provide strong opinions and baseless speculation about public figures, content that is less fitting with the professional image that Vox seems so desperate to keep up, but that is likely to attract a bigger audience.

What gets me curious now, however, is wondering what else he used to provide.

Again, radio was apparently the medium for news and entertainment in Hell until Alastor left. Implying that a) radio was at the time fulfilling many of the function that TV now provides, and b) Alastor was involved enough in this that it collapsed/got overthrown the moment he left town.

Did Alastor have an empire similar to the Vees? Did he run a bunch of channels? Did he have DJs and sports commentators and presenters on his payroll?

Given that radio seems to have collapsed completely after he left— did they all go running to Vox when he was presumed dead? Was the Vees new empire in part built on the ruins of Alastor's old one?

Or did he do the whole thing solo and just run like, a bunch of different shows. (In which case, since radio's bread and butter has always been music, Helluva Boss fans can now have fun imagining him interviewing Verosika Mayday about ‘Vacay to Bonetown’.)

[in1-nutshell]

Hello again! I was wondering if you could do autobots and deceptions reacting to a buddy who is a special agent that in day to day life acts silly and mischievous but when it comes down to it (their missions) they loose all sense of silliness and will do anything to complete their mission. And when I mean anything, I mean they ate an entire horse heart to stay in character when they were on a spy mission. If not that’s totally fine, I just thought it sounded cool :) have a lovely day/night and remover to eat and drink something.

Cool challenge! I've read some writings with this trope, but never gotten to write one until now. Since no continuity was specified, I randomly chose one. If you want any specific continuity, please let me know with its characters. Trying some new writing styles, let me know if this is okay. Let us see Agent Buddy at work.

Hope you enjoy!

Autobots and Decepticons reaction to Human Buddy the agent who is very clumsy outside their job but opposite on the job

SFW, platonic, mention of violence but it is brief and not explicit, Human reader

TFP

Optimus Prime

He believes that Buddy is a good assist to the team/ family. The team met Buddy through Fowler as his partner. So, they have known each other for a couple of years.

During the time before the Cons showed up Buddy would make more visits to the base than Fowler and displayed some of their clumsier sides to them.

Buddy slipping on thin air.

“Do you require any assistance?”--Optimus

“No thanks Prime I’ll just be getting—”--Buddy

Buddy slips again.

“…I strongly urge you got to Ratchet for assistance.”—Optimus

Optimus found it a bit concerning the first few slips at the base. They seemed to slip on something random or on nothing at all. He had a conversation with Fowler about it.

“Prime?”--Fowler

“Greetings Agent Fowler. I wish to talk to you concerning Buddy.”--Optimus

“Did they punch themselves opening a pickle jar again?”--Fowler

“…I beg your pardon?”--Optimus

Fowler had to explain that that was how they operated outside of missions. Buddy turned into an extremely serious person when they had a dangerous job to do. They made sure that they got it done no matter what it took. That if they were being a klutz that meant that they were comfortable enough to show their true self.

Optimus a bit felt touched by this.

That doesn’t mean he stops worrying about Buddy when they end up slipping on a stray puddle.

The first time he sees Buddy serious was something he wasn’t going to forget.

It was if another being had possessed the fun-loving person he knew and replaced them with a hardened soldier doing their job with quick efficiency.

Much prefers Buddy being clumsy than what he witnessed.

“The mission has been accomplished. Thank you for your assistance, Buddy.”--Optimus

Buddy salutes.

“The danger is over for now. Let us go back to the base.”--Optimus

“Let go then Boss—”--Buddy

Buddy slips on a stray puddle.

“…Do you require assistance?”--Optimus

“…Yes please…”--Buddy

Ratchet

Questions how Buddy is even an agent. He has made some jabs about Buddy being a klutz.

He worries for them every time they slip or get hurt after one of their incidents.

Buddy missing the last step on the stairs falling on their back.

“Are you alright?”

“…Yep, just give me a second.”

He does get a one on one with Fowler about how Buddy works.

“How do you deal with them?”--Ratchet

“Deal with who?”--Fowler

“With Buddy and their messes. Its almost as if they do this on purpose!”--Ratchet

“Hey! Buddy does not do this type of thing on purpose!”--Fowler

CRASH!

“…Can someone help? I’m stuck in the wall again.”--Buddy

“Again.”--Fowler

“Excuse me, again!?”--Ratchet

 In a way Ratchet is touched in how Buddy seemed to be comfortable around them to show their true colors.

When he witnesses Buddy in Mission mode, he nearly does a double take. That person was not Buddy, but he knew it was them.

He has seen soldiers look like that too often.

The look of a battle harden soldier who has seen some horrific things.

Yet as if a switch were flipped, Buddy would be back being their usual self when the threats are over. Ratchet does eventually apologize for the harsh treatment from before.

He now carries two first aid kits for humans.

One for the kids and one for Buddy.

“It’s quiet.”--Ratchet

“I thought you like quiet?”--Bulkhead

“I do. But something is missing…”--Ratchet

“Like what?”--Bulkhead

“…What where’s Buddy?”--Ratchet

BANG!

“There they are.”--Ratchet

Bumblebee

He is concerned over Buddy.

Sure, he has his slip ups too, but never this often.

At one point he was their second shadow making sure that they wouldn’t get hurt. Or try and stop any potential dangers from happening.

“How’s it going Bee? Any luck with Buddy?”--Bulkhead

“Beep bop bep beeep bep beep beep bep bep beep bop booop bop. (I have stopped them from slipping on several stray puddles, catched 6 rubber band balls from hitting them and saved them 15 times from falling down the stairs.)”—Bumblebee

“Wow. Hey, where is Buddy anyways?”--Bulkhead

“Oh, they’re right—wait where--”--Bumblebee

SPLOOSH!

“Man! These were new pants too!”--Buddy

“…”--Bulkhead

“…”--Bumblebee

“Bee—”--Bulkhead

“BEEEP! (WWHHHHYYYY!)”--Bumblebee

He does express his concerns to Optimus, who in return, tells him about Buddy.

Bumblebee kind of wants to see them serious after that conversation. He wants to meet the serious Buddy and compare it to the Buddy he knows.

He did not like it.

Buddy when they got serious reminded him of the war all around him. They reminded him of fellow soldiers he fought with and loss.

He didn’t like these haunting reminders.

Is surprised how quickly the switch is but welcomes it wholeheartedly.

“Umm… Bee you, okay?”--Buddy

Bumblebee hugging Buddy close.

“Boop beeep bop. (Don’t do that again, please. I like this you not scary you.)”--Bumblebee

“What do you mean scary?”--Buddy

Beep bep bop. (Shhh! Don’t talk about scary you.)”--Bumblebee

Arcee

Like Ratchet, Arcee questions how in the world was Buddy even qualified to be an agent. Has witnessed many of Buddy’s blunders and has now become concern for their health.

She worried that there might be something wrong with them.

“Are you sure you don’t want Ratchet to take a look at you?--Arcee

“I’m fine! See, fit as a fiddle!”--Buddy

“…There’s a hole in your pants.”--Arcee

“…”--Buddy

She gets the Buddy talk from Optimus. Arcee doesn’t quite believe it at first. No one can flip a switch that fast, can they?

Buddy can.

Arcee very surprised in how fast Buddy went serious after falling from the railing 5 minutes ago. She takes stride in this Buddy; this is something she has worked with and has become familiar too.

But at the same time, it seems off.

There were things that she knew the Buddy she knew would be against, yet this Buddy was doing the exact opposite.

Strangely relieved that they go back to how they were before. She tries to find some logic to it, but eventually lets it be.

Buddy watch out!”--Arcee

“Watch—”--Buddy

Buddy gets nailed in the face by a beach ball.

“… Sometimes I wonder how you are an agent here.”--Arcee

“Same thing Arcee. Same thing.”--Buddy

Bulkhead

He is walking on eggshells around Buddy.

Bulkhead likes Buddy and all, but they give him mini spark attacks every time they get hurt.

Most of the time it ends up with him taking Buddy to Ratchet or giving them a first aid kit and asking if there was anything else he could do.

“Are you sure this is all you need? I can always get you to Ratchet.”--Bulkhead

“Thanks for the concern, Bulkhead, but I’m fine.”--Buddy

“You missed the second step at the top of the stairs and faceplanted on the ground.”--Bulkhead

“And? I’ve done worse things than that.”--Buddy

“Care to elaborate?”--Bulkhead

“Nah.”--Buddy

Bulkhead does question from time to time about them being qualified for being an agent but remembers that if they are Fowler’s partner then that meant that they brought something good to the table.

When the switch is flipped, he thinks that it might be an imposter. Bulkhead thinks its another fake Wheeljack incident all over again.

The Buddy he knows isn’t that serious.

But it is them.

The look in Buddy’s eyes is too familiar to him. He had seen that look all while he worked in the Wreckers.

Hard eyes, No remorse eyes, Dangerous eyes.

Bulkhead is on edge the entire time Buddy is like this. He is so glad that they go back to their normal selves.

He does ask Buddy about it after the whole ordeal is over.

“So… what was that all about?”--Bulkhead

“What thing?”--Buddy

“The thing when we were on the mission. That thing.”--Bulkhead

“Oh, I just get a bit serious, that’s all, no harm.”--Buddy

“You threaten to beat a MECH soldier with their own arm if they didn’t give you the key card.”--Bulkhead

“Yeah? Its just a little serious.”--Buddy

“…We have different definitions of serious Buddy.”—Bulkhead

Wheeljack

When he met Buddy, he thought they were a random klutzy civilian. Wheeljack did not expect them to be an agent like Fowler.

He silently questions Buddy when they meet again but has learned better to judge someone’s first impression.

“So, you’re Fowler’s partner?”--Wheeljack

“Yes, and you’re Bulkhead’s partner?”--Buddy

“Yes, I am. Though you don’t look like an agent.”--Wheeljack

“What makes you say that?”--Buddy

“Your hand is stuck in the vending machine.”--Wheeljack

“I paid for my muffin. I’m going to get my muffin.”--Buddy

Wheeljack gets the Buddy talk from Bulkhead. He thinks at first that Bulkhead might have been exaggerating when he said that it was as if Buddy turned into a different person.

He wrote it off as a laugh.

Until he saw the change himself.

It was a bit unsettling, but he doesn’t have much time to poke at it

He sees the changes in their body language and the shift in their eyes.

Wrecker eyes.

Commander eyes.

Soldier eyes.

Like Bulkhead, Wheeljack is happy that Buddy gets back to normal. He does understand that Buddy wants to keep certain things out of their personal life, but it was scary to say the least.

“Buddy?”--Wheeljack

“Wheeljack, fancy meeting you here.”--Buddy

“One, I live here. Two, how did you get inside the vending machine? There’s not even a dent in it?”--Wheeljack

“I work in mysterious ways Wheeljack, now if you’d be so kind and pass me the crowbar.”--Buddy

Ultra Magnus

Magnus actively questions why Buddy is an agent.

They held no backbone, no discipline! They give him a spark attack every time they move awkwardly.

“Ultra Magnus, sir.”--Buddy

“Soldier… may I ask how did you get into this situation?”—Ultra Magnus

“Well, it involved a banana, some orange juice, a broom, and a Roomba with a switch blade.”--Buddy

“…”—Ultra Magnus

“… You regret asking, don’t you?”--Buddy

“I regret asking.”—Ultra Magnus

Magnus comes from a good place but the way he says it comes off the wrong way. He gets the talk from both Fowler and Optimus.

He somewhat understanding afterwards.

Magnus had seen some fellow soldiers act like this before, but it seemed like millennia ago. He is the easiest to transition with when they flip the switch. Afterall, he had some experience with bots that acted similar to this.

He secretly doesn’t like this change.

While he can appreciate the seriousness needed for the situation, it felt as if he where fighting alongside a stranger rather than a fellow companion.

He relaxes a little when Buddy goes back to normal.

Magnus does apologies to Buddy for the comments earlier.

“…”—Ultra Magnus

Buddy hanging upside down from some wires they got tangled in trying to get a paper airplane down for the kids.

“…”—Buddy

“Tell me the story later…”—Ultra Magnus

“Okay, Magnus.”--Buddy

Smokescreen

Nervous and excited are two words to describe him when he is with Buddy.

Nervous because he genuinely thought that Buddy was dying the first time, he was exposed to their shenanigans. Excited because they were as up tight as the rest of the team, and they were an agent.

“So how did you and Fowler meet?”--Smokescreen

“Well…”--Buddy

“They ran into the wall right by our boss’s office. They had a bloody nose and I helped them with it right before our boss said we would be teaming up.”--Fowler

He has defended Buddy’s actions to teammates that have made a slight jab at their clumsiness. This was before he knew about their more serious side. Smokescreen thought that it was just their personality, nothing more.

It wasn’t until he accidentally made an insensitive comment about Buddy’s personality does Optimus give him the talk. Smokescreen honestly doesn’t believe it for a second. He thinks it’s a team prank.

There was no way that Buddy would act like that, ever. He eats his words when the switch is flipped.

Smokescreen is floored with how Buddy starts acting.

Buddy starts acting like a hard-core commander, like the ones that were on Cybertron and he does not like this.

Smokescreen physically exhales when Buddy goes back to normal.

He makes sure to apologizes for the comment later.

“C’mon Buddy we have to go!”--Smokescreen

“Coming ‘Smokes. I’m—”--Buddy

Buddy slips on a puddle.

“…Are you dead?”--Smokescreen

Megatron

Megatron has only managed to capture Buddy one time and he has to say that they are a hard thing for an organic.

There is some respect earned after the round of torture dealt with. He believes that they are just another hardened soldier by the way they acted around him during their time together.

He does a double take when he sees surveillance footage of them slipping and face planting on the ground.

He has to ask Soundwave that if that was the human he tortured not too long ago.

Megatron is in denial that that klutz is the war harden organic that he tortured.

Buddy slips on a puddle.

“That’s not them.”--Megatron

Starscream

Starscream was the bot that was in charge of torturing Buddy.

He had to admit it, but Buddy was a tougher nut to crack compared to the other human pet. This one didn’t pass out till much later than the other one.

But Starscream hated this one. They had the bearings to call him out while they were getting tortured.

He was familiar with the look in the humans’ eyes.

Cold and unforgiving eyes.

Eerily similar to of Lord Megatron’s own optics.

He swears to squish that human again when he gets the chance. Starscream is convinced that the human on Soundwaves surveillance is simply another human.

All humans look the same anyways.

That human did not have the same look in their eyes.

Buddy slips on a puddle.

“Tsh. Humans are such a klutz.”--Starscream

Soundwave

Soundwave took a bit of a liking to this human.

The human had some witty banter and an air around them that was all too familiar on the Nemesis. He can respect them so much.

A soldier to a soldier. The eyes tell everything.

He found the surveillance footage of them outside a remote convenance store slipping on a puddle. Soundwave shared it with the rest of the higher ups.

Not many believe that the human was the same one that was on board the Nemesis not so long ago. He knows its them and is a bit curious about who they really are now.

Maybe a visit could be required…

Buddy slips on a puddle.

Soundwave saves the video for later.

Knockout and Breakdown

They don’t know too much about the human that was recently tortured and rescued.

All they know from the gossip vine was that this one not only didn’t squeal anything but also made comments on Starscreams ability to torture.

Knockout as much as he doesn’t like Humans does want to meet them.

Breakdown meet them too. Anyone who has the bearings to talk back to Starscream is okay in his book.

They saw the surveillance of a human falling in a puddle and are confused.

They don’t get that it was the same human that was there.

Buddy slips on a puddle.

“Ow! That looked like that hurt.”--Breakdown

“Those pants are definitely ruined.”--Knockout

Dreadwing • Dreadwing had heard stories about the human that back talked Starscream over a torture session. • He never meets them though. Dreadwing does not have time to deal with this sort of thing even though it does spike his interest a bit. • He doesn’t think too much about the video of the human falling. • Everyone falls what’s the point?

• Buddy slips on a puddle. • “…Okay?…”--Dreadwing

Shockwave

Shockwave doesn’t know the human existed until Starscream came in to complain about them.

He doesn’t care about them. They have no part in his projects or the cause.

Shockwave sees the video and is one of the first to link it to the previous human that was tortured.

Though their behavior was… illogical for such an agent of their stature.

Simply illogical.

Buddy slips on a puddle.

Shockwave’s illogical senses go off.

“…Illogical…”--Shockwave

Predaking

Predaking hears about this human pest from Starscream’s whining and the gossip vine in the Nemesis.

When he manages to get a hold of the data pads to gain knowledge about himself and his brethren, he also saw the footage of the torture session. Never had he felt much pity for an organic life form than at that moment.

He found himself cheering at the human talking back to Starscream but also wincing when the blows were delivered.

The next video he saw was the same human slipping on a puddle.

He is confused.

How could the fearless human from the previous video be the same as the careless human that couldn’t even move past a puddle be the same.

He is going to visit them one of these days to get an answer.

“This is Autobot base—”--Ratchet

“GET SOMEONE HERE NOW!”--Buddy

“Buddy!? What’s going on!?”--Ratchet

“YOU’RE DRAGON IS CHASING ME! HE’S ASKING SOMETHING ABOUT A VIDEO? I DON’T REALLY KNOW! GET SOMEONE HERE, NOW!”—Buddy

“Human, are you and the one on video the same?”—Predaking

“WHO ARE YOU?!”--Buddy

[chaninfused]

Roseborn: Part One | Hwang Hyunjin

◤“The ravenous fire that crackled in your souls was one and the same, stoked by repressed fear and the overwhelming desire to survive in a world that only valued material power.”

A human soldier and a magic-less heir find an unlikely connection in their desperate battle to survive House Amaranthine. 

◤Disclaimers: Female reader insert. This is the backstory of Hyunjin’s character in my ‘Gilded Kingdom’ wip. Can be read as a standalone. An enemies to lovers, forbidden love, fantasy debacle. Slow burn. Includes lots of angst but also some good fluff. Abusive mother. Descriptions of heavy violence and fighting, as well as blood and injury. Sparse use of vulgar language. Several made up terms are used in this story but are explained throughout. Have a quick read through the Gilded Kingdom World Guide to avoid confusion. 

◤Word count: 16.5K

◤Note: This idea is a 100% mine and any case of similarity with someone else’s is purely coincidental. Events are pure fiction. Please do not take my content without my consent. masterlist.

◤Dedicated to the lovely @missinghan​! I’ll spare you the excessive sappiness, but just know that our friendship means the world to me, and you deserve nothing short of the world itself. You’re one of the most talented people I know, and I’m constantly in awe of your wonderful ideas and even more wonderful writing. This took criminally long and it’s not yet done, but I can only hope that you enjoy it nonetheless. Happy reading, and I love you so much! ♡

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

She was trying to humiliate him again, and Hyunjin knew it damn well.

He stepped into the flat square of pearly sand, schooling his features into rigid stone as he drew his Kizāri from its sheath on his back. The weapon’s trident-like head trailed in the sand, drawing a perfect half-moon around him until it met the tip of his opponent’s weapon on the ground, wielded in the same fashion.

“Y/n,” his mother had introduced her. “The best human Azārāhi we have.”

It was an insult, glaring and plain. She was mocking his Nilfyn roots by pairing him with a human—mocking the Tilt in him she deemed useless and pitiful.

Hyunjin caught the silver of her hair in his peripheral, piled on her head elegantly like strung starlight. His mother was watching him from where she stood poised as a knife in the shadows. Every blink, every breath of his was under her unrelenting scrutiny. This was a test like many before, and Hyunjin was going to cleave mountains with his bare hands if it warranted his mother’s approval.

He lifted his free hand, curling it into a fist and holding it against his right shoulder in salute. His new training partner mirrored him, her moves practiced to an unnatural degree of precision. Her black Azāri uniform was sharply tailored to her figure, the high collar brushing against her jaw as the ends of her overcoat waved in the slight breeze. Her hair was styled clear of her face, letting her hardened features be illuminated by the morning sun.

Azāri was a delicate fighting art developed by the Nilfyn centuries past, mimicking the fluidity of water in its grace and precision. It required a level of agility unnatural to humans, but stood there, his opponent was every bit the part. Her mortality was only given away by her ears, bare and unadorned. Unlike Hyunjin’s, which were extensively hooped with deep purplish-red Channeling Cores.

Channeling Cores that served little to no purpose.

The air settled around him as though the forbidding pillars surrounding them were holding their breaths, anticipating the lethal whistle of swinging Kizāris. This was a game to his mother, and if Hyunjin wanted to prove himself, then he’d have to kill that human.

As soon as that thought materialized in his mind, her still Kizāri lifted off the ground in a magnificent arc, nearly sweeping him off his feet and spurring him into action. Leaping over the silver head, he swung his own weapon down in a clean diagonal line as his muscles tensed with welcome familiarity.

Kizāris were made to be nearly the height of their users, with long and thin handles, supporting broad, double-edged iron heads that spread like butterfly wings. The weapons moved like pendulums, making dips in the sand that resembled overlapping circles. It was an art, albeit deadly.

Hyunjin fell into the familiar flow of the fight, the faint scream of air as his weapon cut through it was a welcome song to his attentive ears. His blood thrummed, dancing to the steady beat of his heart as his mind whirled with his movements, calculating, strategizing. His eyes followed the blur of her weapon arcing toward him unceasingly, one bold plunge after the other.

She fought impeccably, Hyunjin had to admit. If she were intimidated by him, her stance told nothing of it. His new partner didn’t hesitate to strike first and strike hard, but he was soon able to identify the pattern in her attacks.

