#I had to remove the gold freckles. I liked them visually on his face

[muppenthings]

I know I changed Keiki's design a little while back. But it never felt quite right pattern wise. So I went back and made some changes. The palette is basically the same. He's the same happy lad. :3

[ccatskies]

sciflash | chemistry class

rasa’s request

★━━━━━━━━

"Chemistry is the study of matter and energy and the interactions between them. This is also the definition for physics, by the way. Chemistry and physics are specializations of physical science."

There goes that voice. Flash resisted the urge to let a groan slip out and annoy the teacher who had just commenced the said class. He knew Chemistry, but today was awfully boring. No matter how much he despised a few subjects, it just wasn't his thing to barge in like a despicable roach and get on a teacher's nerves.

That would be his complimentary rascal of friend's field of expertise.

His eyes darted towards one of the tables in the third row, snorting as he suppressed a laugh. There's the adorable rascal.

Dash was, as usual, being a brat about things and getting her hand slapped from time to time by Shimmer, who had mentally declared that life was quite meaningless at this point, especially if you had to deal with Rainbow touching random potions for entertainment to bust everyone's asses six feet into the sky and out of the Chemistry Lab.

"Chemistry tends to focus on the properties of substances and the interactions between different types of matter, particularly reactions that involve electrons - ah, wait a second." Mr. Cranky interpolated, holding up a finger prior to walking off to the teacher who had been waiting for him at the door to deliver a message on the urgent change of routines.

Sentry suppressed a yawn, shyly glancing at his partner from the corner of his eye. In an instant, blood rushed up to his cheeks, coating it with adorable pink tints scattered across them like a pretty bunch of full bloomed roses. He brought his hands closer to his chest and leaned back on the chair, while the latter stood straight, fiddling with the bottle of a potion and going through her notes once again.

Sparkle's hair was in a messy bun, tied up with a rubber band while a big gold star laid on top of it. Few strands of her indigo hair gave her side profile astounding visuals for him just stare at. Her rosy cheeks had a special warmth, radiating a glow over her honey bronze skin. Her white laboratory coat only added onto her daunting look, as she maneuvered her finger tip through the pages of the Chemistry book.

She looked to the side once again, her alluring side profile snatching his view once again.

Fuck, he mused, one hand flying up to his face, as he cupped his right cheek to feel the warmth that generated from the abrupt blood rush.

Sure, it wasn't his first time looking at her, and definitely not the last.

More importantly, he wasn't sure how she did that to him like it was simply nothing, whereas it took him ages to have her blush in front of him. Of course, he knew she might've been hiding those blushes which burst out like balloons only when he took special measures but when it came down to him, she didn't need to even life a finger.

"Hey."

She was honestly so breathtaking - did no one tell her that?

"Huh, Flash?"

Breathtaking was an understatement too, he figured. She was just drop dead gorgeous, as if she was a beauty hailing from the heavens above - and Flash definitely didn't exaggerate that. He's seen Shimmer casually flirt with her, while Sparkle would laugh and playfully slap her shoulder.

Sunset's teeny tiny crush on the adorable bookworm justified the class Twi fell under. She's dated Timber, prior to ending the relationship on a good note. And all they had to say about his best friend was that she was so worth it.

"Flash!"

He broke out of the trance, blinking twice as he found his stinging eyes water, before squeezing them shut, a small drop traveling down his lashes, "h-huh. . .?"

"Your eyes!" Sparkle gasped, drawing herself closer to the teen boy, resting one of her warm hands on the surface of the table and the other on his left shoulder. She subconsciously brought herself to examine those pretty cornflowers, bearings her face towards his. Her breath fanned over the tip of his red nose, as she tilted her head, worry evident in her tone, "do they sting?"

"Wha-" he opened his eyes at the sound of her honey voice, a little taken aback as he registered the proximity, "ohh, fuuck."

She only made it worse for him, furrowing her brows at his words, as she dragged her lower lip under the edge of her teeth, "what? Does it sting too bad? You're tearing up, so - "

"N-not that!" He sputtered, biting his lip as soon as he stared up at her violet globes, "umm, I. . ."

"You what?"

"Your eyes." He immediately blurted, his cheeks betraying him once again, as he gazed into the most beautiful pair of eyes ever, astounded by the way they carried themselves. He swore that he could see the entire galaxy and at least a thousand constellations imprinted on those small captivating sultry orbs, reflecting back on his like the sun's rays.

She suppressed a giggle, breaking into a small smile, before she brought up her index up to his visage, cutely booping his nose, "my eyes? Ooh, are you flirting with me?"

His cheeks flushed into the shade of red - almost as red as the color of a scarlet Dahlia. Damn it, Century! Not now!

"Uh, no?"

Twilight snickered, not taking his response seriously, "is this the time to make jokes? I thought that's our thing only when classes are off."

"Wow," he scoffed, warm air purging through his nose, as he tilted his head to the side opposite to hers, "I'm mad that you don't take hints."

She raised a brow in amusement, letting a lighthearted laugh break through her system, "hint? What hint?"

"That I'm genuinely trying to compliment you for a reason."

She leaned back and flopped down onto the sit next to him, propping an elbow on the armrest as she cupped her cheek, "oh really?"

"You're pretty, am I not allowed to say that?" Flash rolled his eyes, groaning in exasperation, "fuck that, you're beautiful."

That had her blush. No matter how experienced she was at hiding those, she could not get do so for long.

Twilight smiled and bit her lip, vanquishing her urge to press him further but rather have him blurt out things (so that she could put them to use the next time she felt like embarrassing him). He had immediately caught onto the look on her face, growing a little shy at the indication.

"Why are you giving me that look?" Sentry huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, "am I not allowed to call my best friend pretty?"

"U-uh. . ." she laughed a little nervously, her thin silver glasses sliding down a little down the bridge of her nose, as she concealed her cheeks from his view with her hands over them, "noooo."

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, curving into an attractive grin as he reached out his arm to pull down her hands from her face, leaning in closer to catch a sight of her turn to be red, "awww, did I finally get you?"

She caught both of his wrists as they neared her, looking down on her lap, as she felt the burning sensation course through her. The boy only smiled, his insanely attractive dimples glowing from the corners of his wide smile, as he trailed his bigger hands down, smoothly intertwining his fingers with that of the Teacher's Pet.

She looked up at him holding back a few giggles, as she snorted, her honey cheeks tinted pink like cotton candy, "are you playing with me, Flash Century?"

His smile instantly dropped as he scoffed in disbelief, "did you really just say that, Twinkle Sprinkle?"

"Twinkle Sprinkle?" Twi's jaw hung low, as she maintained her posture, still having her fingers locked with his tan ones. Her face was a mess right now, red with embarrassment as well as flattery, showcasing the cute freckles splattered across the area surrounding her nose. "Oof, you're gonna get it. That's the childish nickname you gave years back. I thought we settled that you won't use it anymore!"

"I - " he laughs silently, as she frees her hands from him, standing back up and maneuvering her hands through several potions, desperately wanting to free herself from the situation.

Flash stood right next to her, his seraphic smile as heartwarming as ever, as he