Ducking to avoid the silvered weapon swiveling toward his neck, he raised his Kizāri as though to swing it upward. When he saw her eyes follow the movement, her Kizāri turning to clash with his, he reversed his aim and swung it toward her feet, successfully disrupting her balance. In the gasp of her confusion, he lunged, hurling her at the ground with his Kizāri pressed against her chest.

White sand clouded the air after the impact and Hyunjin inhaled. He would drive the weapon into her chest and watch as her mortal blood tainted the sand—show his mother that he refused to accept the insult.

But as he applied more pressure on his Kizāri, he felt the human slacken under him. The prospect of death loomed over him, a destiny and a threat. He expected her to fight back, but she was giving up, her Kizāri a whisper away from her fingertips. Her eyes were fixed on him, stern and unsettling, as if daring him to proceed, glaring at the face of undisputable doom.

It made him pause. But it was too late.

“Pathetic,” she breathed the word as her legs hugged the handle of Hyunjin’s Kizāri and pulled it downward. The weapon flew out of his grasp before he could react, and she was on her feet again, Kizāri in hand. She pushed him to the ground in one swift motion and briefly touched the sharp edge of the iron to his neck.

In one moment’s difference, Hyunjin had proven the weakness he’d been so close to destroying.

The Azārāhi retracted her weapon before turning to where Hyunjin’s mother stood watching. She bowed then stepped out of the square of sand. Its even surface now exhibited the circular indentations of the Kizāris.

Hyunjin couldn’t pull himself up quick enough before his mother’s scathing words lashed at him. There was sand in his hair, dusting his cheeks and muddling the inky black of his attire. His Kizāri was discarded shamefully on the ground. And he was just bested by a human.

The head of House Amaranthine had aimed to humiliate him, and she succeeded.

“How Shameful.”

Those two words landed like a slap to his face.

She was never discrete at expressing her disappointment in him. It was the only emotion she seemed to know how to express. Never pride. Never compassion.

All because he was simply born.

Hyunjin lifted his gaze, willing himself to meet her eyes despite the oppressive urge building up in him to curl into himself and vanish without a trace.

He would allow himself no further humiliation.

“I expect you to train every waking and sleeping hour of the day.” she stepped out into the light, and instantly, the space of the court seemed to shrivel. His mother was carved out of quartz and ivory, her sharp eyes pools of onyx that saw everything. She demanded attention, and a cower from the people who knew her.

Her fairness told nothing of the disdain dripping from her words. “Paint these sands red for all I care.”

Hyunjin was foolish to think he could challenge her gaze with his own. He stared at the disrupted sand beneath him when he forced out an answer.

“Yes, mother.”

•❃•

Life in the Kingdom of Greria was many things, but it wasn’t easy. Not for your kind.

Your villages were small and few, riddled with illness and poverty. Children were forced away from their families for better lives as servants or soldiers, while the elderly were left to rot alone under tattered roofs. Their loneliness was common, expected, even, since most families were prematurely broken by the aristocracy or by death.

The Nilfyn didn’t burn down your homes, but their indifference to your suffering might’ve as well. Their biases killed and tortured and ripped little children from their mothers’ desperate arms. Ruled by an uncaring king and a heartless aristocracy, being born human was condemnation in Greria.

Some might say that you were one of the lucky few. Donated to the Ērmār of House Amaranthine when you were six, you hadn’t set foot in a human village ever since. You were fed and sheltered, and that was a luxury more than most could afford.

The Ērmār was an austere lady. It was rumored amongst the palace servants that her heart was made of an iron so cold it never warmed up.

House Amaranthine operated on that coldness.

The life you led was governed by countless, unchanging rules. You had to watch your every word and action in order to keep your neck intact. And as one of the human Azārāhis, trained to be sacrificed on the first line of defense, you were under the Ērmār’s direct examination. She could deem you unfitting or insolent at any moment, and your life would be tipped over with a wave of her hand.

You were given the merest respect for being an Azārāhi when strolling through town, but you were still a human girl in a warrior’s uniform. A sacrificial lamb. That Azārāhi title was hollow.

And you were reminded of its emptiness when the Ērmār summoned you to train with her son.

Sōrsānt Hyunjin was a presence whispered in the shadows and not uttered aloud in the palace. Very few of you had laid eyes on the House’s only heir, but you all heard about his mother’s contempt for him. The Ērmār was harsh, but she was the harshest on him.

No one understood her reasons, neither did any pity the Sōrsānt. He was a Nilfyn aristocrat after all, with enough privilege to distribute amongst a village and still have an abundance to spare. If anything, you found him pathetic.

And your notion of him was fortified when you first dueled with him. You recognized the insult of your new role as his training partner, and you had expected him to plunge his Kizāri into your chest when he had the chance. You had expected him to show the Ērmār that he wouldn’t let her humiliate him. You had expected him to kill you because that was how things worked in House Amaranthine.

But he hesitated. And he damned the two of you in that fraction of a second.

Weakness was unforgivable. It was a sin. You couldn’t think of a single valid reason for his reluctance, and you didn’t want to know. The Sōrsānt had no business sparing a random human, and if you wanted to keep your place in the palace, then such an incident could not reoccur.

That was what you woke up to ensure.

Just like the previous day, you waited in the Sōrsānt’s training court after finishing your drills. The sun was barely awake, its gradual light painting the slumbering sky in golden hues. It was better that way. If the Ērmār wanted you to train during every waking hour, then you had to be up before the sun itself.

You didn’t wait long before Hyunjin appeared, striding out of the lacquered doors with an ease that could only be found in those carrying aristocratic blood. Something akin to anger twitched in his jaw when his gaze settled on you for the briefest moment. It was as though he were upset by the fact that you arrived before him.

The Sōrsānt was a sight to behold. A presence to be revered. His towering stature was accentuated by attire excellently tailored to his figure, drawing attention to the breadth of his proud shoulders. Half of his long hair was tied up to clear his face, but a few dark strands escaped to frame his countenance regardless. Purplish-red stones encrusted his ears—instruments of summoning magic, marking him as a Nilfyn and specifically symbolizing his relation to House Amaranthine.

In many ways, he was a mirror of the Ērmār. But the ruthlessness that lined her eyes was missing in his, replaced by solemn guardedness. He was a hostile fortress, yet his staggering features demanded lingering gazes.

It was said that their magic made them ethereal like that. Nature’s last favored children. Hyunjin’s eyes seemed to be made of the purest obsidian, wrung from the bleeding heart of the earth itself and shielded by the generous brush of his brows. His full lips were pressed in a line of permanent scorn, as though he couldn’t smile even if he tried to.

Sculpted by iron and starlight, he was beautiful, like all the Nilfyn were. He was also a conceited fool, like they all were.

“Good morning, Sōrsānt.” you kept your tone even, greeting him only for the sake of formalities than actual concern for the quality of his morning.

Haughty as they were, Hyunjin spared your greeting no acknowledgment as he walked past you to the rack of polished Azāri equipment nailed to the wall. You ignored the urge to roll your eyes, fixing them instead on the identical pillars surrounding the court like soldiers on duty. The sand in the center was flattened again, erasing all evidence of the humiliating duel of the previous day.

When the Sōrsānt moved toward the training square, you followed him, situating yourself on one side while he took its opposite. He didn’t bother to lay out the plan for the day’s training. Perhaps he didn’t care, or perhaps he only wanted to spar until one of you fell dead. Whichever it was, you didn’t dwell on it for too long. For all you knew, he expected you to simply know what he wanted and follow along.

You tugged at the leather straps wrapped around your hands, making sure they were secured properly. Reinforced with iron cuffs, the brace was designed to protect an Azārāhi’s wrists from fracturing or dislocating when handling the weight and force of a Kizāri. The weapon was difficult to master and similarly dangerous without the necessary precautions.

Once you were satisfied with the fit of the leather straps, you fixed your footing and inhaled, letting air pass through your lips slowly before letting it out through your nose. Your mind had to be an empty slate before a fight. You couldn’t afford distractions unless you wanted your arm chopped off.

You detached your Kizāri when Hyunjin wordlessly reached for his, letting the head touch the ground and dragging it across the sand in a perfect half-circle. The two blades met halfway, connecting your trails like an incomplete infinity. That was the routine way of drawing the Kizāri during professional duels, one you practiced over and over until it became as natural as breathing.

You raised your free fist to your shoulder, slightly jutting your elbow out in salute. Hyunjin mirrored you, allowing the greeting to settle for a moment before he swung his Kizāri.

Every emotion you painstakingly forced into hiding unfurled at once, fueling your muscles as you countered his attack.

Your Kizāri was an extension of your arm, moving alongside your body as though the two were instinctively aware of one another. You’d long since tamed the weapon, understanding the way it moved not out of necessity, but because you loved the art of Azāri.

You should’ve hated an art developed by the Nilfyn, for the Nilfyn, but you were entranced by its splendor from the moment you first saw the Azārāhis of House Amaranthine thirteen years ago. Their bodies were mere vessels for the fluid movement of the fight, one with the blur of Kizāris. It was enchanting. It was deadly.

An Azārāhi master herself, the Ērmār had been recruiting human students to join her legion of soldiers. So when you showed potential, you were thrust into the tough life of an Azārāhi, never to look back.

You leaped over Hyunjin’s Kizāri when it came arcing toward you, lashing yours in a slanted line he narrowly missed. You had never fought a Nilfyn Azārāhi before the day you were summoned to train with Hyunjin, and you noticed the difference immediately. The Sōrsānt was incredibly lithe, and that agility seemed instinctual, easy. Unlike the overly practiced movements of your fellow human Azārāhis. In another lifetime, you might’ve sat and admired his motion for hours, like a stream of crystal water. A sly breeze. A graceful shadow. A delicate destroyer.

But you weren’t a dreamy girl in that impossible timeline, and you had a warning to deliver to the foolish Hwang Hyunjin.

Anger at him set your blood ablaze, mangled with your silent fear from the previous day. You hadn’t built a life in House Amaranthine for the Sōrsānt to take it away by being cowardly. You refused to let that be the direction of your fate.

Your Kizāris clashed and the curved ends hooked into each other. Seeing the opportunity, you flicked your wrist sideways. Hyunjin’s weapon jerked as a result, distracting him before you swiveled to dislodge your Kizāri and swing it past his neck.

Your heartbeat rang in your ears, deafening.

It all happened in the slight space between a breath and another.

Your Kizāri whooshed behind him before you pulled it back, making its blunt underside catch his neck and drive him toward you until you had your hand fisted in his coat. You were aware of the Kizāri still in his grasp, idle due to the smear of shock that contorted his face, so your words came rushing out. He could snap back into his senses at any moment and cut through you with ease. “I don’t know what made you leave me unscathed yesterday, and I don’t care to know.

“Do not disgrace me before the Ērmār like that again,” you bit out before releasing him and swiftly backing away.

He could kill you for your insolence. He could call for the guards and they wouldn’t question him while dragging you away. But something told you that he wouldn’t. As you trailed a new half-moon in the pearly sand, you knew that his colossal ego wouldn’t allow him to quit the fight so early.

Hyunjin stared at you, his Kizāri limp in his hand, his formidable fortress down. You saw the gall of your actions flit over his features as it sunk into his mind. Your words were clear, the intentions behind them plain, and the set of his eyes darkened with realization soon enough.

You had done it.

He had barely completed his half-circle in the sand before his Kizāri went flying through the air, aimed at you with no space for mistake.

You caught the steel in his eyes, and you wanted to laugh. This was what it felt like to fight a Nilfyn Azārāhi. Brute force and swings aimed to kill. It wasn’t the harmless flow of water, but the slither of a serpent. A dance of venom.

This was Azāri. Relentless and deathly.

Adrenaline surged in your veins as you evaded his blow, swinging your weapon with newfound force. Sand rose in clouds around the two of you. Sunlight pooled into the open court. Your Kizāris never faltered. Your feet never stayed at the same spot for a moment too long. The minutes blurred into each other, and as your muscles screamed against the strain, Hyunjin seemed unaffected. The anger in his focused gaze only seemed to grow, festering into an ugly mess of lethal, unforgiving swings.

The blade of his Kizāri landed on your upper arm in a hazy moment of vulnerability, and before you could register what was happening, it was cutting through the thick sleeve of your overcoat.

He retracted his weapon, and you swallowed a low hiss as the new cut on your arm burned in the dusty air. The only thought that broke through your pained daze was a grim ‘fucking finally’.

This way, they would see that the Sōrsānt injured you during training. They would know that he didn’t value a meager human life and you would be safe from the Ērmār’s retribution. After all, you didn’t want to break the first rule in House Amaranthine.

You were still gripping your Kizāri when you straightened your back, holding Hyunjin’s gaze and ignoring the tingling pain in your arm. He looked at you with his chin in the air as if daring you to wince. Daring you to cry out.

You only dragged your Kizāri through the disrupted sand. A half-moon.

And you drew it again and again until your limbs were no more than floating muscle. Until your mind was no more than a muddle of consciousness. Until you drove your body to the limits of blood loss.

It was better that way.

•❃•

When Hyunjin saw you again, it was as though you hadn’t trailed blood as you left his training court the day before.

You stepped through the door with your head up, shoulders firm, and your Kizāri strapped to your back, only pausing mid-stride for a hesitant moment when you noticed that he had arrived before you.

He watched as confusion, curiosity, and then concern painted themselves on your features respectively. All appropriate reactions, he supposed. It would be deemed highly disrespectful if you kept him waiting, but likewise, he didn’t want you to best him in attendance as well.

It was silly, he was vaguely aware, but this was a competition. Such was life in House Amaranthine. Even the most trivial things mattered.

You cleared your throat shortly after, speaking in the same monotone voice, “Good morning, Sōrsānt.”

Hyunjin didn’t reply, and you both knew that he didn’t have to. Neither of you actually cared about mornings and whether they were pleasant or not.

Taking your positions across the flat square of sand, Hyunjin pretended not to see the way your eyes clenched when you reached for your Kizāri. It was the first sign of pain you showed, and he suspected it would be the last.

He was aware of what you were doing. By making him injure you, you ensured that the palace wouldn’t pay attention to the way he hesitated to kill you first. It was grim, but it helped mask his earlier humiliation.

Though, Hyunjin knew you didn’t do it for him. You did it to protect yourself from him. If his mother grew suspicious, then there was no way to avoid the punishment she would give the both of you. Humans and Nilfyn were not supposed to be friends, and his little slip-up could’ve condemned the two of you.

You drew your half-moons in the sand and began what would become a daily routine—sparring wordlessly until the sun centered the sky.

Hyunjin allowed the faint voice in his head to begrudgingly admire your strength. You were still in pain, he noticed it, but your aim didn’t waver, your swings didn’t weaken. When his mother introduced you as her best human Azārāhi, she had truly meant it. You were an untiring weapon in her mortal arsenal.

Perhaps, in another lifetime, he would’ve been horrified by your endurance. But he wasn’t an innocent boy in that impossible timeline, and those were the cruel instruments to surviving a world that didn’t value you.

The two of you were sparring in rounds each a few minutes long. Hyunjin didn’t miss the looks you were giving him by the end of each one, staring at him like he was a riddle you couldn’t solve while trailing your Kizāri in the sand again. He could guess a hundred reasons behind those looks, and he found that he didn’t care to know which was specifically circling your mind.

But as the day progressed, he began noticing the strange new pattern in your strategy. You were trying to corner him, push him to an edge as though to see how he would react. When he swung his Kizāri at you, you only ducked and arced your weapon to trap his. Then, to his bewilderment, you waited, narrowing your eyes at him as though anticipating his response. When he frowned and twisted his Kizāri free, your unnerving intrigue only increased. It sparkled in your eyes gloriously.

He didn’t like it.

Or more precisely, he didn’t like being the object of your mysterious scrutiny.

Hyunjin stifled a snarl as he swiveled his Kizāri at your feet, raising the pale sand. Goodness, you were really getting on his nerves.

•❃•

It had been a week since you began training with Hyunjin, and although you hated every moment of it, it was a routine you eased into quickly.

Maybe a bit too quickly than you’d like to admit.

The Sōrsānt was an insufferable bastard, but you appreciated the challenge he presented to you. All your previous duels paled when compared to those with him. It was as if you’d finally found a worthy opponent.

That morning started like the rest. You stood in the sand square and dragged your Kizāri through as Hyunjin mimicked you. The soft clink of metal sounded when the two weapons met, and you raised your fist to your shoulder.

Just then, the doors groaned open, and you heard her approach before you turned to see her.

Shrouded in the finest black, the Ērmār’s presence in the training court made the air quiver. You caught the glint of a Kizāri behind the silver glow of her hair and your eyes widened unwisely.

There could only be one reason for that Kizāri.

Immediately, you retracted your weapon and bowed to her, beginning to retrace your steps toward the door at the opposite end of the court when her voice boomed behind you, “Stay.”

You froze at her command, trying to calm the panic rising in your throat as you stood still near the door. Your thoughts pounded against your sanity. She suspects you. This is it. She’s here to end it all.

You were a fool to think your plan would ever work.

Hyunjin glared at his mother as she stepped into the square of sand, undoubtedly displeased by her order for you to stay. She stopped at the spot where you stood moments ago and pulled out her Kizāri, letting it meet his on the ground. Her tone was gravelly demand, unaffected by the irritation in his gaze. “I want to see your progress.”

Hyunjin didn’t answer her, and you could see the clench of his jaw as he bit back any protest he had. A breath too long later, he relented, touching his fist to his shoulder briefly before he swept his Kizāri across the sand in front of him.

You observed them from the side, not bothering to mask your expressions anymore. You didn’t know whether to be afraid, excited, or baffled by the dangerous duel before you.

A visit from the Ērmār never had pleasant results, and your fear was all-encompassing. The last time you’d seen her, she was watching as her son spared your life when he shouldn’t have. She wouldn’t forget, you knew. Eventually, she would decide to finish what Hyunjin couldn’t.

At the same time, you couldn’t drown the thrill pumping in your blood. You’d heard much about the Ērmār’s mastery of Azāri, but you’d never seen her fight. Not until that moment. And you could easily see where Hyunjin earned his fighting style.

The Ērmār was him, except quicker and deadlier. She moved as if she had mapped all his steps beforehand and expected them. He was a puppet in her hands, forced to counter, counter, counter, and never given a second chance to attack.

The Ērmār’s age didn’t seem to give Hyunjin an advantage either. She was a dagger that always landed true, an ancient willow swaying with the wind of the fight.

Then, there was your faint surprise to see the way Hyunjin bent to his mother’s will without so little as an objection. Somehow, you knew what the Ērmār was doing. By letting you watch, she was pushing his humiliation further. It was a twisted play of power that you unfortunately understood. Weakness was a sin, after all.

The duel didn’t last long. Hyunjin held up against the Ērmār’s unfaltering blows impeccably, but one could only defend for so long before an opening showed itself.

And the Ērmār was a keenly perceptive lady.

In a blink, her Kizāri swung skillfully, disarming him successfully and hurtling toward his side. She turned the weapon and its flat side slammed into him, throwing him off balance and sending him to the ground. A puff of dust floated around Hyunjin’s fallen figure, and you grimaced before you could think any better of it.

The Ērmār stood over her son’s body, pristine and undisturbed after their abrupt duel. Her tone was enough to make flowers wilt. “And I didn’t even need my magic to best you.”

Hyunjin was still sprawled on his side, and you found yourself urging him silently. Get up. Get up, you absolute buffoon.

As if he could hear you, he pushed himself to his feet, fighting back a wince as he met his mother’s withering gaze. Sand was powdering the side of his face and chalking his dark hair, but that didn’t seem to bother him. The words left his lips quietly, seething, “You say this, but my father bested you without—”

“Your father was too incompetent to keep himself alive. Do you wish to compare yourself to him?” she snapped, suffocating whatever flame of courage he had kindled for himself at that moment.

He lowered his eyes, squeezing his fists and dropping his shoulders, truly defeated. “No, mother.”

The Ērmār didn’t grace him with a response, simply looking him over with a disappointed click of her tongue before she turned and left. Only when the doors echoed shut behind her did Hyunjin lift his gaze, letting it crash on you instantly. A maelstrom of anger and humiliation.

He picked up his Kizāri and stalked in your direction. You opened your mouth to speak, but he only shoved past you, wordlessly pushing the door open and disappearing into the palace.

You had sworn to never feel sorry for the Sōrsānt. But at that moment, standing alone in his training court, your heart broke the vow of your better judgement.

•❃•

You could tell that Hyunjin’s mind was elsewhere when his Kizāri flew out of his grasp upon clashing with yours.

It was a mistake only a beginner would make.

You heaved an exasperated breath and stabbed the ground with your Kizāri, glaring at a confused Hyunjin while he stared blankly at his disgraced weapon. With a shake of his head, he crouched down and grabbed the handle, dragging the Kizāri with him to his side of the sand square.

He drew a new half-moon then looked up at you, surprised to find you unmoving at the center of the court. He lifted a brow in mute question, and you frowned, unable to keep the frustration to yourself anymore.

“Why didn’t you say no?”

He didn’t owe you conversation. He didn’t need to talk to you unless he had an order to give. The Nilfyn were above engaging with simple humans.

That didn’t stop you from pressing further, hefting your Kizāri with two hands as you stepped toward him. “I didn’t have to see that, and you could’ve objected.”

Silence.

You let out a sizable sigh. Of course your attempts wouldn’t make him budge.

Returning to your spot, you shaped your half-circle and fell back into the rhythm of the fight. But the unanswered questions and his curious behavior seemed to bubble over in your mind. If the Ērmār was using you against him, for whatever reason, then you were in immense danger. You weren’t willing to let Hyunjin go until you had your answers.

Seemingly distracted as he was, Hyunjin let his Kizāri swoop lazily and you took that opportunity to arc your weapon toward the ground, successfully trapping his in the sand. You swiftly set a foot on the blunt underside of his Kizāri, its head now buried in the sand, and threw your best glare at the Sōrsānt. He’d have to counter the full weight of your body and the fix of your Kizāri if he wanted to free his weapon.

“I need answers.”

At your shameless demand, a scowl distorted Hyunjin’s handsome features. He tugged on his Kizāri, and you pressed your foot harder in response. It was his fault for allowing you to trap him so easily anyway.

“Why didn’t you object?”

His grip on the Kizāri’s handle tightened, but he remained silent. Your frustration only multiplied. He was more stubborn than a traitor in interrogation.

“Why did you let the Ērmār humiliate you like that?”

He turned his face away in a show of disinterest, but you saw the tick in his jaw. He was getting irritated.

“You’re the Sōrsānt, for goodness’ sake! Why do you feign weakness?”

That seemed to do it. He snapped his head toward you, eyes thundering with turbulent anger and another emotion you couldn’t quite place. The steely edge of his words could break stone. “You don’t know me.”

“Oh? I think I’ve seen enough to know what I need to know. You’re conceited, callous, and careless, and you’re weak. Why am I training with you?”

Hyunjin kept his lips pressed together, his frown deepening. You were the one being careless with your words, but you couldn’t stop. Once they slipped past your lips, all your thoughts came tumbling out.

“You don’t use your magic.” your statement sounded more like a question. You had been observing him during your training hours, and he never resorted to an Elemental Tilt to turn the tides of your fights. Hyunjin relied on his skills solely, and although it made the match between the two of you a notch fairer, it was suspicious. The Nilfyn prided themselves on their magic.

You leaned closer, lowering your voice skeptically, “Unless…you don’t have magic.”

He flinched at that—flinched—and you didn’t pretend to overlook it, murmuring, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

You retracted your Kizāri from the ground and lifted your foot from his weapon, raising your chin in challenge as you stepped away. Almost immediately, Hyunjin’s Kizāri swung at you, frantic yet precise. Metal clashed on metal, and you were pivoting away, fighting the crazed laugh threatening to erupt in your chest.

It was almost too easy to rile Hyunjin up.

If the Sōrsānt had no magic, then that meant that he was an illegitimate child. That would explain his avoidance of using it and might be the reason behind the Ērmār’s harshness with him.

If he had no magic, then that meant that he was a human like you. You only needed to prove it.

You lowered your guard, purposely giving Hyunjin the chance to disarm you. His swings, whereas still strong, were erratic, as though he was desperately fighting for his life. His dark eyes were glazed over with that same desperation.

Reminiscent of your first duel, he pushed you to the ground, pressing his Kizāri against your chest. Your weapon slipped out of your grasp.

You inhaled sand, looking up at him with a satisfied smirk. “See? No magic.”

Before giving him time to react, you raised your legs to hook them around his and toppled him over. In the breath of his surprise, you snatched his Kizāri, rolling and pinning him under you easily. You clutched the weapon like a spear as you aimed it at his neck, barely hearing your voice over the wild beating of your heart. “You’re powerless. You’re a liar.”

His beautiful face was marred with distress and fury, and with a sharp pang of realization, you recognized the emotion that filled his eyes moments earlier. Fear.

Hyunjin’s hand gripped your wrist to divert the Kizāri. A growl rumbled in his throat as he tried to wrestle you off and regain the upper hand. He didn’t acknowledge your accusations while the two of you tumbled across the court.

Your back hit the soft sand again as Hyunjin held you down, his hand slamming into the ground beside your head. His Kizāri was discarded. The strands of hair that framed his face whispered against your skin when he leaned in, seething, yet so incredibly vulnerable. He rasped, the smoothness of his voice hardening into ice despite the warmth of his presence. “You don’t know me, human.”

Then, as if struck by lightning, his eyes enlarged, and he scrambled off you suddenly. You furrowed your eyebrows at his bizarre change of behavior, noticing a moment too late that you had been holding your breath.

With a grunt, you pushed yourself to your feet. Blood was rushing through your system too quickly, but you weren’t going to let Hyunjin flee just yet. You needed answers, and this fight wasn’t going to end until you had them.

You turned to find your Kizāri and paused, eyes landing on a single flower resting on the pearly sand.

Right where Hyunjin’s hand had hit the ground.

A flower, where there was nothing but sand before.

•❃•

Hyunjin wanted the ground to swallow him.

Horror streaked his face as he stared at the flower that sprung amid the bleak sand.

He knew he made it bloom. In a surge of fear, he lost control of his idle magic. He felt it gush through his body, cold yet soothing, felt the lingering tingle on the tips of his fingers—the kiss of the flower’s petals on his palm before he scrambled away, panicked.

You crouched down and pulled the stray bloom out of the sand. The small tangle of roots let up easily. Cupping it gently, you snapped your head up at Hyunjin, meeting his terrified gaze with wonder.

Some part of him faltered.

It screamed and shook with a violence so tremendous it snatched his breath away—a part that longed for acceptance and approval. He hated the way your simple expression seemed to rip him apart, hitting every brick he painstakingly stacked to build the fortress around his heart.

Your awe was sweetly revolting, your whisper too loud for his liking. “This is your magic.”

The flower in your hands had unfurled like a rose, its wide petals curling outward in a shy blush. A single leaf padded the blossom, brilliant in its green sheen. It seemed to smile at the two of you, urging you to caress its soft petals.

It was beautifully horrible, Hyunjin thought. He had to discard it before his mother learned of his slip up.

But before that, there was the problem of you.

Deciding he could no longer look at his mistake lying prettily in your cupped palms, he diverted his gaze elsewhere. Only then did he find his voice. “You were not supposed to see that.”

“Why?”

He’d asked himself the same question every day of his nineteen years. Why did he have to hide his Tilt? Why wasn’t he allowed to practice his magic? His mother’s voice sounded in his head, her words slipping out of his lips unthinkingly, “A Flowering Tilt is of no use to an Azārāhi.”

“You have magic, and you’re deeming it useless?”

Hyunjin fought back a sigh. He had already said too much. He shouldn’t have been entertaining you in the first place, but you seemed to have a knack for making him act against his better judgment.

“It is useless to me.”

Silence stretched between the two of you until you finally said, “You don’t believe that.”

What a feeble, feisty human soul.

He turned to face you again, avoiding looking at the glaring blossom in your hands. “When will you stop thinking that you know me?”

“I can identify a lie when I hear one,” you only shrugged, and he almost admired your boldness. Surely, you understood the danger of speaking to him so freely.

Yet, you demanded answers and it was clear that you weren’t leaving him alone until you acquired them.

Hyunjin huffed, the truth tasting sour on his tongue, “It doesn’t matter what I believe. If the Ērmār thinks that my Tilt is useless, then it is.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but he beat you to it, wanting to end this conversation before he did something he regretted. He’d give you the answers you wanted, and nothing more. “This House obeys her word, not mine.

“I couldn’t object yesterday because I don’t have the power to. I don’t use my magic because I don’t need to. And I didn’t choose to be paired with you. I don’t want to do this any more than you do. This was the Ērmār’s decision alone.” he crossed his arms, raising a brow. “There are your answers. Satisfied?”

You clamped your mouth shut then, and Hyunjin knew that that would be the end of it.

His heart was beating with a desire to indulge itself in the now distant memory of your fascination, but he ignored it. Picking up his Kizāri, he strode toward you and extended his hand. “Give me the flower.”

You handed it to him wordlessly, and with an unreasonable pang, he realized it was for the better. Your silence was better for the both of you.

Hyunjin crushed the blossom in his fist, snapping its stem and forcing his emotional ramparts up. He had messed up enough for a thousand lifetimes. This mistake could not happen again.

He made his way to the double doors then halted with his free hand on one of the handles. “Oh, and, Y/n?”

He turned to find you looking at him, waiting with your expressionless mask back on. His warning was whispered, but the faint breeze carried its weight to your ears before buckling under. It settled bitter in the disrupted sand. “If word of my magic spreads around the palace, I’ll finish what we started on our first duel.”

Hyunjin didn’t know if he truly believed those words, but you had claimed to be able to discern a lie upon hearing one. He hoped you would be able to tell him in due time.

•❃•

Silver plates clinked softly as servants set the first course on the table, a mouthwatering display of the House’s best: Pine-Stuffed Eggs arranged like bursting stars. Fresh spinach leaves tossed with vibrant berries in a unique concoction of lemon cider and sesame oil. Roasted Pillow-Top Mushrooms bronzed by cinnamon and freckled with salt flakes. Pale blades of fermented Bone Grass accompanied by a mound of floral Moon Cheese.

It was food fit for the start of a feast, but only four people sat at the long ivory table.

Hyunjin’s gaze traveled politely over his mother’s guests, the Sōrmār and Sōrsānt of House Sapphirine. They sat proud, squaring their shoulders and flaunting their adorned ears. Their grayish-blue Channeling Cores were cut into smooth round shapes, pierced in decreasing size from the earlobe to the helix. The blue of their attire was stark against the grim palette of House Amaranthine.

But that was as far as they stood out. Those Nilfyn were just like Hyunjin and his mother, aristocrats who were always scheming, devising, and calculating. Life was nothing but a mere game of power to them, and tonight’s feast was an opulent performance of such.

The Sōrmār of House Sapphirine was stern-looking, with cheeks that hollowed in despite his wealth and eyes that never exposed his true emotions. His late wife bore him one heir, whom he paraded around like a prize.

Sōrsānt Juyeon was everything Hyunjin’s mother wished her son had been. He was haughty, cruel, and powerful. All the things Hyunjin couldn’t feign strongly enough.

They were both born with Hybrid Tilts, but while Hyunjin’s was useless, Juyeon’s was dangerous.

His Corrosive Tilt allowed him to create chemicals that ate away at human flesh and dissolved stone. He could bring down entire villages if he wanted, torture them until nothing remained but ghastly bones.

He saw it once, and while his mother clapped for the performance, Hyunjin couldn’t silence the echo of those tortured screams as the human’s skin melted off.

It was a wicked kind of pleasure he never understood.

Once the servants stepped away from the table, the dining began. Hyunjin kept one ear on the conversation happening between his mother and the Sōrmār while he scooped some of the salad onto his plate.

“Morileus’ soldiers were spotted near the border earlier this week,” the man had said, and his mother entertained him, “So I hear. They must be scouting for those rebels of theirs. They wouldn’t dare cross over.”

“It’s unbelievable how the Ambellium continues to evade him after all these years.”

“It is incompetency on the King’s behalf, nothing more.”

Hyunjin tuned out the rest of their conversation in disinterest. The bizarre political state of their neighboring Kingdom, Morynna, was a recurring subject in aristocratic dinners. Their seemingly immortal king had been ruling long before Hyunjin was born, and as far as anyone could recall.

Anyone but the citizens of his Kingdom.

To them, King Morileus was the Eternal King, his throne and power unquestioned. They found no fault in his endless rule.

Hyunjin visited Morynna once during a diplomatic trip with his mother. He remembered Moryns greeting them with glazed over eyes and tireless cheer. Unnatural, like sentient puppets. Royal soldiers permanently swarmed their streets, but they didn’t seem to mind. All the people did was sing Morileus’ praises, for he had saved them from the savage Silfyn.

The Nilfyn weren’t always nature’s favored children. Four centuries past, the old Morynna was ruled by humans alongside the powerful Silfyn, enchanting creatures that were said to have raised the Kingdom’s imposing capital from desolate earth.

Their magic knew no bounds, transcending the barriers of one’s soul and reaching for the seams of existence itself. If Hyunjin could make a flower bloom, then they could awaken gardens across deserts. If Hyunjin’s mother could manipulate water, then they could split the mighty sea. If Juyeon could destroy a village, then they could bring entire kingdoms to their knees. It was even said that some could raise the dead from their rest.

Yet, all that power didn’t save them from slaughter. Perhaps that was where the Nilfyn earned their abundant arrogance. Despite being restricted by their magic, they were the only remaining magical race.

“Is Hyunjin still Unclaimed?”

Hyunjin’s fork froze on his plate, and he looked at the Sōrmār with masked nervousness. The memory of the blushing blossom in your hands flickered in his mind, fresh and frightening. Tender.

“Unfortunately. His Tilt is yet to show,” his mother lied, to which the Sōrmār nodded sympathetically. His true condescending intent was obvious in his tone. “His case is a peculiar one, but a Nilfyn is a Nilfyn. His magic will appear eventually.”

Hyunjin felt Juyeon’s smug gaze on him, and he suppressed the urge to glare in response. In this game of power, he must’ve thought himself Hyunjin’s better simply because he had magic.

Their patronizing didn’t go unnoticed by the Ērmār, who responded curtly, “We are anticipating signs of his Tilt, but we are in no rush. Hyunjin’s mastery of Azāri is unmatched and unaffected by his lack of magic.”

Hyunjin wanted to feel the prickle of pride, to sit straighter and match Juyeon’s smugness, but the sweet tanginess of his food turned bitter in his mouth.

Unmatched mastery? He scoffed inwardly. That was not what she had said when she stood over him in the training court.

“Ah, do tell! I’ve been eager to see your famed Azārāhis,” the Sōrmār barked a resonant laugh, to which Hyunjin’s mother smiled. Charming, but anyone who bothered to look would see the icicles behind her expression. “Of course. They are waiting for us.”

•❃•

Hyunjin had only seen his mother’s miniature army twice before, and each time, it grew impossibly.

The court they stood in was ten, or maybe twenty times the size of his personal training court, packed with grim-faced Azārāhis. Their black overcoats were a void night sky, their Kizāris a shimmering sea of silver.

One thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven Nilfyn Azārāhis, Hyunjin had the number memorized, more than double any of the other Houses’. They stood in orderly clusters in accordance with their respective Tilts. Their hair was pulled back or sheared to display their ears, encrusted by a pattern of black and purplish-red rings. Soldiers of House Amaranthine.

Hyunjin stole a glance at Juyeon and his father, drinking in the astonishment they failed to conceal.

His mother’s success with Azārāhis was rightfully enviable. A startling majority of aspiring warriors had pledged allegiance to her House over the other six, aiming to be part of its illustrious history. It made her an ever-growing force to be reckoned with.

“Before you are the best of our Azārāhis, those who have completed extensive levels of training and continue on the path toward mastery,” Hyunjin’s mother declared, her voice filled with self-centered pride. She considered each of the Azārāhis her achievement alone. “Allow them to perform for you.”

On cue, the first group of Azārāhis stepped forward while the rest backtracked. Their leader introduced them as the Hydro Contingent, soldiers with the same Tilt as the Ērmār.

Hyunjin watched as their Kizāris swung in magnificent curves, creating arcs of crystal water as the weapons clashed mercilessly. A spectacle of both magic and skill. Their Kizāris weren’t just blades, but magic wielding instruments.

The Pyro Contingent was next, setting their Kizāris and their bodies ablaze, followed by the Aeros who created mighty whirlwinds with the swoops of their weapons and flew after their opponents. The group of Terrestrial Tilts was the last of the Old Disciplines, raising the pearly sand in forbidding shapes and transforming the terrain as they sparred.

Then, the Hybrid Types began their performances: Mirroring Tilts who split into a hundred duplicates. Fuming Tilts who blanketed the court in dense smoke. Grounding Tilts who sparred upturned in the air. Corrosive Tilts who liquified solid training dummies. Bestial Tilts who commanded vicious wolves. Metallic Tilts who turned their bodies into impenetrable steel. Photo Tilts who manipulated light to appear invisible. Sound-bending Tilts who deafened their opponents. And finally, Metamorphic Tilts who slithered as snakes in the sand.

Every known Hybrid Type had been present except one.

There was no Flowering Contingent.

Your earlier words rang in Hyunjin’s mind, chastising, you have magic, and you’re deeming it useless?

He found himself wondering what Flowering Tilts would do in such a presentation, but the only answer he could think of was utterly frivolous. Turning the square of sand into an exquisite garden would impress no one, and likewise endanger nobody.

The Sōrmār of House Sapphirine’s hollow praises drowned in the background as Hyunjin trailed behind them, leaving the court, mind elsewhere.

No matter how hard he tried to accept the bar on his magic, it never felt right. Regardless of his Tilt’s so-called uselessness, it was still part of his soul.

Watching the Nilfyn Azārāhis made him feel as though he’d been robbed of something he never had in the first place. An emptiness that could never be satiated.

The four of them stepped into a significantly smaller court, where an array of Azārāhis stood rigidly. Their number was many times lesser than the previous soldiers’, but the feat of their achievement was equally impressive.

“Our young troop of Human Azārāhis,” the Ērmār announced with a flourish. “A hundred and eighty-one.”

As if by some mysterious force, Hyunjin’s gaze was drawn to you at the front of the group. You stood alone in the first row, an amaranthine band on your arm differentiating you as their leader. The sand that covered you earlier that day was washed away, your uniform crisp and clean, your Kizāri strapped comfortably to your back.

You kept your gaze forward, impassive, and Hyunjin felt the mystifying weight of your silence again.

Your fist met your shoulder roughly as your voice carried out across the court. “Heed!”

The following sound of fists was like rain on stone. All the Azārāhis bowed in eerie unison, their Kizāris glinting in the bright light of the lanterns surrounding them.

“As you know, teaching Azāri to humans has always been difficult due to their flimsy nature,” Hyunjin’s mother told the Sōrmār, “But I have found an effective training method with this group, and their numbers will only increase from here onwards.”

She gave you a slight nod and you turned on your heel, gesturing toward an Azārāhi on your right while the rest stepped away to clear the square of sand. The two of you moved to opposing sides of the court, pulling out your Kizāris and trailing them across the sand in symmetrical half-moons.

The Azārāhi you chose had a massive build, his bulky shoulders and muscled arms straining against the sleeves of his uniform. Years of training were visible on his physique. A scar ran faint against his olive complexion, cutting across the hard edge of his cheekbones. When you finished your salute, he raised his Kizāri first.

You leaped out of his range with ease, and Hyunjin allowed himself a moment of pride. Your performance didn’t burst with splendor and magic, your Kizāris didn’t catch flame or summon lightning, but it filled Hyunjin with the soothing warmth of familiarity.

This was the Azāri he knew. A waltz of iron and sand. The pure mastery of the Kizāri.

No magic was involved. It was only a battle of skill.

Hyunjin had sparred with you enough to familiarize himself with your fighting style but watching you from the sidelines was a wholly different experience. He could appreciate your evident talent without simultaneously fearing for his life.

Your Kizāris clashed, and it wasn’t long before you skillfully disarmed your opponent and briefly touched the sharp edge of your weapon to his neck.

Your short performance for the Ērmār and her guests was over, and Hyunjin forced his attention back to his companions, reprimanding himself silently. He shouldn’t feel so connected to a group of frail humans.

Oh, but you weren’t frail, and Hyunjin knew it very well.

“Impressive,” the Sōrmār remarked, and his son stepped forward, strangely eager as he addressed you, “What is your name?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Y/n, sir.” You didn’t use his Sōrsānt title since you were pledged to House Amaranthine, and as such, the only Sōrsānt you recognized was Hyunjin.

Juyeon raised his chin in abundant arrogance. “I would like to see her skill personally.”

Hyunjin stiffened, and he caught you doing the same. He was sure his mother did too, but she hid it better than any of you.

Juyeon’s intentions were obvious. It was clear that you were a valuable asset to the Ērmār’s arsenal, and a duel with him would end with your definite death.

Hyunjin’s mother wouldn’t let a member of a rival House kill her soldiers. But if she refused his request, she would be showing concern over a lowly group of humans. The Ērmār couldn’t let that tarnish her reputation either.

After an uncomfortable moment of consideration, she waved her hand dismissively. “Go ahead.”

Juyeon smiled as though humbled by her approval and walked into the square of sand. His bronzed Kizāri winked wickedly from where it was fixed at his back as he situated himself opposite to you. He drew it in a half-circle, and you mimicked him without protest.

Hyunjin didn’t understand the game his mother was playing, but he hoped she knew what she was doing. The uneasy voice in his head depended on it.

If Juyeon ended the fight the way Hyunjin couldn’t, then his weakness would be forever solidified.

You let Juyeon have the first swing, leaping over the head of his weapon as you brought your Kizāri down diagonally in response. Your weapon swiveled expertly in your grip, deadly in its perfect aim. It was the one thing that remained constant in a fight that soon became messy.

Hyunjin was aware of Juyeon’s abilities, and without the threat of his magic, the Sōrsānt of House Sapphirine was average at best. If he kept things fair, you could easily claim a win over him.

But this fight was never fair.

Hyunjin didn’t know why, but it angered him to see you hold back. You were giving Juyeon the illusion of a fight, allowing him to strike at you and parrying endlessly, calculating your attacks such that they narrowly missed him every time. Even though Hyunjin was sure you could’ve disarmed him after a couple of tries.

You were only delaying impending slaughter by a less than competent opponent. Simply because you couldn’t overstep your manners, all while trying to prove your capabilities to the Ērmār.

Juyeon was beginning to tire of your resistance, it was clear in the agitated energy that wobbled his aim. You swiftly adjusted to accommodate his wearing out. It only annoyed him further.

The Ērmār was watching grimly, her lips pressed into a stern line. Hyunjin knew that her mind was whirling with schemes, ploys to set her foot down again and put Sapphirine back in line. Their game of power was constantly shifting, its winds eternally changing.

Hyunjin couldn’t stop to try at guessing his mother’s plans, for he saw Juyeon raise his Kizāri, eyes blazing with maliciousness. He felt you slacken against the press of his blade again, the memory unwelcome. A moment too late, and your tormented screams would fill the court.

Without much thought, Hyunjin found himself blurting, “Juyeon!”

The mentioned Nilfyn paused, turning curiously as Hyunjin made his way to the two of you. He could feel his mother’s blistering gaze on his back, but he disregarded it, steadying his breathing. He would either make his place known in this tug of power or doom himself.

“Enough wasting time with insignificant humans,” Hyunjin said, willing all the authority he could muster into his voice. He grimaced inwardly at his hollow flattering. “You should spar with someone of your caliber.”

That seemed to amuse Juyeon, who settled his Kizāri on the ground with a quirk of his dark brow. He wouldn’t back down from such an invitation. “You are right.”

Hyunjin assumed the spot where you had been standing, barely catching your faint murmur of ‘Sōrsānt’ as you bowed to him and stepped away. The soft padding of your shoes against the sand faded away. His intervention caused no uproar, though he vaguely remembered your angry warning. Do not disgrace me before the Ērmār.

He unsheathed his Kizāri, trailing its familiar weight across the sand to meet his opponent’s. The two weapons clanged, silver against bronze. Hyunjin saluted, and Juyeon followed him, wearing an expression he could only liken to a vulture’s. He thought their duel would be a victory handed to him graciously.

Hyunjin wanted to laugh. Someone had to humble the Sōrsānt of House Sapphirine before his own ego devoured him, and he would gladly take the job. With a swing of his Kizāri, they plunged into the haze of sand.

His opponent would not withhold his magic, Hyunjin knew. But he had spent his years training with Claimed Nilfyn. He knew how to work around their magic when he had none. It was a skill not many cared for, but he was his mother’s son after all. He could fight blind if he had to.

He pivoted away, making Juyeon’s clumsy Kizāri sink into the ground. The sand sizzled, dissolving.

That was all it took. Mere contact.

Hyunjin’s Kizāri might’ve been made with enchanted and reinforced iron, but his skin wasn’t immune to magic. He would suffer the same fate as that unfortunate helping of sand.

He swung his weapon low, slamming it into the bronzed Kizāri still planted in the ground and causing it to rip out of Juyeon’s grip. His magic disconnected instantly.

Too bad Hyunjin wasn’t planning to dissolve any time soon.

His Kizāri flew again, rushing towards a disoriented Juyeon. Hyunjin twisted his wrist such that the impact didn’t kill him, and the flat side of the weapon collided with his middle. With a choked noise, Juyeon lost his footing, surrendering to gravity ungracefully.

His ribs would bruise, maybe crack slightly, but that was the message Hyunjin wanted to deliver. The Azārāhis of House Amaranthine were not to be challenged, magicless or not.

He brushed the blade of his weapon against Juyeon’s neck, not drawing blood but making his victory clear. Securing his Kizāri back in its sheathe, Hyunjin turned and held his mother’s cold gaze. He didn’t shy away. He didn’t shrink into himself when she narrowed her eyes at him as though he were a piece of a puzzle she had overlooked.

It would take more than one spar to earn her praise, but this was enough. She didn’t scathe him with her disappointment, and it was more than Hyunjin could’ve ever asked for.

The Sōrmār’s disappointment, on the other hand, was darker than the night sky canopying the court. “You are right. Hyunjin is a remarkable Azārāhi despite being Unclaimed.”

“Of course I am,” the Ērmār huffed, drawing her shoulders back and heading towards the lacquered doors. “We must move along. We’ve spent far too much time idling in this court.”

As Hyunjin followed his mother and her guests out, he tried to convince himself that his intervention was solely for his own reputation.

That it had nothing to do with you—the only person who looked at his magic with something other than horror and mortification.

•❃•

Your Kizāri caught Hyunjin’s in the air, and you pulled the two of them toward the ground. Your muscles sang with the strain as you swiftly dislodged and touched the edge of the Kizāri against the soft skin of his neck.

One round, over.

The steady rhythm of your inhales and exhales filled your ears, sonorous, as you jogged back to your place, readying to start anew. When you looked up again, you found Hyunjin unmoving in his place.

His stare was curious, almost like a child’s. He parted his lips as though to say something, but no sound left him. He pressed them shut again.

Perhaps he thought better of it, you reasoned, watching as he treaded gracefully to the other side of the square.

You decided to shrug off his strange behavior, beginning to draw a new half-moon instead. Hyunjin started to mimic you, his Kizāri cutting through the sand toward yours before it halted suddenly.

“Are you not mad at me?”

Hyunjin’s voice was rich velvet, smooth unlike the confusion that wrangled your mind. You matched his narrowed eyes with a plain frown. What has gotten into him?

He had made it clear that he didn’t want anything to do with you. Your last interaction in his training court said as much. Yet, there he was, initiating conversation when there was none to be had.

Was this some sort of test? You maintained your silence until you couldn’t bear the heaviness of his gaze anymore, tightening your grip around your waiting Kizāri. “Why would I be?”

He hesitated as if he didn’t know how to phrase it. “I intervened in your duel with Juyeon last night.”

Right. That.

You diverted your eyes, recalling the dread that overcame your mind when the Sōrsānt of House Sapphirine requested to spar with you. You weren’t stupid. His intentions were unmistakable. Your tone was frayed with anger and shameful helplessness. “He was going to kill me.”

“I know.”

You scoffed. “Don’t think that I would believe, even for a moment, that you did it to spare me.”

“Oh?” he tilted his head, raising a brow, to which you reminded him pointedly, “You had threatened to do the same only hours prior.”

“Ah,” he mused drily. “Clever, human.”

You made no effort to hide the roll of your eyes. Exasperated, you tapped the ground with your Kizāri to remind him of the purpose you were there for.

Hyunjin didn’t budge. His Kizāri didn’t move. He was waiting for something, though you couldn’t quite place a finger on it. Standing there and watching you, that child-like curiosity resurfaced again.

You sighed quietly. “Sōrsānt, if you wish to end today’s training session, then I will take my leave.”

“But we’ve only begun,” he glanced at the young azure of the morning sky, and you nodded. “Indeed.”

But that didn’t spur him on. His face remained a blank slate, save for the strange twinkle in his beautiful eyes.

You prayed for patience, placing both hands on the handle of your Kizāri and leaning forward. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Sōrsānt?”

His mouth formed a ‘No’, but he hesitated, and it never sounded.

You muttered a curse under your breath. Fine! the thought rang in your head. Since you had wasted so much time already, you didn’t see why you couldn’t feed your curiosity about the previous night’s events.

You lifted your Kizāri, jutting it at Hyunjin inquiringly. “He called you Unclaimed.”

That snapped him back into his senses, it seemed, for he made a disgruntled noise and began mindlessly twirling his Kizāri in the pale sand. “That is the term they use for Nilfyn whose Tilts haven’t shown yet.”

“But you…” you trailed away as the pieces lined up for you. Hyunjin’s Tilt had shown, but no one knew about it because he hid it. You remembered his bitter words. A Flowering Tilt is of no use to an Azārāhi.

“Does the Ērmār know about this?” you whispered, regretting your reckless curiosity.

“Of course she does,” it was Hyunjin’s turn to scoff. Then, he added in a lower voice, “She’s the one who wants it hidden.”

Your blood ran cold. If the Ērmār knew, and she wanted his Tilt hidden, then why were you in this mess? Why did Hyunjin let you see his magic?

Dragging your Kizāri with you, you marched up to him and demanded in an irate whisper, “If this is such an important secret then why did you show me yesterday?”

“I didn’t want to show you.” Hyunjin’s taut features broke into a scowl, and he pulled his Kizāri closer.

“What, then?”

He didn’t answer you at first. Then, so softly you almost missed it, he spoke while avoiding your gaze, “I can’t control it.”

As soon as those words slipped out of his lips, he brandished his Kizāri, locking his mask of indifference back in place as he ordered, “Enough idling. Return to your position, Azārāhi.”

You broke your promise to never feel sorry for the Sōrsānt before, yet there was your unwise heart, foolishly mourning over the meaning behind his words.

•❃•

This is a terrible idea, the small voice inside your head repeated as you strode past humble shops and zealous vendors. This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.

Yet, as terrible as you acknowledged it was, you couldn’t help it. Every morning you spent training with the Sōrsānt swelled your oh-so-human sympathy. You didn’t understand Nilfyn magic, but that didn’t lessen the silent horror of the Ērmār’s cruelty.

Though, you still found Hyunjin to be an impossible oaf.

Pulling your hood lower over your face, you sidestepped a group of Nilfyn kids who played with the color of the dull pavement. Their little ears carried gemstones of a light violet hue—the common folk’s color.

“Come one, come all! Hurry and try the best Jade-Fire Cakes in the Kingdom!” a woman called out from her stall while setting down a fresh batch of the dessert, steaming and glistening with sugar. She grabbed a handful of crushed almonds, sprinkling them atop the golden cakes that earned their name from the Jade-Fire fruit filling in their molten centers.

You soldiered forward, maneuvering around strolling families and curious buyers. Your legs didn’t stop until you reached a crooked alleyway between abandoned fronts.

There was a faint light at the end of the night-cloaked alley, and you made your way toward it while gripping the long blade fixed at your hip. You preferred your Kizāri, but it was too conspicuous to carry around town and impractical in trivial street fights. A knife would do for a quick trip.

You came to stand before a featureless oak door, illuminated by a lone lantern that hung above it. No sign carried a memorable name in winding calligraphy, no windows invited you in with lavish displays. This was a shop only meant for those who sought it.

You pushed the door open. Its resonant creak heightened your guard as you walked in.

Orange light washed over the cramped space. Shelves upon shelves were stacked with all the oddities you could envision, frightening figurines and dainty trinkets, rare herbs and mythical gemstones, bizarre contraptions and cursed jewelry. You even spotted a Kizāri that looked like it was forged from the starry night sky itself. Twisting purple, blue, and black crystals made its body, dotted with swimming pearls that seemed to shift every time you blinked.

A portly man stepped out from behind a moss-green curtain at the back of the shop. He was dressed in a smart orange suit, his grayed hair swept back to expose proudly bare ears. His thin mustache twitched as he spoke. “Good evening. Has the weather been kind to you today?”

“Generous. It didn’t rain boars on our house.”

Your ridiculous response was a whispered code that the humans of the capital used to identify one another in hiding. Each town had a slightly different variation of it. It hailed teeth on the stable. It shone dragon fire on our crops.

In this shop, it was code for something more.

The shopkeeper gave you a slight nod, your message received, before disappearing behind the curtain. When he appeared again, he was carrying a large wooden chest that he then set on the narrow counter with a heavy thud. A key blinked out of his sleeve. The movement was so momentary you could’ve mistaken it for a trick of light, but the sure click of the lock assured you otherwise.

He turned the chest around and lifted its lid open before he stepped away to give you a semblance of privacy. It was an illusion, for you knew that he was watching your every move with the sheer attentiveness of a hawk.

He would be a fool not to. That unremarkable wooden chest was full of stolen Nilfyn artifacts.

Your eyes raked over a kaleidoscope of glowing Channeling Cores. Smooth-cut, mellow turquoise ear cuffs and bulbous studs of a garish orange. Elegant swirls of a bewitching purple and crescent shaped gems mottled with gray. Most of them were soft violet and inky black gems that had once belonged to common Nilfyn or unfortunate soldiers. You spotted a handful of jagged, purplish-red gemstones that eerily reminded you of those that encrusted Hyunjin’s ears. There were some gold-plated pendants and rusted brooches as well—what the Nilfyn used before opting for ear piercings.

But you weren’t looking to buy misplaced Channeling Cores, and your eyes settled on a stash of leather-bound books tied with pale twine. You reached into the heart of the chest and grabbed the knot that secured the books, pulling them out and onto the counter carefully. Another bundle of books lay underneath them, and you decided to keep it inside the chest until you finished checking the first stack.

The Nilfyn took pride in their magic. They boasted by flaunting their gem-covered ears and displaying their powers at any given opportunity. But most importantly, they wrote about their magic, detailing every aspect of it to relay the information to future generations. Those books were distributed amongst aristocratic households to be preserved. Or to be stolen like the ones you had in your hands.

You knew that their covers were modified to appear unimportant and identical, but under the dark leather were pages upon pages of invaluable knowledge pertaining to different disciplines of magic. That was what you sought of this shop.

Tugging the loose ends of the bowknot at the top, you freed the first book and lifted the bottom-right edge of the cover. A hastily drawn sun symbol peeked back at you and you shut the book, picking another one and repeating the process.

A ripple of waves. You reached for the third book and found a snarling wolf.

You drowned out your disappointment. There were still many books left.

In the fourth, you found a whirling wind. An empty flask was in the next book. Dejection was beginning to trickle into your veins as you deftly turned edges.

An unblinking eye.

A lone flame.

You hid your frustration and sudden dread as you reached for the other stack. What if someone had already bought the book?

You flipped the first edge.

A blotched mountain.

The shopkeeper’s sly attention grew heavier on your shoulders. You needed to find the book fast before you raised his suspicions beyond bribery.

The unmarked leather of the covers seemed to mock you as your fingers brushed over the next book. You turned its edge, ready to be let down and move on when you saw it.

A rose in full bloom.

A wave of giddy triumph washed over you, but you made sure to keep your tone steady as you spoke to the shopkeeper. “How much for this one?”

A calloused hand rose to stroke his chin as his brows furrowed, seemingly deep in consideration. A long moment later, he declared gruffly, “Six Greda.”

You grimaced internally. That was three months’ worth of your allowance, but you couldn’t risk rejecting the offer and trying to find the same book somewhere else.

Begrudgingly, you pulled out your pouch, counting six silver coins which the shopkeeper whisked away greedily once you placed them on the table. He stuffed the coins into his copper-colored suit then fixed his lapels with an air of confidence, eyes shining dangerously. “Good making business with you.”

But you weren’t finished yet.

You fished out another six coins, ignoring the immediate stab of regret in your chest. They clinked enticingly as you pressed them on the polished counter. For his silence.

“You never did business with me,” you told him, your underlying warning clear despite your calm tone. His eyes widened before he nodded once, and you watched as half a year’s worth of money vanished into his jacket.

It’s fine, you tried to convince yourself, hiding the leather-bound book under your cloak. You never buy anything anyway.

You left the uncanny shop behind, striding through the ominous alleyway and plunging into the bustling night market quickly.

If you dared to look back, you would find the flickering light of the lone lantern, taunting, leering, reminding you of how terrible of an idea that was.

But you never looked back.

•❃•

You squinted at the blazing orb of fire centering the sky like a throne, crowned by wisps of feathery cloud.

It was noon, signaling that your training time with Hyunjin was over for the day. You hauled your Kizāri up, securing it in its sheath before dusting sand off your sleeves. It was a futile effort, for the chalky grains latched onto the fabric, nevertheless.

From the corner of your vision, you saw the shape of the pouch you brought with you earlier slumped against the wall. Dull, but its contents lit your heart with anxiousness. Your terrible idea was still half-executed.

Hyunjin had drifted toward the rack of Azāri equipment, unfastening the leather braces wrapped around his wrists, and you grasped the opportunity with feigned courage. All you had to do was give him the book and leave his training court.

The rest would be up to fate.

You maintained an easy gait as you walked up to the handspun pouch, containing your growing dread. You crouched to unravel the string that pinched the pouch shut, reaching in and meeting the rough skin of the leather-bound book. It felt pounds heavier than it actually was when you pulled it out.

You drew in a slow breath, closing your eyes to collect your thoughts. Why were you even following along with this silly idea? For all you could predict, the Sōrsānt would report you to the Ērmār and it would be your fault entirely.

Truthfully, you were annoyed. You didn’t want to sympathize with Hyunjin. Someone like him didn’t deserve an ounce of your pity.

But perhaps this was what it meant to be human, weak and turbulent. Ever since you saw the humiliation in his eyes on that unfortunate morning with his mother, you couldn’t discipline your heart back in place. Back to apathy and passiveness.

You thought that maybe this would quell the strange sorrow you felt for him. It was dangerous to delve deeper and let such emotions fester. The sooner you rid of them, the better.

With one last exhale, you gathered your bravado and marched up to where Hyunjin busied himself, clutching the book so tightly as if it were anchoring you to the ground.

His head turned in your direction when he heard you approach, brows twisted in a subtle intrigue that turned into fully-fledged confusion when you shoved the book into his arms. You stumbled over your words, “Take this.”

There. Done.

“What’s this?” Hyunjin arched a brow, regarding you as one would regard a pup behaving oddly. His voice came breathy with the exertion of training.

You only shrugged in response and took your leave before he could press further, nodding lightly. “Good day, Sōrsānt.”

It was fate’s turn to mess with your terrible idea.

•❃•

Hyunjin lay sleepless in his bed.

His limbs were weary from hours of unforgiving Azāri practice, begging him to shut his eyes and rest, but those pleas went unheard by his mind. Void of thought, yet utterly restless.

It was another typical night for the Sōrsānt.

The world slept around him. Not a squawking bird outside interrupted the palace’s numbing quiet. Hyunjin turned to his side with a sigh, tired of hearing his lonely heartbeat in the silence. He blinked in the dark, gaze landing on a book washed over by shy moonlight.

There, on his empty desk, sat the item you hurriedly shoved into his hands once your training finished. He should’ve ignored you and left it at the court. He should’ve thrown the book aside and reported you to the Ērmār.

Instead, he carried it with him and tossed the book onto his desk when he entered his room. Going about the rest of his monotonous day, he forgot about your sudden gift.

Only now did he remember it.

With nothing to do except toss and turn, Hyunjin’s curiosity got the better of him and he found himself slipping out from under the bulky covers toward the desk.

The book was heavier than he recalled, its leather unblemished and in perfect condition. No imprint hinted at its contents, and perhaps it was his exhaustion or boredom, but Hyunjin thought nothing of it when he flipped the thick cover.

A blank page stared back at him.

Curious, he turned the page. The velvety parchment whispered against his fingers. You wouldn’t give him an empty book, would you?

Ink lined the following page, the careful script too small for him to discern from afar, save for the few words brushed with gold at the top.

The Art of Flowering: Cultivating and Practicing Flowering Magic.

Hyunjin dropped the book with a shrill gasp, clamping his burning hands over his mouth a moment too late as his gaze flickered across the room in horror. Was this an ill joke of some sort?

The walls seemed to bristle around him, grey and looming and suddenly too close. His lungs refused to relax, holding in air as though the faintest sound from him would alert the entirety of the palace. Not a sigh of breath. Not a murmur of silk.

The petrifying silence of the palace continued, unperturbed and unaware of the intense clamor that erupted in Hyunjin’s mind. A hundred invisible eyes were set on him, prickling, making him want to crawl out of his skin and hide from no one.

He was sure that if he left the book on his desk a second longer, his mother would barge in and unleash her unfading scorn on him.

With trembling hands, Hyunjin reached for the book again, shutting it and tucking it under his arm with frantic haste. He refused to ponder upon its contents any further. He had to hide it before those simple words festered into a beast in his thoughts, hunting him down, ravaging his sanity until it unraveled.

He stumbled toward his bed, throwing the heavy blanket over and thrusting the book under the dense mattress. He pushed it as far as his arm could go, uncaring for the weight crushing his bones. He needed that book forgotten until he figured out a way to rid of it completely.

His shoulder was close to popping when he pulled his arm out recklessly, but his consciousness was too muddled to notice. He left the book pressed somewhere under the enormous mattress, and only then did he dare to exhale, albeit weakly.

Fatigue wracked his body, fiercer and more intense than it was some minutes ago. He scrambled onto his bed, lying limply as his internal clamor continued.

Was this your way of taunting him? Reminding him of his fatal, irredeemable flaw?

You were mad. You had to be. Or maybe you had a death wish, Hyunjin didn’t want to know which of the two it was. You were treading perilous land, and he wanted nothing to do with your foolish adventures.

Even though the broken desire in him whispered otherwise.

•❃•

It seemed that fate took many twisted liberties with your terrible plan.

“Where did you get that book?” Hyunjin’s voice boomed like thunder in the space of the training court. He had his Kizāri drawn, and he stood in the center of the sand square as though ready to plunge into a fight. A real fight.

The air around him seemed to buzz and fizz, seething with an anger you should’ve expected. He wouldn’t accept a so-called gift from a human, especially not one pertaining to his hidden magic. You had to choose your next words carefully.

Ah, but if he had expected you to give away your secrets, he was dreadfully wrong.

“Does it matter?” you shrugged as you stepped closer, fingers flexing with the crazed urge to grab your Kizāri and cross it with his. A lazy smirk drew itself on your lips. “If you don’t want the book, you can give it back.”

The Sōrsānt glowered. Your answer wasn’t the one he was seeking, but you weren’t trying to please him anyway. Tension twisted around the two of you, deafening in its silence. The yawning moments before the tempest.

You set foot in the square of pale sand, basking in the young morning sun as you dared Hyunjin’s gaze with yours. If he wanted a fight, then you would gladly appease that wish. “It was quite costly, after all.”

Snap! went the thin cord of tension, and Hyunjin’s Kizāri glinted in the light as he raised it in a deadly arc. The air screamed. The first wind in the storm.

Your Kizāri was drawn in a flash, meeting his with a force that rattled your bones. Blood roared in your ears, fueled after days of dull practice.

You leaped away, swiveling alongside your Kizāri as you brought it down. Sand rose upon impact, a benevolent wave of pearly dust.

Hyunjin ran through it, swinging his weapon at you with familiar precision. Your Kizāris waltzed in the air, a blur of silver and black, clashing and separating and spinning to the macabre rhythm of the spar.

Oh, how you craved the thrill of a proper fight.

Hyunjin’s Kizāri hooked around yours, and he pushed it against you, snarling, “Are you trying to get us killed?”

You propelled your weapon forward, freeing it from his trap and swinging it at his legs unsparingly. “Us?”

A laugh threatened to bubble up your chest, roused by the adrenaline pumping in your veins. “Don’t assume that I did this for you, Sōrsānt. I gave you the book for the peace of my own mind.”

Iron screeched against iron. Hyunjin was close enough that you saw shock flicker over his features before it melted into something darker. His Kizāri was in the air again. “I don’t need your pity.”

“No, you don’t,” you agreed, breathless as you evaded his blow and redirected your weapon. “What is it that you always say about us humans?”

You weren’t waiting for an answer. “We are weak. Subject to the volatile tides of the heart.”

Your Kizāris interlocked again, and with a pull from Hyunjin and a pivot from you, the spar came to a stop. Your Kizāri clattered against the floor outside the square. Hyunjin’s was impaled in the sand some feet away. The two of you were left standing there, face to face, chests heaving and gazes burning.

Neither of you moved, and it felt as though the world came to a halt alongside that fight.

Hyunjin held your stare, and you held his. In a breath that seemed to encompass the two of you, you were almost equals in an impossible timeline. The ravenous fire that crackled in your souls was one and the same, stoked by repressed fear and the overwhelming desire to survive in a world that only valued material power. The very differences that separated him from you made you alike.

Yet, you refused to acknowledge that harrowing revelation. Hyunjin was nothing like you, and he would never be.

“Do with the book what you will,” you spoke through gritted teeth, breaking the trance you were captured in. “This is not a favor.”

After a moment that felt like an eternity, you turned away, knowing that the both of you reached a wordless, mutual understanding. You picked your Kizāri off the dark marble, tossing it over in your grip once, twice, before assuming your regular place at the square of sand.

You still had a tedious morning of training to go through now that your fit of violence had been quelled.

•❃•

The night was silent again.

Hyunjin stood before the small flames of the stone burner in his room. The leather-bound book was tightly clutched in his hands as he watched the blazes rise, swaying like dancers in a joyous ball. Their flickering light created eerie shadows that cackled against the bleakness of walls, taunting.

You told him to do with the book what he willed, and he was doing the best thing he could think of. Burn it. Lose it. Forget it.

It was the only way to kill the voices that reemerged after years of lurking mutely in his head. Voices which murmured and spoke and screamed at him to indulge in his magic. To disobey his mother. Unknowingly, you had incited them by giving him the book.

He had to destroy it before it destroyed him.

Hyunjin held the book over the fire, readying to drop it in as his hand shook unreasonably. He had burnt many things before, many magical blunders in the form of innocent flowers. This was no different. It shouldn’t have been.

Yet, the voices in his head grew increasingly shrill when a rogue flame licked the edge of the book, darkening the leather slightly. All he had to do was let go, but his fingers were stiff.

Hyunjin wanted to fight them, peel them off one by one until the book dropped, but he couldn’t. The heat on his skin was merciless, unbearable. Soon enough, gruesome blisters would mar the smooth surface.

He pulled his hand away with a hiss.

He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t burn the book.

Like an ever-resonating bell, the voices in his head rejoiced, pounding against the desolate chamber of his thoughts. This was the closest he had ever been to his magic, and he had overestimated his strength to turn his back on it.

Eying the burnt corner of the book, Hyunjin tried to convince himself, if not tonight, then tomorrow.

Maybe then, the voices would quieten.

•❃•

Hyunjin told himself the same lie every following night after he pulled the book away from the burner in a moment of panic.

For three nights, his grip would turn into rigid wood. For three nights, he would be paralyzed before the eager flames. For three nights, the blistering air of the fire would torture his hand until he gave up.

He couldn’t burn the book, that was what the voices told him, but he refused to succumb to them.

The skin on the back of his hand was reddened and pulsing with a pain so great as though lit by an invisible fire. He knew he couldn’t keep at his lousy attempts without gravely harming himself. If burning the book wasn’t a viable option, then he had to figure out another method of destroying it. Fast. 

His fingers touched his earrings subconsciously before he realized what he was doing and pulled his hand away. It was a bad habit that the Ērmār hated. 

Shredding it? Hyunjin frowned with the thought. It would be pointless. He would still need to burn the remains.

His fingers brushed over the fine leather of the cover, having grown familiar with the rough texture of its minuscule patterns. The top of the book had browned due to being exposed to fire, but it was still in a useable condition.

Would it be so bad?

Yes! he wanted to yell back at the stupid desire, but every time he tried to, he heard his mother’s voice instead of his.

Would it be so bad? the voices repeated, for the question was meant for him, not the Ērmār. Would it?

Hyunjin found himself voiceless.

He knew the answer. Why couldn’t he say it? Why couldn’t he think it without imagining his mother?

Frustrated, he flung the book at the wall as a pathetic scream threatened to rip its way out of his mouth. The book thudded against the floor somewhere in his room, and his head fell into his hands heavily. Why was it so difficult?

Hyunjin wanted to rip his hair out. This was your doing. If you hadn’t given him that damned book, then he wouldn’t be entertaining the moon with his ridiculous dilemma. He wouldn’t be teetering on the edge of catastrophe with his wandering thoughts.

Perhaps, he should order you to burn the book instead. Like a sun peeking through stormy clouds, his mental chaos cleared up at the idea. He might’ve been unable to destroy the book, but you would have no reason to hold back.

Dragging his hand down his face, Hyunjin sighed. The solution made perfect sense to him. And you would keep your silence about his order if you wanted to keep your life.

Soon enough, he would forget that such a book ever existed.

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, Hyunjin stood, and his gaze darted across the expanse of the room to find the book lying facedown beside his desk. He crouched to pick it up, accidentally catching sight of the colorful page it had fallen open to. Quickly looking away, he slammed the book shut before he thought more of it.

Too late.

Would it be so bad? he heard that whisper again, like a devil speaking forbidden desires into his ears. You’re returning the book tomorrow. A quick look would do no harm…

Hyunjin knew better. Just as he knew that he should’ve killed you the moment you stepped into his training court.

He knew better, yet just like your first encounter, he was too weak to act on that knowledge.

He would always be.

The book met the smooth surface of Hyunjin’s desk with a slap. His palm settled atop it. Hesitant. Stubborn.

Just a harmless page…

His hand went to the side of the book, brushing the edge of the leather. Once he returned the book to you, he wouldn’t be able to ask for it again. And all he’d read of it was the mere title, which sent a flurry of mismatched feelings to his heart.

It wasn’t curiosity that clouded his judgement, but a blinding, smoldering want that was as old as he was. Being barred from his magic for so long, being ridiculed and insulted for his magic ever since it emerged, this book was something a younger Hyunjin could only dream about having.

Even though he had spent years silencing those intrusive voices, he recalled his childish jealousy when his friends began showing their various Tilts. The memories he had of his childhood were a dismal canvas of depthless sorrow, helplessness, and fear, but he kept them alive as a reminder of his mother’s wrongs toward him.

If he were to read a page from the book, then it was for the little boy whose spirit was stolen years ago. A frightened Hyunjin with a bleeding shoulder, too young to understand the dark disappointment that filled his mother’s eyes and made her a stranger before him.

He took in a shaky breath and flicked the book open.

The page was just as he remembered, crammed with words and headed by that gold-brushed title.

The Art of Flowering: Cultivating and Practicing Flowering Magic.

The voices spurred him on. Rather than panic, a strange relief paired with excitement washed over him. His dread was still present, and so was the urge to stuff the book back under the mattress, but he dared himself to read a few lines, squinting in the dark.

Foremost, let it be known that the blessing of a Flowering Tilt is a tremendous gift, and an honor to those it is bestowed upon. Flowering is the fourth of the ten Hybrid Types to be discovered, and as the name indicates, wielders of this magic can create and control flowers.

It was easy to read those words on a parchment that was going to be burnt in mere hours. They were empty like a drunkard’s promises. Perhaps that was why Hyunjin let himself be immersed in the book further than he intended.

The Flowering Tilt is a Hybrid Type discovered nearly two hundred years ago. Studies have shown that centuries of marriages between Hydro and Terrestrial Tilts resulted in the formation of this new magic.

He turned the page.

Chapter One: Cultivation. 

Cultivating Flowering Magic is similar to cultivating other magics. Without adequate training, spurts of magic may occur at random or upon emotional uproar. Thus, young Claimed Nilfyn are encouraged to begin training immediately, as these uncontrolled spurts increase with age.

To better understand magic, let us envision a water reserve tank in an odd village. At the beginning of every week, the villagers pour buckets of water into the tank, but none of the villagers use the water throughout the week. Soon, the tank begins to overflow as more water is added but left unconsumed. Such is magic. It is an ever-growing source that overflows when left unused.

To cultivate, the wielder must begin by finding their Heart of Magic. This skill may be learned easier during childhood, as the Heart is bare and unbarred by the tribulations of life, but it is not unfeasible amongst adult Nilfyn.

There are no teachings regarding the intricacies of finding one’s Heart of Magic. It is a slow process that requires patience and strong will. However, aspiring wielders are advised to practice in tranquil spaces that inspire a meditative state.

Once reaching the Heart of Magic, one must set their palm against an empty surface and focus on drawing magic toward the tips of their fingers to manifest an object of their Tilt. This is to familiarize the wielder with the process of directing magic in a useful manner. Flowering Tilts may use the following while training to quicken results: a flower posy, a cut of wood, a handful of soil, or any natural piece of the earth.

Hyunjin tried to imagine that Heart of Magic. He closed his eyes and searched for something magical, something bright, something beautiful. He wanted to remember the way his magic felt when it surged through his body to manifest in a single blossom in the sand.

There was nothing.

He was hollow, his soul long crushed, his heart long dead. The polished surface of his desk felt cold against his fingertips, unkind proof that whatever the Heart of Magic was, it wasn’t something he had. At least, not anymore.

The foolish hope in him withered, and he closed the book with a scowl. Empty words for an empty boy.

But when Hyunjin left his room the following morning, he didn’t take the leather-bound book with him.

•❃•

The prying moon was a witness to the many lies Hyunjin told himself as he flipped through the pages of the book night after night.

Deep in a cranny of his heart, he knew that he couldn’t return it much like how he couldn’t burn it. But he thought that if he said it enough times, he would convince himself otherwise. As he poured stolen sand on his desk and closed his eyes, trying to revive his Heart of Magic, he repeated that crooked lie. Just one more day, one more page…

But a day wasn’t enough to stir his magic, nor were two. The voices—no, he wanted more. For all his heartbreak and misery, he deserved more than a few measly attempts at his magic.

A chilling thought ran through his mind. Why should he be obeying a mother that cared little for him, anyway?

The fifth night was similar to the rest. Hyunjin sat still at his desk, right hand settled on a small bed of sand as the world fell silent around him. He searched the remnants of his soul, scouring for the faintest trace of magic with timid hope. He couldn’t permit himself more than that inkling of confidence, for he had failed countless times before.

Only on this night, he finally found something.

Folded away. Forgotten.

A flicker of light.

A whisper of power.

A pulse of another life.

He clawed at it, overwhelmed by sudden desperation. There it was. There was his Heart of Magic. Bleeding and dim, but there.

He caught a wisp of the fleeting light and pulled. At once, he saw color in otherworldly hues, erupting around him and through him, shaking his core like a tremor from the heavens above. That soothing cold washed over him again, a glorious stampede, and he dared to loosen a trapped breath.

The magic slipped out of his grasp.

No, no, no, no! Hyunjin scrambled back, grabbing at anything he could and dragging it with all the force he was able to muster. His focus had faltered for the barest moment, and that made him lose sight of his Heart of Magic. He couldn’t let that happen again. Not after all the work he had done.

A chill spread to his fingers as he pulled the magic forward and outward. It was taxing, and he felt his heart beat as though it were in the heat of a duel.

Then, a sensation akin to the puncture of a thousand needles swarmed his body. Something in him locked into place with a resonant toll, and he opened his eyes with a gasp.

There, on the chalky mound of sand, was a single smiling blossom. Dull white petals fanned around its yellow center, and it embraced itself with two grey leaves.

Hyunjin’s breath stilled, defying the rampant palpitations in his chest.

He had done it.

Not through an emotional outburst. Not by mistake.

He created a flower in coarse, lifeless sand on his own.

His magic, finally.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

Mini Glossary:

Azārāhi: a skilled practitioner of Azāri.

Azāri: a fighting art developed by the magical Nilfyn.

Ērmār: high master (feminine).

Ērmārvi: minor high master (feminine).

Ērsānt: lower master (feminine).

Ērsānvi: minor lower master (feminine).

Kizāri: the long-handled weapon with an trident-like head used in Azāri.

Sōrmār: high master (masculine).

Sōrmārvi: minor high master (masculine).

Sōrsānt: lower master (masculine).

Sōrsānvi: minor lower master (masculine).

Hey there! Thank you for reading this far! This fic is very special to me and it would mean a lot if you could give it a reblog and tell me your thoughts. Part two will be posted in September, so keep an eye out for it! Thank you once more for reading, and I hope you have a lovely day! ♡

[staticheck]

❛ Why @arachnaemboss. You've got quite a spring in your step. I don't believe I've seen this one before! 𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝒀𝑶𝑼'𝑫 𝑳𝑰𝑲𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑺𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑬 𝑾𝑰𝑻𝑯 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑶𝑳𝑫 𝑭𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑵𝑫? ❜

[noneorother]

The art director & the Good Omens book cover tier list of doom, part 3

Part 1 l Part 2 l Part 3

I am your resident Art Director/Good Omens enthusiast, and welcome to my completely meta-free book cover tier list. Listen, making a book cover is HARD. I should know. But while we salute these artists for their hard work and time, I think we can all admit that once in a while, the vision is just not on. And on very rare occasions, publishers seemed to have managed to commission the cover art directly from hell... here's where we left off last time:

21. Labas zīmes, Latvian cover

Our boys are back! And they are so ready to join the Dead Boy Detective agency. I would say that Latvians don't wear much tartan, so Argyle might seem like a similar print, but it just seems so... not Good Omens. Much like Crowley's flying purple people eater tail and Aziraphale's Conan the Barbarian sword, we're straying into niche AU fan fiction territory here. I mean, it's not *wrong*, but it certainly ain't right, either.

Tier: Does the Job

22. Bons Augùrios, Portuguese

Let me start by saying this cover is so close to being in the blessed category. The layout and spacing are divine, the imagery is simple and whimsical, it reflects the humour inside the gravitas to give you an idea of the *feeling* of reading Good Omens. So few of these covers have gotten this aspect of good design right. Honestly, I would slow clap if it wasn't for that random FLAME JIZZ stuck to the bottom right hand corner of the book. Who's idea was that? Dagon's?

Tier: Great

23. Semne Bune, Romanian cover

I admire two things about this cover: 1) Their utter commitment to a clean 3-colour palette and comprehensible layout. 2) Symbolic demon giving a principality head joke RIGHT ON THE FRONT COVER. This designer had balls. cotillion-sized balls. Now, does Aziraphale's sword have a sentient rooster tassel that watches said head-giving in horror? I sure hope not, but I don't see how that could be allegorical so, I'm torn. I feel like this goes in two categories for completely different reasons. And seeing as I'm in charge around here...

Tier: Great & Not so Good (Omens)

23. Semne Bune, Romanian cover cont.

Compared to the last cover's gigantic double-entendre, this feels so tame and logical. The text is centred and balanced. There's breathing room, and we have wing symbolism! I've never seen a cover try to split Terry and Neil's names like that, which is a fun twist but BY GOD that center line is not straight near the right end of the feathers and it is sending this cover straight down to Does the Job. It's grounded there forever.

Tier: Does the Job

25. HYVIÄ ENTEITÄ, Finnish cover

In this list, having something actually *relevant* to the main plot of the book and not mangling and main characters really puts you in rarefied air. All the motorcycles are book accurate which means somebody read something! Would I have ever picked the empty parking lot of Famine's restaurant as a subject worth a cover? Absolutely not. But the sick 80s lightning tips it into "fine" territory. The text is yellow. It's pretty.

Tier: Does the Job

26. Head ended, Estonian cover.

My face after staring at this cover for ten minutes and finally realizing that this is Hastur and Ligur waiting around for Crowley to pull up:

The artist's face after watching me do that:

Do I even need to rate this? It's called HEAD ENDED. I don't know how to be funnier than that.

Tier: WTF

27. Dobry Omen, Polish cover

Some good points for trying to be original with the layout of the title by drawing a custom pitchfork "Y", but the heinous kerning and the fact the whole text block is not even centred kind of makes me take all the points back. I feel like we're pretty heavy on the demonic, extremely light on the angelic in this take. Maybe it's because on his death bed the lead guitarist of White Snake will finally admit to having designed this cover in his spare time.

Tier: Not so Good (Omens)

28. Good Omens, Hungarian cover

If I told you this designer did not read the book, and instead just watched the trailer of The Omen (the movie) and vibed this heinous brown carpet swatch into existence, you would one hundred percent believe me. I can't even talk about the faux belle-époque font right now. I am irrationally angry.

Tier: WTF

29. Good Omens, Bulgarian cover

WHO. IS. DADDY. WIZARD?? Is all I can think when I look at this cover. Aziraphale & Grommet are recognizable enough, and you could make the case for telescope monkey being Adam, but I need to find this cover designer and shake them until they tell me who this deranged Gargamel is supposed to be. I must know.

Tier: Bad

30. BELAS MALDIÇÕES, Portuguese cover

After all we've been through on this list so far, this truly sucks. It's not even weird. It's just puce text layered atop text to create a great yawn of a cover. Shout out to the designer of the Diablo PC game font, I hope you got paid.

Tier: Bad

Part 3 roundup:

[survivalove]

Katara the selfcare queen

Every canon instance or mention (that i can rmr) of Katara indulging in selfcare in the middle of a war because I find it quite amusing yet fascinating.

I may or may not have made a post like this before but I wanted to expand on it.

1. Skincare routine

In 1x14, The Fortuneteller, Katara reveals she has a special seaweed lotion that she carries with her for soft skin. (Avatar Extras also made a point of saying that it smells…?) She even offers to get Aunt Wu some, as if she has extra. So my question is, who is this plug that she gets her steady supply of seaweed lotion from? 😭

Real-life: Seaweed has been used in skincare for thousands of years, first recorded in ancient Chile. Nowadays, seaweed extract is pretty common in skincare products especially from emerging brands in Nunavik and Iqaluit, Canada.

My headcanon: This is probably a recipe Katara picked up from the older women of her tribe, so she just plucks some seaweed whenever the gaang stops by a body of water. And she definitely makes it in cute glass jars and shares it with her fellow healers in the Republic City Hospital ✨selfcare queen✨

2. Spa Day

I just find this funny because when and how did she even find this spa? How long has she been going by herself? Look how comfortable she is like dhjfjcd she’s definitely a regular and they all know her.

Real-life: Saunas are pretty modern, starting up in Finland around 1112. (In canon, I think a firebender and a waterbender run a sauna in Republic City so hey.) Mudbaths on the other hand have been around for centuries and people have been doing it at any naturally occurring hot spring they can found. I don’t even have to tell you about massages so

My headcanon: Katara always knows where the spas and selfcare places are wherever they go. I definitely think she scooped up some stuff at the perfume abbey in season 1 (because she’s a kleptomaniac). I also headcanon she would have a spa setup in the back of Republic City Hospital because selfcare is healthcare too. Also, Aang gives her massages at home and he’s surprisingly good at it, but, Katara sucks at massages and Aang never lets her do it to him after that one time 💀

3. Yoga

In 3x11, Nightmares & Daydreams, Katara teaches Aang yoga to de-stress in a hot spring. My thing is, when did she learn about yoga and how often does she do it? We needed the Katara yoga mini shorts special. The kids would’ve loved it.

Real life: Yoga originating from ancient India is practised in a variety of forms in Hinduism, Jainism and Buddhism. The poses they do are the Upward Salute and the Wide Legged Forward Bend.

My headcanon: I imagine Katara must have read about this at the Air Nomad Section of the Spirit Library, given the cultural heritage. Knowing her she found a yoga scroll and swiped it (can you say klepto?). This is another selfcare thing she does with Aang because it’s his culture! They do it every Saturday until he starts complaining about his old bones 😅

4. Hair care

Katara also wears a special cap on her head when doing yoga which I assume is to protect her hair from the steam 🤔 I just found it very interesting since we hardly see her hair covered. Then I also realized Katara is the only character shown actually combing her hair and styling it like 4 times: from the bun-braid, to the formal earth kingdom look, to her fire nation look and finally the bun with her hair out.

Real life: I typed so many things and I finally found something similar called a chinoiserie satin skull cap? (sorry pic limit). It’s similar in design and even has a tassel like Katara’s. Focusing on her hairstyles, the signature “hair loopies” are actually based on a traditional Inuit style known as qilliqti and her earth kingdom look is based on a traditional Manchurian style called liangbatou.

My headcanon: Like Katara’s mysterious seaweed lotion recipe, she probably makes several haircare products for herself, and has a major hair routine. So, it would make sense she wears protective caps from time to time. I also think both Hama and Katara are tied to the myth of Senna, the Inuit sea goddess, through the comb Katara uses which I headcanon is the identical comb Hama had in her home (again klepto).

If there’s any more selfcare moments I left out, please feel free to share or reply with your own Katara ✨selfcare queen✨ headcanons!

[blurredcolour]

The Last To Know | Part One

The Last To Know Masterlist

John Brady x Pilot!Female Reader

The 100th Bomb Group comes together for the first time with all five squadrons in Walla Walla, Washington. Naturally, not everyone will get along, but after you and Brady get off on the wrong foot, every subsequent encounter only seems to solidify your dislike of the man.

Warnings: MAJOR Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Original Characters, Era Typical Sexism/Misogyny, Attempted Groping, Canon Typical Violence, Language, Enemies to Lovers, Weapons of War, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: This story contains an alternate universe where women have been allowed to fly in combat with the USAAF - in a very limited experiment. Brief references to Reader's family and backstory. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 5278

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

November 1942

You should have known better than to expect anything different, even out here on the nascent base of Walla Walla, Washington, the buildings still reeking of sawdust, their rough pine construction hardly weathered in the five months they had existed.

“…there won’t be any burial costs because, those broads’ll just drive themselves straight into the ground.” The snide comment, unoriginal in any way, flew from the proudly twisted lips of a tall brunette holding court at the corner of the operations building.

His cheek bones were sharp and angled like the beak of a bird of prey and you were careful to study his face, and the faces of those men gathered around him, laughing richly or listening attentively as, encouraged by their reactions, he continued to spew his misogyny, yet to spot your approach. Each face would have a name to assign to it soon enough, and you would be certain to spread the word amongst your crew that they were not to be trusted. Not the rickety blond of middling height with his head thrown back in bright laughter, nor the broadly built man with jet black hair, and bushy mustache to match, who was slapping the speaker on his shoulder. Not even the slightly shorter brunette with a pipe clenched between two rows of perfect teeth, expression somewhat difficult to decipher – it may have been amusement or a grimace, but he was definitely not walking away or speaking up.

“You seem to have stalled, Lieutenant.” The unmistakable Texan accent of Gertrude Thornton sounded at your right elbow, and you turned quickly to salute her.

“Ma’am, just taking in the sights.”

She smirked slowly, returning the snap of her fingers to her brow, the weak grey light of the cloudy day still highlighting the silver First Lieutenant’s insignia on her shoulders, a bright contrast to the gold Second Lieutenant’s bar on yours.

“The sea of mud and fir trees, or our reluctant comrades of the 100th?” Proceeding toward the ops building, and thus the group, without hesitation, you were forced to match her stride to continue your conversation.

Dark clouds, heavy with rain, scudded across the sky, promising this dry window would be brief. It came as no surprise when the collection of Second Lieutenants neglected to salute her, gawking instead as the pair of you brushed past them towards the door.

“Holy shit, that’s The Thorn.”

It was a good thing your back was now firmly to them, the eyeroll that overtook your features nothing short of inescapably exaggerated.

A pioneer of women’s aviation, Thornton was the only reason you, and the rest of the 280th Bomber Squadron, were training to serve in combat with the United States Army Air Forces. Dubbed ‘The Thorn in Congress’s Side’ by the media, courtesy of her incessant campaigning for a female’s right to fly alongside her male comrades, most just called her ‘The Thorn.’

To the two dozen of you who’d had the privilege of training alongside her in Randolph Field, Texas, earning your USAAF pilot’s wings, she was your champion and unquestioned leader. Even if they had assigned a man to lead your squadron.

“Has Dutch emerged with those crew lists yet?” Thornton’s question made you shake your head quickly, carefully navigating along the mud-slickened boards laid down to combat the ever-present muck below.

You were grateful for the boots and loose-fitting trousers of your training uniform, your skirted Class As safely tucked away in the bottom of your footlocker.

“No ma’am, I have not seen him yet.” You replied, looking up sharply hearing a chorus of raucous laughter sound as all six feet of the freckled, red-headed Dutch – Captain Leroy Barrett – spilled out of the ops building alongside a dark-haired, mustachioed version of himself. A rather stoic blonde officer, toothpick pursed between his full lips, followed behind, holding a promising stack of papers.

“Ah! Thornton!” Dutch hollered, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes as he turned towards the pair of you.

Throwing up a pair of simultaneous salutes, which the still-giggling men casually returned while their comrade did a more precise job, Thornton cleared her throat.

“Any success with the crew assignments, sir?”

“Yes, in fact, Buck would you be so kind?”

“John Egan.” The dark-hair Captain quickly thrusted out his hand as ‘Buck’ sorted through his papers, and Thornton shook it firmly. “I’m a real fan, Ma’am. It’s a pleasure to be flying with your squad.”

“Likewise, Captain.” She nodded, offering your name in introduction.

You offered a polite smile and firm nod as you shook Egan’s broad hand.

“You and your ladies ever need anything, don’t hesitate to come to me or Buck…including if your CO proves useless.” His grin was nothing but trouble, alarm bells immediately sounding in your head, but all the same something about him instilled a deep sense of trust.

“Gale Cleven.” Buck spoke up once he set a smaller sheaf of papers in Dutch’s hands, his grip not quite as firm as Egan’s but just as warm. “And Bucky’s all bluster. We’ve known Dutch since we were just cadets and either of us would trust him with our life any day.”

“A ringing endorsement.” Thornton grinned and took the stack of crew assignments from Dutch. “I’ll see to it that these are handed out amongst the squad, thank you very much, gentlemen.”

Parting salutes exchanged, the pair of you turned to head back to the women’s quarters. Glancing back over your shoulder, you were startled to meet the light blue eyes of the silent brunette, gaze flicking to his mouth as he parted his lips to pull the stem of his pipe free.

Egan’s voice suddenly echoed across the clearing, each man raising his head in turn as his name was called.

“Friedkin! Pratt! Larkin! Brady! You boys looking for something to do?”

Four names, four faces. Four men to avoid.

The barracks of the 280th squadron were five long, squat, wooden buildings relegated to an out-of-the-way corner of the camp, one set of showers and latrines for the entire population of one hundred women. By the time you and Thornton returned to dole out the crew lists amongst the pilots, your boots were slick with mud that splashed up your trousers – a far cry from the red dust of Texas, and a clear indication of what the greatest enemy to cleanliness would be here.

“Lieutenant.” Thorton turned to hand you a list with your very own name at the top, a thrill unfurling through your abdomen not unlike that which you had felt when she had first appeared along the fence-line of your father’s farm looking for the local crop duster who was unrivalled in her accuracy.

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“Oh don’t thank me, I just spoke the truth when Dutch asked me who I thought could manage it.” She winked one of her striking hazel eyes easily before proceeding into the officer’s quarters, calling out the rest of the pilot’s names.

The odds of making it here in the first place had been long, of even getting into a cockpit even longer if it had not been for your uncle’s early diagnosis of glaucoma and willingness to make you the successor to his business. You had never even dared to hope to be named as Pilot of one of the ten crews of the 280th – Co-pilot would have been more than tolerable. But you were undeniably delighted by this outcome.

Refocusing on the paper in your hands, you scanned down the other nine names on the list.

Co-Pilot: 2nd Lt. Andromeda Giannopoulos

Bombardier: 2nd Lt. Barbara Jones

Navigator: 2nd Lt. Regina Wilson

Flight Engineer: S/Sgt. Inez Veiga

Radio Operator: S/Sgt. Mildred Gaige

Ball Turret Gunner: S/Sgt. Minnie Jacobsen

Waist Gunner: S/Sgt. Dorothea Fletcher

Waist Gunner: S/Sgt. Velma Schroeder

Tail Gunner: S/Sgt. Juanita Torres

The name of your Co-pilot tugged a smile onto the corner of your mouth. Andie, as she had firmly introduced herself to you at basic training, had made you swear to never use her full name upon pain of death when you had accidentally come across some correspondence from her father – a first-generation sea sponge fisherman who had moved from Greece to settle in Tarpon Springs, Florida.

At least her secret remained safe with you.

The other eight women, most enlisted, would have trained at their various technical schools scattered across the continental United States and were thus unknown to you. For now. A few generous drops of rain splattered down onto the page, making you frown and quickly tuck it into your jacket pocket as you darted inside. Scraping the mud from your boots, you tucked your service cap beneath your arm and moved to find your cockpit mate, but suddenly found your path blocked by all five feet four inches of your closest friend, Constance Hart.

“Thornton didn’t call your name, but no one has you on a list.” She tilted her head, untameable mane of blonde curls swaying as she cracked her gum sharply between her molars. “I mean if you need a ride, you can always fly with me but…”

You watched her warm brown eyes narrow in suspicion as you began fishing around in your pocket before they shot wide upon your retrieval of your crew list.

“Hon, I knew it! I knew they wouldn’t just give us nine crews.”

The fierceness with which she pulled you into a hug drove home how very accurate Andie’s bestowal of the nickname ‘Lionheart’ on the petite woman really had been. In fact Andie was responsible for at least half of the nicknames amongst those of you with wings pinned on your uniforms and you fully expected that trend to continue with the enlisted girls as well.

“Well done to you, too, Lionheart. Though I do beg for mercy on your crew.” You pulled back with a smirk of affection, earning a loving whap on your shoulder as she giggled.

“You’re one to talk, try not to terrify them on the first day, hmmm?”

“If you’re going out there, take a raincoat.” You nodded as Lionheart moved towards the door and she waved back in thanks before you continued on in your search for your Co-pilot.

You found her tidying her rack, tightening the corners on her sheets with barely concealed aggression, and you swallowed in empathy. Andie had arrived at Randolph Field with only a few months of flying under her belt – had not even earned her civilian wings yet. Not at all unheard of for the men squawking about outside, but for this experimental squadron, Thornton had traversed the country to find women with experience who also met the strict USAAF age and physical requirements. She was green, young. If the hundred of you could make this a success, she would surely have her own plane before long.

“Hey there, Andie.” You spoke softly, watching her face snap up from her one-sided battle with her bedding, her gorgeous Mediterranean features making you feel extraordinarily plain as always.

“Well–” She let out a tremendous exhale and sat down heavily onto her cot, swiftly undoing all her hard work in one motion as the sheets wrenched from their corners. “– guess if it’s with you, it won’t be quite so terrible.”

Huffing a soft laugh, you nodded. “Look forward to flying with you too. What say you we go invade the rest of the barracks and find our crew?”

A small smile twitched onto her lips, a tiny spark that quickly grew into a blaze. Andie’s hand shot up, her fingers beckoning demandingly.

“Let me see that list.” She eyed you expectantly, a devious edge to her grin and you slowly surrendered it, watching her peruse the names rapidly. “Plenty to work with here…. Barbara? Crying out for a proper moniker, that one.”

Pleased she seemed to have found some satisfaction in plotting their nicknames, you watched her rise to her feet, walking towards the door together with your raincoats. Securing the cumbersome olive drab fabric around your bodies, naturally, brought the rain to a halt and you sighed deeply, shaking your head as you walked along the slick boards to the next building.

Two eager faces lifted from where they sat on the ends of their racks, the rest of the building already emptied as the other crews seemed to have collected their Navigators and Bombardiers. Glancing over Andie’s shoulder to confirm the names, you looked back to the hopeful women.

“Jones and Wilson?”

The speed with which they shot to their feet was nothing short of endearing and you nodded to them softly, offering your name. “Pilot. This is Andie, Co-pilot.”

“Nice to meet you, Babs.” She grabbed the hand of the willowy brunette Bombardier, shaking it firmly before turning to the Navigator with glossy dark hair and an hour-glass figure. “Gina.”

The women exchanged a curious glance and you shrugged softly. “Most of us have found it easier not to fight it, only seems to make her more determined. We’re just on our way to find the rest of our crew, care to join us?”

“Oh absolutely.” Babs gushed enthusiastically as Gina nodded with a polite “Yes, please.”

Your duo growing to a quartet, you thus moved onward, heading for the furthest of the barracks buildings. There you located the shortest member of your crew, Minnie Jacobsen, whom Andie gleefully dubbed ‘Mouse.’ It was had to deny how clever that particular one was. The pair of waist gunners, Schroeder and Fletcher – nicknames to come, apparently, were picked up in the fourth building. There you also found Torres, the tail gunner, who introduced herself as Nita, clearly in no need of Andie’s assistance.

The last two members of your crew were located in the barracks situated dead centre in the row, Flight Engineer Inez Veiga – thenceforth to be known as Ivy thanks to the amusing phonetics of her initials and Radio Operator Mildred Gaige – a simple Millie. Finding yourselves collected for the first time in an empty building, with its neatly spaced rows of beds and footlockers, cast iron woodstoves at either end for heat, you looked them all over slowly, feeling the gravity of this moment.

Their expectant faces turned to you, driving home how much they would rely upon you for direction throughout this endeavor.

“Ladies,” You nodded firmly, clearing your throat to steal a moment to pluck up your courage. “We have the opportunity to prove to our country, to the entire world, that a woman’s place can be in combat same as any man. To succeed, we have to fly faster, find our targets with more accuracy, and eliminate all threats to our squad without hesitation. Where they are satisfactory, we must be excellent, understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am!” Came a chorus of sharp replies, though several sets of eyes betrayed the nerves lurking beneath and Lionheart’s warning against intimidation whispered back through your brain.

“The Army Air Forces have trained each of you in your role, you have proven yourself, earned those badges on your chests. I have every faith that we will make the finest crew they have ever seen.”

The smiles that earned brought a flutter of relief to your gut, solidified by Andie’s nod, before the sound of your name had everyone turning towards the door to see Ruby Keever eyeing you expectantly.

“Thornton is gathering the 280th in one of the classrooms, bring your crew.” She nodded firmly, ordering you as though she was not the same rank as you, before slipping back out into the once-again driving rain.

“Good ol’ Keener.” Andie chortled, earning more than a few laughs from her new audience.

“One of these days, Andie, I’m going to accidentally call her that to her face.” You huffed and affixed your cap onto your head before covering it with your hood, leading your crew out into the ugly weather.

After the excitement of crew assignments, the afternoon of lectures on decorum and the importance of the 280th as female ambassadors into the male-dominated world of combat was a stark change of pace. Having spent months in Thornton’s periphery, absorbing every bit of knowledge she saw fit to impart in your presence, not much of it was new, but she was a passionate speaker. And while some of it was tough medicine – fraternization discouraged, becoming ‘in the family way’ meaning immediate discharge, remaining civil and lady-like no matter what conditions were thrust upon you all – she still found a way to engage with each of the women gathered before her from all different walks of life.

“In four minutes I will be releasing you to enjoy your first meal in the mess. The enlisted women share their mess with men of the same rank while us officers are in a separate mess with those of our rank. I am not sure how things were handled at your various technical schools, but I recommend entering in groups, ensuring your lead and tail person are on alert for any…unwarranted attention.”

How things went in the mess had varied wildly in your experience. At first, it had been akin to running a gauntlet, swatting and dodging hands, procuring your food from the chow line to then retreat to the safety of assigned tables. Once the novelty of the female pilots had worn off, so too had the unwanted attention. It was honestly a matter of training your male colleagues. Desensitizing them.

“Tomorrow, weather permitting, we will begin training flights. To my knowledge, there are only fifteen B-17s on base at present, so there will be a rota drawn up that is fair to all squadrons. Those not flying will have classroom instruction or base duties. That is all for today ladies, thank you kindly for your attention.”

Smothering your disappointment at the typical Army lack of equipment, you parted ways with the enlisted women in your crew, watching fondly as they walked off in a tight group towards the mess.

“Lieutenant.” Thornton’s voice startled you for the second time that day and you bit back a curse at how inept you surely appeared as you saluted her. “Would you mind being our mess tail this evening?”

“Not at all, Ma’am.” You nodded, watching the officers flock toward her, patiently waving them ahead of you, including Lionheart who winked at you.

“You watching my rear?”

Rolling your eyes you shuffled after her along the somewhat drier boards, sliding your hands into your pockets for a modicum of warmth against the cool breeze that had picked up. “Safe with me, Lionheart.” You muttered, half in jest, half in earnest.

“’preciate it you know.” She giggled, stepping into the humid, bustling officer’s mess.

It was already packed, the men nearly all seated and tucked in, though all eyes were now raised to focus on your group. Stopping to pull the door shut against the wind, you were two steps behind Lionheart when you spotted the encroaching hand of some unknown Lieutenant, reaching to grab a handful of her rear end where she stood waiting in line.

Lurching forward to seize his wrist in an excessively tight grip, you turned to meet his dull brown eyes, wide as saucers.

“You’d be wise to keep your hands to yourself, Lieutenant.” You muttered coldly, tightening your hand about his wrist for emphasis before dropping it carelessly.

Turning your back to him, you met your friend’s startled face and offered her a wink. “Safe with me.” You whispered, pressing your lips together as she barely contained her giggles, quickly moving forward to close the gap with the end of the line.

“Cuddly as a cactus, that one.” The bitter voice of the would-be groper was almost inaudible over the general din of the room.

“Honestly, pal, you’re lucky she didn’t box your ears. Woulda deserved it, too; tryna to play grab ass with a lady you don’t know.” The scolding, delivered in a brash New York accent, almost made you look over your shoulder fondly. Somehow you resisted the urge.

Slowly undoing the snaps of your raincoat against the warmth of room, you looked to the side as it felt like someone was watching you. While you were aware more than several someones were, this gaze was somehow particularly aggravating…Meeting the blue eyes of that Brady from before, though he held a spoon between his lips this time rather than a pipe, his was expression just as indiscernible.

Lips hardening into a thin line, you firmly looked away, focusing intently on the way Lionheart’s hair had yet again escaped its pins to brush against the collar of her raincoat.

“You need to fix that mane before Thornton gives you a uniform violation.”

She sighed dramatically, twisting the errant locks up and ruthlessly shoving a few spare pins in to hold it. “Thinking of shaving it all off, what do you think she’d say then.”

“She’d probably have a stroke, I think.” You smirked and shuffled forward to grab two trays, handing her one once her hands were free.

“It would just be so much simpler though, wouldn’t it? I envy their haircuts, I do.” She muttered, collecting her mashed potatoes, thick stew, and pudding of a questionable consistency.

“Twice as many girls envy your hair.” You assured her. “Maybe you should start braiding it instead of using pins.”

Lionheart glanced back at you, eyes bright with the idea. “Say that’s a swell thought, wanna help me out with that tonight?”

“Sure, just keep your eyes front on the way to your seat, would ya?”

Settling into the crowded table, you allowed the conversation of the surrounding women to flow over you as you ate, suddenly realizing just how hungry you were. Despite the occasional lump, and the fact that it had not quite set, the pudding was a nice treat, a pleasant way to finish the meal before you all headed back to barracks to battle back the mud that had been tracked in throughout the day. Once your boots were polished to gleaming and set at the end of your bed, you worked with Lionheart to devise two braids to contain her hair that could then be pinned up off her collar.

Sliding, at last, beneath the rough sheets, the cumulative effort of the day allowed you to overlook the inconsistent construction of your mattress, sleep coming quickly.

The first morning of one hundred women attempting to prepare for the day using one shower house and one set of latrines was admittedly less than smooth, your eyes meeting Thornton’s several times in the midst of the uncontrolled chaos until she eventually had to send half the girls back to their barracks to finish their hair and makeup without mirrors.

“Keever, I need you to make a shower schedule. Half in the evening, half in the morning. Ten-minute intervals or we’ll never be on time.” She turned to her incessant shadow who was already bobbing her head eagerly and jotting down notes on a small notepad you had not even seen her procure.

Restricting yourself to brushing your teeth and a simple refresh in the sink, you returned to barracks to tidy your hair and dress for the day. You even had time to spare to help Lionheart with her new hairdo, which earned an approving nod from Thornton in the breakfast line.

As you were eating your cloyingly thick powdered eggs and toast, a ripple of groans began to echo across the room. Raising your head, you noticed stacks of papers were being passed around, reaching the ladies tables last. Scanning your eyes over the schedule for the next five days, you were pleased to see that the 280th was going to be flying that very afternoon – you could only assume the groans were from the boys in the 349th, 350th, or 351st as they would not have their chance until tomorrow or later.

That morning, while the 418th were breaking in the brand-new B-17s, the ambiguous words ‘base duties’ lay next to your squadron while the rest would be ‘enjoying’ classroom instruction. Base duties, as it turned out, entailed a lot of manual labor and organization of the piles of newly arrived equipment while awaiting your flight time of 1300. It was difficult to keep your eyes from drifting up to the surprisingly clear sky where the great looming shadows of planes enviably circled overhead, practicing their combat formations. You could only hope they 100th would soon have enough planes for all of you to be up there perfecting your hard-won skills…

Eating a light helping of the porkchops and rice at lunch, you were more than a little eager to get back into the cockpit, smiling warmly to the enlisted women of your crew as they waited eagerly outside the hangar.

“How’re we feeling ladies?” You asked as you, Andie, Babs, and Gina joined them.

“Well when I saw that list, I was fit to be tied Ma’am. Sure wish we could have gone up first, but second’ll do!” Mouse exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet, barely able to contain her excitement.

“Second is certainly better than fifth.” You nodded in agreement and waived them inside the hangar as Dutch called for the squadron to gather round.

A large blackboard had been wheeled out into the empty space, a list of maneuvers to be practiced on the left and the last names of the ten Pilots on the right, all in an untidy hand.

“Alright ladies, listen up. Today’s flight will be below 10,000 feet, no masks required. We will not be carrying any ordinance, simply practicing combat formations and two, maybe three runs over the bomb range if time and weather permit. Just dipping our toes in the water as a squadron at this point.

I’ll be flying with Thornton in the lead, the rest of you will follow in this order. This is nothing new for any of you but the first time you are doing this with your crews – gunners you will be expected to take your positions following takeoff. Any questions?”

After a lull, several of the pilots shook their heads, feeling confident in having committed flying order to memory. Your plane would take off third, flying opposite Lionheart’s just behind the lead plane in the typical V-shape formation once assembled in the air. Dismissed to board and conduct your pre-flight checks, you were more than a little annoyed to find there was an audience of men lining the hardstands – clearly brimming with curiosity, and surely sharing Friedkin’s doubts about the entire squadron’s flying capabilities.

The hulking planes loomed ahead, bristling with machine guns, widely believed to be the safest aircraft in the sky. A ‘flying fortress’ that, thanks to the Norden bomb sight, could fly well above land-based defences. It was these very attributes that Thornton had weaponized in her battle against Congress and the USAAF, winning this experimental exception for women to fly into combat in this aircraft only. For now. The need to achieve their goals, exceed their expectations so that more progress could be made, was not lost on you.

Tossing your flight bag into the bottom of the aircraft, you gripped the sides of the hatch and easily swung yourself upwards, legs first, after it. Navigating through the cramped, narrow passages, you settled into the lefthand seat and affixed your throat mic and head set before nodding to Andie on her arrival. Running through the pre-flight checklist with her, you slid open your window to communicate with the ground crewman, starting up each engine one at a time before he pulled the chocks.

Rolling out to line-up on the runway felt like the most normal thing you had done in the days since you left Texas, wending your way up here on a series of passenger trains only to find yourself in unfamiliar landscape and a fresh crop of unfriendly faces. Thirty seconds after Lionheart successfully took to the air, you received the signal from the man on the ground, sliding your window shut and pushing up on the throttle as Andie rattled off the ever-increasing speed until the airlift swept the plane smoothly into the sky.

 It proved a beautiful day for flying, not too rough, not too many clouds. You and Andie began to build your cockpit partnership, and the hand-offs with Babs during the practice bombing runs were effortless. It honestly came as a surprise when Dutch called an end to the practice run over the radio, the entire affair having been so enjoyable, the squadron lining up for an even-more well attended landing. Sliding from your aircraft with a grin on your face, you noted the familiar faces of Friedkin, Larkin and Pratt, gathered conspiratorially, wearing broad smirks. That Brady fellow was there too, but accompanied by an unknown blond with glinting gold in his smile and a shorter man with tousled dark hair barely contained beneath his cap.

In fact, it seemed impossible to get away from that Brady fellow as, apparently a member of the 418th, you would have to endure his presence during classroom hours as well. Taking a seat as far from him as you could, flanked by Lionheart and Andie, you diligently focused on the instructor at the front of the room.

“Point of review, what is your best option if your engine catches fire?” The middle-aged Lieutenant Colonel raked his eyes over the class.

The answer immediately popped into your head, a steep dive to attempt suppressing the fire, but you hesitated to raise your hand. On more than one occasion, you had been advised to give other students a chance to answer. That perhaps you took up too much air in a classroom. And so you held your tongue, silently counting to ten.

You reached ‘eight’ before the instructor raised his eyes a few rows back.

“Yes, please state your name before you answer.”

“John Brady. Shut off the fuel and feather it, sir.” He spoke confidently, accent so mild as to be indiscernible.

You furrowed your brows as you disagreed and raised your hand immediately.

“Yes, name and answer.”

Giving your name, you swallowed. “I would put the plane into a steep dive to suppress the fire and level out once it was extinguished.”

There was an almost inaudible scoff emanating from the direction of one John Brady and you straightened in your seat.

“So that I could finish my mission, sir.” You added firmly, earning a nod of approval from the instructor.

“Fine answer.” He declared before belatedly adding. “Both of you. It was a bit of a trick question, as it would truly depend on any number of factors, which option you as the Pilot choose. However, it is important to remember that you have more than one at your disposal.”

Instruction continued for another three hours that morning, your fingers cramping from the extensive notes you added to the margins of your training manual. As you were dismissed for lunch, you waived off the pats on the back you were getting from your squadron-mates, collecting your cap from where it hung on the back of your chair. Standing stiffly, you turned to meet the icy glare of Brady, starting a little at the intensity of it.

The nerve of that man, to be caught dead in the company of men like Friedkin and his goons, and then to glare at you for providing an alternative answer in class? Narrowing your eyes in kind, you sharply turned to follow your friends from the room, entirely decided he was the worst that the USAAF had to offer.

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

Read Part Two

The Last To Know Masterlist

Tag list: @luminouslywriting, @dustofbrokenheart, @precious-little-scoundrel

[saltsicklover]

Title: Not a Cyclone, But a Monsoon

Part 1 of 2 - Completed

Find Part 2 HERE and my Master List HERE

A request based off of THIS prompt, from the lovely @inkandarsenic

Romantic Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Reader Past Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Fem!Reader

Platonic Pairing: Beau "Cyclone" Simpson x Fem!Reader

A few uses of Y/N

Word Count: This part: 6k+ Total Fic:20k+

Rating: R

Warnings: Talks of death, minor character deaths, labor, loss of a child in utero, abandonment, drinking, talks of God and destiny, swearing, general military talk and lingo, descriptions of food and eating, coughing fits, talks of violence, actual violence, blood, vomit and throwing up, mention of near death experiences. ANGST

---

I DO NOT CONSENT FOR MY WORK TO BE REPOSTED OR TRANSLATED

Miramar, California. TOP GUN. Six years before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

The Officers Club, better known as The Flight Line Bar sits on post in Miramar, frequented by the big brass and educators at Top Gun. The whole place glows with amber light from the buzzing light fixtures that hang from the rafters, dusty and hot to the touch. This half of base, on the far side of the air field has yet to be updated, evident by the chips in the glasses and the inconsistent flickering of the halogen bulbs. The wallpaper is peeling; discolored around the old neon signs that have slowly begun to fizzle out. If it were any brighter inside those four walls, one might be able to see the discoloration of well walked floors and one too many spilt beers.

Two loan pool tables sit in the center of the bar, their felt faded from use and tearing, flanked by a couple of dart boards, their cork crumbling from age. The patrons look about the same, old and wrinkled with age, lines worn into their faces that read closer to distinguished than wary. That's what the military does to a person, wears itself straight into the skin and makes a home there, the ghosts of lost wingman and battle buddies still looming in the whites of their eyes. Too many memories are stuck in the deep folds of their uniforms, worn in around the elbows and shoulders, the creases worn from friction- salute after salute.

It's really a hard to believe that people still frequent The Flight Line Bar. After all, there are so many better places for the students of Top Gun to meander into, just off post where they don't have to risk rubbing shoulders with their instructors- or heaven forbid, hit on their guest lecturers.

After all, It's all fun and games, flirty touches and smooth words until you're slapped with a SHARP report.

The students always figure out the good places to drink after class, shortly after their arrival after one too many moments spent inside the crumbling bar. The drinks are good in taste, better in price, but not worth it at the risk of saying just the wrong thing to just the wrong person.

The new recruits arrival happens like clockwork, and it's a ritual the newly minted Admiral Beau "Cyclone" Simpson loves to witness. He has been watching the little ordeal for the last four years, with each new Top Gun class, even choosing to mark the date on his calendar after having almost missed an incoming class last year.

The new Top Gun recruits wander into The Flight Line Bar in gaggles. Most still clad in their uniforms if they had been lucky enough to get issued a drinking order. The wide eyed aviators would file up to the bar, uneasy looks on their faces as they took in the ranks drinking around them. If the Flight Line Bar was a small pond, the Top Gun inductees are guppies surrounded by some very big fish. One year, a young aviator even tripped over the base commander's seat and was met with a glare that even Cyclone would have been nervous to stand on the receiving end of.

The recruits each drink a beer, the brave ones chancing a second, before they're heading for the door. Cyclone loves to see the discomfort that would roll off of them the moment they crossed the threshold back into the parking lot. Some would even shiver, which always seems to pull a hearty laugh out of the Admiral.

This year, however, Cyclone is met with a very different scene before him when he himself broke the threshold of the Flight Line Bar. Having been stuck in a meeting with Admiral Kazansky, Cyclone ends up arriving later than the usual crowd of recruits. So, when he finally wanders in, he is met with the fleeting glances of some top brass, but no new eyes. He can't fight the way he almost deflates; after the shit day he managed to barely claw his way through, the one thing he was looking forward to were the wide eyes of the newest, freshest meat that Top Gun managed to recruit.

As if today of all days wasn't hard enough to begin with.

Instead, it looks like a regular Friday night, which wouldn't do the leg work needed to actually flip his day around for the better. But he's already there, the drinks are cheap, and he really, really needs a drink. So, he orders with a silent wave of his hand, the borderline elderly man behind the bar meeting the wave with a nod of his head. Cyclone plops down unceremoniously onto one of the rickety barstools. It almost sways under his weight, however it does creak weakly as he settles. His temple meets his knuckles as he lets out a deep sigh as the beer being set down in front of him. Cyclone can only manage a nod to the bartender before lifting the glass to his lips.

The question of why he still drinks here, in this lousy bar, floats through his head for a moment, but he doesn't put fourth the energy to grant himself with an answer. Maybe it's the cheap beer and half price shots. Or, maybe the fact that he doesn't have to fight off the happy hour drinkers or the five o'clock somewhere partiers that seem to be carried in with the wind. Again, he doesn't entertain the question long enough to form an answer.

Cyclone doesn't even have to glance around the bar to know the crowd this Friday night hosts. Top brass, tired officers, and disgruntled wives, each drinking their own bad days away.

The glass feels about a hundred pounds and it meets the bar top with a loud thunk, the amber liquid sloshing around inside. A bit of foam sneaks over the rim, running down the crack in the glass. Cyclone scratches at it with this thumbnail, wondering how the hell the bar is still getting away with using nearly broken glassware. The thought doesn't last long, not many seem to this evening, and he is bringing the impossibly heavy glass back to his mouth for another sip.

As he tips it back a little further this time, the sulking woman a few seats down catches his attention. If this were a normal Friday night, Cyclone might make bets with himself on just why a woman might be crying, in this bar, all alone. He might puzzle that she is a soon to be ex-wife, her spouse making the choice to cheat on deployment. Maybe she is a daughter, or a sister, or a cousin, her base escort hiding in some other corner of the bar, or of the base. But tonight is not a normal Friday night, regardless of the absence of the new incoming class or not.

The Admiral can't help but watch her lazily out of the corner of his eye. She brings a shitty bar serviette up to wipe at her cheeks, sniffling as the paper touches her skin. Cyclone should feel guilty about how much the sight comforts him. At least, he thinks, someone else seems to be having just as bad of a day as he is.

Then, she catches him staring, his beer lost in the space between his lips and the counter. His fingers are sticky against the chilled glass as he holds it there, still watching her. Cyclone doesn't look away, no point in it now. Then, she breaks the disillusioned bubble forming between them with a sniffle and a hiccup.

It's not a pretty sound, but then again, the sight of the woman in front of him isn't exactly pretty either. After all, it's hard to be pretty when snot is rubbed up over the tip of her nose, catching the light as she sniffles again. Her hair is akin to a nest, like her fingers have been making their way through it over and over again until it is more mess than style.

"I'm sorry, Admiral, Sir," Her voice is straining from holding back tears. There is snot dripping from her nose again, and she wipes it with another flimsy napkin. A half effort is made to sweep back the hair in her face, her well kept fingernails catching in newly formed knots as she pushes it back. The woman doesn't break eye contact with him, even as the sight of him begins to swim through her newly forming tears.

"Hey, kid, it's okay, don't worry about it," His eyes meet the fluttering neon sign behind her, not wanting to lock eyes with her again. It lights her in a halo of sickly blue and Cyclone can see the fizziness of her hair in it's light- it's a half distraction from the way she is still looking at him with those tears in her eyes. He can't stand it when women cry, not after watching his wife, June, sob through her entire pregnancy. It's really the way their eyes glaze over- that helpless look where he can just tell they are fighting with everything they are worth, deep down knowing that it might not be enough. Though, it warms his chest a bit to call her "kid", like he has always been meant to use the term.

The Admiral's brown eyes go misty, locking onto the chipped portion of his glass as the memory of his wife, six months pregnant, stuck in a hospital bed as hot tears carved their way down her face invades Cyclone's memory like a plague. He will never forget the crimson staining her cheeks from the exertion as she fought. And fought. And fought. The way her skin was more chapped than smooth from the constant flow of tears- the way the light would catch the shininess of her skin from the petroleum jelly that he lovingly spread over her weeping skin.

She didn't make it home.

Neither did their baby boy.

And now, as this woman sits a couple stools down, crying in a way that's anything other than gentle, corralling her sobs into the fence of her chest; her face that same color he used to be so used to seeing, that same damn sheen to her skin and Beau feels sick. His eyes snap down to her hands and he watches as her fingers push through the soggy material of the napkin, a sight that makes him grimace a bit. Gross is not the word to use to describe a crying woman, that is fact he has to remind himself of, but the way her fingertips slipped right through that soggy excuse of a napkin is damn close. Cyclone schools his mouth into a tight line, knowing that anything he might say could make both of their day's spiral downwards even faster.

"Admiral," Cyclone wills himself to look her in the face, but his pupils dance around, not locking in on one spot too long. The frizz of her hair, then over the puffy skin under her eyes, then back up to the buzzing neon just over the top of her head. Anything to keep from looking into the woman's eyes. He manages a nod in her direction, rewarded with a hiccup from behind her glass.

A couple more used napkins are tossed up onto the bar, adding them to her steadily growing pile. Her beer is cold, and she can feel it travel all the way down, chilling her burning insides with each swallow. Cyclone takes a drink of his too, waiting for her to continue her thought. He closes his eyes as he tips back the glass, the image of the crying woman in front of him replaced with one of June, and he's not really sure which is worse.

Thunk goes the glass again.

"Can I ask a favor?" Her tone is so sweet, yet so, so sad. He thinks of June, then he nods, his body doing the motion for the sake of his heart, even though his brain is screaming at him. He was taught a long time ago that there are people who don't just ask for favors, specifically strange women in bars, new recruits, and the big brass. But, the woman looks about the age his son should have been now and his chest constricts with the realization that he could have been sitting here drinking with him if things had turned out different.

"How can I help you, kid?" The glass is hitting the bar top just a little bit too hard again, the splinter in the glass growing a millimeter. It's quickly covered by the large pad of Cyclone's thumb.

"I- well, I'm supposed to be here celebrating my Mother's leg-legacy," Another sob-full hiccup breaks up her sentence. Cyclone waits patiently for her to finish. She wipes at the tip of her nose with the back of her hand.

"And, she really liked to shoot whiskey," The explanation is coming out too wet and not at all concise, but Beau is nodding along anyway. The woman is rubbing at her eyes again, this time with her fingertips. She carefully runs her nail along the underside of her waterline, trying to catch the new tears before they streak down her cheeks with the rest of them. It doesn't really work, or even if it does, Cyclone can't tell. New tears fill up the spaces the freshly wiped away ones once occupied.

Despite the unclear delivery, Cyclone gets the message. Ordering two double shots of Tennessee whiskey, his wife's favorite, Cyclone offers his best sympathetic smile to his new drinking companion. Then, as the whiskey is being poured and he is shuffling over to the bar stool next to hers. That one creaks and sways too, but he tries not to pay it too much mind.

"What's your name, kid?" There's that warmth again, breaking through the tightening feeling in his chest.

"Lieutenant Y/N "Monsoon" Mitchell," Monsoon raises her shot glass to Cyclone, offering him a nod. It's such an informal introduction but both are thankful for the lack of salute, the lack of military theatrics, tradition, that they are usually stuck to upholding. After all, what is tradition except peer pressure ringing through from years past.

Cyclone knows her, well, her name, this recruit- on paper at least. Suddenly he feels a bit worse for feeling less alone when he spotted her crying.

"Beau "Cyclone" Simpson," He raises his own glass, moving to tap them together. It's a risky move with the state of the glasses, each sporting chips in their rims and hairline fractures down their side. They share sullen, makeshift smiles, neither putting any sort of heart behind the expression. It's a knowing sort of thing, the look they share, one that says I won't say anything if you won't.

"To my Mama, Lieutenant Maria Davis, the best damn medic the USS Vinson ever saw," Monsoon's toast is simple, but she means every single word. Beau's mouth turns up at the corners, nodding to her in acknowledgment of a good job.

"And too my wife, June, and our baby boy, god rest their souls."

The bottoms of the glasses hit the table before the rim makes contact with their lips. The alcohol goes down with a burn, but it's a welcomed sensation. Anything feels better than swallowing grief and there's too much in the air right now. Cyclone chases the shot with a gulp of his beer. Monsoon doesn't. She rests the cool glass against her warm cheek, squeezing her eyes shut. It's a refreshing feeling, almost like she is being rinsed from the inside out.

The alcohol settles deep within them. She is buzzing, he is a bit queasy. Neither need to say a thing about it. It kind of feels like church- like a well spoken sermon where one sits in the pew the furthest from the crowed, tucked away in the back, poking holes in each lesson the preacher delivers. After all, it's not really God's plan, is it? More dumb luck than divine circumstance. Yet, they are both still there, sitting on stool that could give out at any moment as the lights above them buzz and the world feels a little smaller.

"I was watching the class today. You're a damn good pilot, Monsoon," Beau speaks after a few beats of silence, not quite sure what to say. Go with the truth, right? It would be rude to move back to his original seat, especially after the woman next to him just got control of her tears, so small talk is the next best option. She cracks her eyes open, trying to read the expression that follows the compliment. It looks genuine, if not a little proud, so she nods.

And then the world is a bit smaller, still.

"Thank you, Admiral, sir," She sets the glass down, gentler than he has done the whole night, "That means a lot, coming from such a talented pilot as yourself, sir."

And then Cyclone is chuckling, his chest vibrating. That feeling being the closest thing to godly he has felt in a long time, but it's more Zeus, more Jupitar, than it could have ever been God. Monsoon's words are so genuine and it catches him off guard. Most people who say something like that are trying to kiss his ass so hard that there they all but wear marks on the backside of his trousers.

"Are you getting excited to graduate? The ceremony is next week, right?" He asks, bringing his eyes back to the neon behind her. The light above them flickers, neither one acknowledging it. There is a sort of kinship between the way their souls feel and the state of the bar, where living feels like the flickering of a light, tonight.

"Sir?" The question comes with a tilt of her head, her fingers wrapping loosely around her beer. He watches the condensation drip down the glass, the water disappearing behind her fingertips.

"To graduate," he explains like it's the clearest thing, "To finish Top Gun,"

"Oh!" Monsoon almost chuckles, but her soul is too heavy. She settles on a small smile, as kind as she can manage.

"I don't graduate for another six weeks. Today just wrapped my seventh week here, but halfway done does feel good," He can tell she is holding something back with the way her eyes are pinched at the corners, the smiles on her lips straining a bit under her words. Monsoon looks like she almost doesn't believe the words that are leaving her own mouth, but when Cyclone catches her eyes again he can see that look again, I won't say anything if you won't.

"Oh," Beau's hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck, all of a sudden feeling like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "In that case, you are one of the best pilots I've ever seen,"

The words fall from his tongue like they are the simplest thing in the world. His eyebrows are still raised as he downs the rest of his beer. He contemplates Monsoon's career in his head, attempting to think back to files he knows are sitting on his desk, but the alcohol swirls the statistics together in his brain.

"Thank you, sir,"

"Is your father planning on coming to your graduation?" The question is so simple, the next plausible question after toasting to her Mother's life. Monsoon bristles at the question, her expression becoming impossibly more tight, pinched.

"He's uhm," The foam in the bottom of Monsoon's glass is the most interesting thing in the room. Tears are flooding her eyes again, and she's turning back to the shitty bar napkins in the even shittier dispenser. Cyclone knows his question hit a nerve based on how she is frantically pulling napkin after napkin out of the dispenser; and the Admiral's guilt swims to the surface. He is sure that the horizon of it can be seen in his iris's, if Monsoon were to look past the evident sadness that has made a home there. He's pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, blue in color and perfectly folded. He offers it to her and it's taken with a slightly shaky hand.

"M.I.A. or AWOL?" Cyclone asks. There's a bit of humor to his question that neither of them comment on.

"He went AWOL when I was seven," She doesn't take her eyes off the popping foam in the bottom of her glass, "Then I suppose he went M.I.A. three years later, when he stopped sending birthday cards,"

Cyclone hates the way her shrugs are all noncommittal and vaguely unbothered. He would have killed for a chance to raise his child, hell, he would move the Earth if that meant he even had a chance to do something. The fact that a man would walk out on his family, on his own child, it makes him sick. There is still something else Monsoon isn't saying; the way she chuckles is almost wax poetic with the way she rolls her eyes. Cyclone raises an eyebrow at her as he gestures to the bartended for two more on tap.

"I was in Admiral Kazansky's office today," She chuckles again, eyes glassy and unfocused. Cyclone slides the new beer over to her. He brings his up to his lips as she breathes deeply, trying to order the words together in her head, words she can't believe she is about to say out loud.

"There's a fucking picture of my father on his desk," Then she is downing the beer in quick, deep gulps. It's half gone before she sets it back down. Cyclone's brain is working on overdrive, swerving the hazy clouds of intoxication, searching for the mental picture of the Admiral's desk. Monsoon is chuckling in quiet disbelief, picturing the damn photo on his desk, her father and the Admiral shaking hands during their time at Top Gun. It makes her sick, really, but she doesn't need to say it based on the way her face feels, all contorted and ugly.

"I didn't even want to be a fucking pilot," Cyclone doesn't know if she is speaking to him anymore, or if the words are meant for her half empty glass. Hell, the way she speaks them they could be meant for the universe, for Khaos, for the air itself. There's a chip on that glass too, in the smooth side if of it, where it tapers down. He watches as Monsoon rubs her fingertip over it again and again and again.

"What did you want to do?" The question is leaving Cyclone's lips before he can stop it, common sense kicking in too slow. He is kicking himself.

Then, her thumb is stopping.

"I wanted to be a RIO," The glass is lifted to her lips again, her eyes rolling at the mere thought, "I wanted to fly with my Dad,"

The laughter that leave Monsoon's lips is dry as autumn air. Her lips crack too, under the stretch of her half hearted smile- one that holds no joy, it's all lukewarm and apathetic. He watches the skin of her lips crack and separate- it looks painful, and Cyclone has to fight not to grimace at the sight. Blood slowly begins to leak through the new flesh wound, bright red as it crests over the fullness of her bottom lip. He remembers watching the same thing happen to Maverick in the back of a helicopter as the wind whipped around them. But then, Maverick wore a truly joyous smile, one that rounded out his cheeks with a rosy hue that went deeper than the wind burn.

Then it hits Cyclone like a ton of bricks- like pulling 6 G's in a fucking barrel roll. Mitchell. This girl in front of him, this broken, fatherless girl is Pete Michell's kid. As if Cyclone needed another reason to hate the reckless man.

Beau wants to punch Pete Michell so hard that the only thing the man can make out in his field of vision is stars. Either the ones in the sky as he is planted with his back in the dirt, or the ones that would no doubt sparkle behind his eyelids. He wants to watch as the other man bleeds from the nose, the lip, the inside of his mouth. Cyclone can almost see the way the blood would pool in the spaces between Maverick's too white teeth, turning them a sickly vermilion. He would take a little too much pride watching the blood drip out of the corner of Pete's mouth, or down the crest of his chin.

Hell, Pete Michell, bloody, is a justified sight in Cyclone's book.

But that wouldn't help her right now. So Cyclone takes a breath, calming the flames of anger, of Hades that often lick at his legs, at his hands, whenever he so much as thinks about Pete "Maverick" Mitchell.

He's a bastard, that much is for sure. And it doesn't seem that Monsoon needs reminding of that fact.

"Well, kid," Beau is hunting, hurting for the right words, "If it's not wrong of me to say- your talents would have been wasted as a fucking RIO, especially for that son of a bitch," That gets Monsoon chuckling. She wants to ask if her grandmother was really that bad, but she doesn't make the joke. Though the laugh sounds a bit strangled as it untangles from the dense pain in her chest, Cyclone is happy to hear it. Something small swells in his heart at the sound.

Somewhere, deep in the cavernous spaces of his soul, a broken part of him feels like a father for the first time in years, even if it isn't exactly proper and the woman in front of him isn't his kid. Cyclone feels like a father, not even in a pseudo sense of the word, but truly like a father, and the feeling warms him from the inside out. It overtakes his whole body, leaving him almost buzzing.

Now it's his turn to chuckle. It's sour with pain and longing, but it's still there. Like joy is trying to crawl it's way out, lukewarm and dripping wet.

"Well, Admiral, sir," Monsoon's voice is a little lighter now, sweeter maybe. Cyclone is watching as she's pulling her coat over her shoulders, "Thank you for the favor, and the drink,"

She's nodding her head in the direction of the half full glass still dripping with condensation.

"Thank you for remembering them with me, too," They share a knowing smile, it's a little broken but it is still warm. Again, it's one of those I won't say anything if you won't looks shared between the pair. They lock eyes one last time before Monsoon is turning on her heel, ready to head right out of the front door.

For just a second Cyclone wonders if Monsoon will shudder with relief in the same way the new Top Gun recruits usually do, or if something as simple as that will effect such a skilled pilot. He wonders if anyone will be there for her on graduation day, or if she will be stuck alone in the seas of families and friends- just like he was all those years ago.

I won't say anything if you won't. Yeah, that's not a chance he's willing to take.

"Wait," Cyclone calls after Monsoon, his voice a little too loud and not at all hesitant enough. Monsoon chances a look back, confusion written into the furrow of her brows. He becons he back with a wave of his hand. Cyclone pulls a business card from his front pocket. "I am going TDY, but I should be back for your graduation," The words don't make sense to Monsoon, and neither does the card that he's presenting her between his two fingers. She is cocking her head to the side again, eyebrows furrowed. Cyclone tries to not notice how much she looks like her father.

He notices anyway.

"Email me, remind me of the date, and I'll be there," He is presenting her the card again with a shake of his wrist. Then, she reaches out, grabbing it with nervous fingers.

"Oh, uh-" There are new tears forming in Monsoon's eyes at the words, the card now swimming in her vision. "Thank you, sir,"

"Oh, better yet," Cyclone plucks the card from her fingertips, a move that may have been considered crass but Monsoon can't help but find a little bit funny. Cyclone quickly scribbles down a phone number in messy loops of blue ink, the numbers taking up a little too much room on the back side of the card. Then, he blows on it carefully to make sure the ink won't smudge before handing the card back out to her in the same manner as before.

"Text me the reminder, so it doesn't get lost in my email," Cyclone's smile is so kind and there is a ribbon of hope, a glimmer, really, shinning through the lightest parts of his irises. Monsoon can barely hold back her tears at the sight, and so the card becomes the most interesting thing in the room, held between her shaking fingertips. "You deserve to have a parent there, kid,"

Those are the last words they share that night. They don't need to say anything else. After all, how do you explain the want to stand in as a lost family member? Beau would never admit just how much he's dying for a kid to support, to cheer on and celebrate. Monsoon knows the feeling too, the want to be a daughter who isn't seen as an inconvenience, a burden.

The next time they see each other, Cyclone is sitting in the front row at her Top Gun graduation, a small bouquet of calla lilies on his lap. There is a proud smile on his face and the moment Monsoon sees it there are tears in her eyes. She wonders if this is the feeling she had been missing out on, a father's pride, his love. She tries not to dwell on it, even as walks across that stage.

When the pair meet in the crowd, Cyclone doesn't hesitate to pull her into a hug, one that may not have been professional or regulated, but he feels a weight come off her shoulders the moment he pulls her in. He feels a little more whole too. The hug is short, quick, really, but there are tears in both of their eyes when they pull back.

Cyclone has so much pride for her, and God, Monsoon can feel it. From the way he beams at her to the way he shoves a camera into the hands of his battle buddy, tucking her under his arm. Both clad in dress uniform, posing for the camera as she holds the flowers against her chest to try and quell the beating of her heart. They both sport tears in their eyes, cheeks round and plump red as they smile too wide.

That photo makes onto his desk a week later, displayed in a beautiful mahogany frame.

USS Stennis. Somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Four Years before the organization of the Dagger Squad.

The first time Monsoon calls him Pops, it's an accident. She got shipped out to an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Pacific. The tour is lonely. She doesn't know the team, the group who have been stationed there for the last six months, and they weren't overly keen on the 'new girl'. Monsoon made it through three months before she started to feel like a part of the team. It's a conscious choice, really, to keep working at fitting in. But in the end that team, those people, they aren't her family and they aren't going to remember her after she ships back stateside.

Emails to and from Cyclone kept her going, as he reassured her that life on the carrier isn't easy on anyone. He urges her to try and make better friends with those who hold a more permanent position on the vessel, so she does her best to take the newbies under her wing. If she wasn't welcomed, that was out of her control, but she can sure as hell make sure that the newbies are.

The plan starts off a little rough, the new sailors unsure of the overly friendly Lieutenant amongst the standoffish seasoned crew of the vessel. But days turn to weeks, trust is earned and the long days and nights onboard get easier to swallow.

Then, Cyclone gets shipped out to the carrier for a briefing. He can't help the rumble of excitement that tracks through him. He might get to see Monsoon, his kid, and he's going to do everything in his power to track her down on board. 

There is too much joy on his features as he touches down on the carrier. Too much joy for the briefing he is getting ushered into. It drags on longer than necessary as they hash and rehash out plans for missions. He knows he should care, he really does, but it's not like people's lives are on the line this mission. It's all practice runs and jet maintenance, and how could anyone expect him to focus when his kid is on the same vessel and he is just fucking sitting there. Cyclone barely sits still, knowing the clock is ticking down on his time aboard and if this meeting goes on any longer than planned he is going to miss his chance to see Monsoon.

Around suppertime, Monsoon is heading to the canteen, desperate for some sort of nourishment. It has been a long day, trial after trial, and thankfully for her, she's fairing better than some of her other wingmen. At least she hasn't puked over the side of the carrier since her first week aboard.

She guides one of the newer pilots, Story, down the stairs from the flight deck, her stomach rumbling as they go. The new Lieutenant on board hot on her heels as they make their way down the stairs.

"I know, Story, but you're going to get through this," Monsoon's voice is low as they wind their way through the tight hallways of the lower decks. "You're a good pilot, there is nothing you can't do. So what if you need a little more practice. That's why we're out here, right?"

The younger man hums in agreement, disappointment scribbled all over his face. They are both coated in sweat, Monsoon's hair sticking to her sweat soaked skin. She craves a shower almost as much as she craves food. Her body is weighed down with flight fatigue as she drags her feet.

The halls of the ship begin to smell more and more like hot biscuits and butter the closer they get to the mess hall. Their stomach's rumble in unison at the smell wafting down the hallway. Monsoon is rounding the corner with her front turned towards Story, not bothering a glance in the direction her feet are heading. A second later, her back meets a hard body, a grunt coming out of her mouth at the impact.

Story goes white at the sight of his new friend running straight into an Admiral. Monsoon doesn't like the look on his face, he looks like he's just seen a ghost, or maybe prophesied a murder. So she turns around slowly, so, so slowly. Her eyes are scrunched as she turns. There is already an apology on her lips as Monsoon peeks to see just exactly who she just ran into.

Eyes go wide, and smiles break out over their faces.

The need for food, a hot shower, and sleep dissipate from her body as she looks up at the man in front of her, joy overtaking.

"Pops!" The name comes out a little too quick, catching them both of guard. Monsoon's cheeks flush dark with embarrassment, realizing what she just said and who she just said it to. Without warning, Cyclone is pulling Monsoon into his chest, wrapping her into a warm, tight hug, just the kind of hug a Dad would give.

"Hey Kiddo,"

TAG LIST

@its-the-pilot

@t4medicroe

@inkandarsenic

[sirbonesly]

In another world, Roach finally finds his Ghost

This is dedicated to @briarscreek who I promised some Roach rambles but instead somehow broke my writers block. It got a little out of hand, and I'm not used to writing for CoD yet, so I apologise if anyone feels out of character or if it has any mistakes.

TW: Mentions of child abuse, mentions of burns/fires, I think that's about it.

Second lieutenant Gary Sanderson climbed out of the back of the truck, adjusting the straps on his vest before helping unload the truck of equipment. Bee pushes the crate towards the edge of the truck, and Gary grabs the handle to help carry it off. They drop the crate by the others, nodding to a dark skinned soldier with a clipboard and a baseball cap. He goes to turn, wanting to help unload the last two crates, but the man grabs his shoulder with a polite smile.

“Sergeant Kyle Garrick. Captain Price wanted me to introduce you all to the base before the briefing.”

Gary stares at the man for a moment, eyes flitting over his face from behind his goggles. He knows he should be speaking right now, that his mouth should be moving behind his mask and words floating through the air. But it takes longer than is considered polite.

“Second lieutenant Gary Sanderson. Call me Roach.”

Kyle either doesn’t notice the prolonged silence or doesn’t mention it, which Gary is thankful for. They nod to each other, Kyle not bothering to salute and Gary honestly not caring. His captain, Spencer Anderson, had warned him that the 141 played fast and loose with regulations and rules. Not that he cared much for them himself, but he was glad for the warning anyways.

Sergeant Belinda Hughes, aka Bee, called out to him from where she’s dragging a crate. Gary gives Kyle another nod before leaving to help his team unload. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, one he hasn’t felt since his childhood, and he’s forever grateful about his mask and goggles. He’ll ignore the feeling for now, it’ll either dissipate or it’ll makes itself obvious soon enough. Either way, Gary has a briefing to go to.

~~~

Simon doesn’t like the second lieutenant. To be fair, he doesn’t like a lot of people, but the second lieutenant, Sanderson, just pokes at something in him. He’s sitting too close to Gaz, laughing too loud at Soap’s jokes, he’s too impersonal with his own soldiers. But it’s not a regular dislike. It’s like looking at a puzzle piece that almost fits, the right colour, the right shape, but just different enough to not fit.

Simon doesn’t talk to Sanderson during or after the briefing. He knows that they’ll have to interact, both of them being lieutenants, but he’s planning to keep everything short. He’ll go through the mission like every other mission, keep a closer eye on his sergeants, and then wait for the team to leave. Price told him to play nice, that this team was full of potential and had more than a few eyes on it. It wouldn’t do good to create bad blood between them.

~~~

The mission goes well, minimal injuries and a successful grab and go. Gary’s team was tasked with infiltrating the compound and grabbing several hard-drives worth of information. The 141 was on watch, being comprised of snipers. The only major injury was Gary, a shot that grazed his side, just barely missed his vest. It was a lucky shot from the guy, but one of the 141 had dispatched him barely a second later.

Bee and sergeant Antonio “Texas” Valdez need to drag Gary to the infirmary. He’s reluctant to go, not liking the idea of missing the group debrief because of a graze. But when Bee and Texas shove him towards one of the nurses, he finds that he’s not alone. Lieutenant Ghost is getting his arm stitched up, his gear gone to leave him in his jeans and shirt. Gary has to wonder how the hell Ghost beat him here, the 141 truck had pulled in behind theirs.

“Go ahead and sit down, Sanderson. One of my nurses will be by to stitch you up.”

Gary sits on the small bed across from Ghost, and he can’t help but turn over all of the information he has about the lieutenant. Ghost hadn’t given a name, just a call sign. Gary didn’t give his call sign, too busy trying to keep Bee from bullying Texas. Ghost is massive, easily one of the biggest guys he’s seen besides that one Austrian kid over at KorTac. Gary’s not small by any means, 175 centimetres and a little over 80 kilograms, he’s packing some muscle. But Ghost is nearly a head taller than him, easily twice his width, probably over 100 kilos.

They sit in silence as the nurse stitches up Ghost, another nurse coming in to start stitching up Gary. He sheds his vest and jacket, grimacing at the hole in the car-hart. The nurse guides him to lay on his side, and he ends up facing Ghost as the nurse stands behind him. He tries not to make eye contact with the lieutenant as he winces from the sharp needle. Shoot or stab him, and Gary will brush it off to get the mission done. But bring a needle to his skin and he’s practically a kid again, wincing and fidgeting and pushing down tears.

~~~

Simon had a friend when he was a kid, back before Tommy got custody of him and his parents were arrested. Living in an apartment meant Simon knew almost everyone on his floor, and that meant he was there when some short bastard moved in as his neighbour. Only a year younger than Simon, the kid latched onto him like a microfiber towel, and then grew on him like fungus.

He doesn’t remember the kid’s name, just the nickname Simon gave him. He watched the kid take a punch right to the face, watched the bully turn away laughing, and then nearly screamed when his friend jumped up with a bloody nose and a black eye like nothing happened. Simon never called him anything but “Roach” after that, liked the way he popped up to his feet no matter what.

Unless it was a needle. This kid, one who took a baseball bat to the ribs and still managed to run for gym the next day, nearly fainted when the school was doing their vaccines. 7 years old and balling his eyes out, holding Simon’s hand like it owed him money. Simon remembers telling him that needles weren’t scary, that Roach was being a wuss. But he still made Tommy take them out for ice cream after school, still gave Roach his free piece of fudge that came with the cone.

Simon looks at the second lieutenant lying on the bed, tears in the man’s eyes as the nurse stitches him up. Simon hadn’t given out his name to the visiting team, content to keep his identity a secret just for fun. He’d been the one to shoot the tango Sanderson was fighting, the one who’d been just a second too late to prevent injury. Simon had been prepared to switch his comms to their team, to the 283 frequency and let them know their second lieutenant was injured. But the man just got up, popped to his feet like it was nothing and continued with the mission.

That’s when Simon knew why he didn’t like Gary Sanderson. He was familiar. Without being able to see his face, Simon had been forced to watch mannerisms. Skittish around strangers, able to fit into a surprising amount of spaces he shouldn’t be able to fit into, and resilient as hell. He acted like a fucking roach. He acted like Simon’s best friend. The one that he watched die, missing during a fire in their apartment building, one that Simon himself barely got out of. The best friend that dropped off the face of the Earth after that, no funeral, no mention in the local paper. Just gone.

The nurse has been finished with Simon’s stitches for a long while, but the lieutenant just sits and watches this grown man cry over getting stitches, over the needle. He knows, despite his mind trying to tell him the logic, that Gary Sanderson is familiar for a reason. Tries to ignore the slim chances that Simon would get such a lucky break in his life. But it’s not him that speaks up, it was never him who made the first move during childhood.

“You gonna watch me cry, sir?”

~~~

The words have more of a bite to them than is probably respectful, but Gary is feeling a bit embarrassed at the moment. The nurse is finally done stabbing him and has moved on to bandaging him. Ghost is just watching him, and Gary takes the chance to look over the man. Wearing the short sleeved shirt, Gary can see the edges of a burn scar peaking out from the sleeve, mostly covered by the sleeve tattoo. Gary’s not judging the scar, not when half of his chest is just one large burn that creeps up his neck and jaw. But there’s something familiar about it.

There’s something familiar about the honey brown eyes of Ghost. How despite the confident air around him, Gary can see the way his shoulders are tense and his eyes dart between the stitches on Gary’s side and the tear stains on Gary’s face. Can see recognition in those honey coloured eyes.

The moment the nurse leaves, with orders for Gary to take it easy and for Ghost to be careful with his arm, the air gains tension. Or maybe it was already tense, but being alone together just brought attention to it. Because Ghost stands up as Gary turns to lay on his back, the lieutenant coming to stand next to Gary’s bedside. Officially, they’re both free to go, but neither of them move to actually leave.

"You always cry from needles?”

The question is unexpected, makes Gary tense up and grimace behind the mask. But it’s the first time he’s heard Ghost speak beyond barking orders over the comms. Gary is thankful that the bullet grazed his clean side, the unburned side. Because being asked about needles is much easier than trying to explain the burns.

“Yessir. Ever since I was a kid, couldn’t stand needles. Nearly broke my friend’s hand during school vaccinations.”

And oh dear, it must’ve been the right thing to say because Ghost tenses up like a deer in headlights. He raises a slightly shaking hand to his face, glancing over his shoulder at the closed door and the blinds pulled shut, before grabbing the back of the balaclava.

Gary can feel tears pool in his eyes as he find those familiar brown eyes again, his stomach twisting with too many feelings to decipher. Relief, surprise, anger, longing. But Gary manages to lift a very shaky hand to his goggles, pulls them up to rest on his helmet, pulls down the neck gaiter he likes to wear.

“Simon.”

“Roach.”

The names are traded, a mountain of questions being placed on each. Where have you been? What happened? How are you here? Each question hangs in the air, waiting for an explanation, needing an answer. And Simon, for the first time in his life, speaks up first with Roach.

“You died. The apartments burned down, they didn’t get you out.”

“My mum threw me out a window.”

Simon makes a pained noise that almost sounds like a laugh, a bewildered look pulling at his face. It makes the scar on his lips pull up, the upper row of teeth just barely visible through the gap of muscle. His eyebrows twist upwards and his eyes widen slightly, just like they did whenever Gary said stupid shit as a kid.

“My mum, she threw me out of the window cause the door was blocked. Landed in the dumpster outside of the building, firefighter found me after most of the ambulances left.”

“Oh.”

Simon sits down in the chair next to the infirmary bed, arms crossed over his chest as he tries to wrap his mind around the explanation. He knew Gary’s mum had loved him on some level, though it never stopped her newest boyfriend from sneaking into Gary’s room some nights. So it shouldn’t be a huge surprise that she tried to save him, but it still makes Simon want to laugh.

Simon pulls his phone out, an old thing with a cracked screen that Laswell had practically forced him to get. It’s only got a few contacts on it, Farah and Alex, some of the Los Vaqueros, Laswell herself, and his team. Jonny’s at the top, a soap bar emoji in place of a name and a star marking him as a favourite. Simon makes a new contact, putting a cockroach in the name line and marking it as a favourite before handing it over to Gary.

The second lieutenant takes the phone with a confused look, understanding flashing across his face when he sees the empty contact. He punches in his number quickly, something close to excitement starting to bubble up in his chest. He knows that this isn’t how old friends are supposed to greet each other, but Simon and Gary were never normal friends.

So, he takes a blurry and picture of his face for the contact picture and hits the save button, handing the old and busted phone back to Simon. He watches as his old friend pockets the device, his mind still trying to wrap around the situation. But Gary can adapt and survive, it’s why he earned the nickname “Roach”. His face pulls into a smirk as he looks over Simon’s shoulder, seeing a frantic looking scott arguing with a nurse.

“So… what’s going on between you and MacTavish?”

“Shut the fuck up,”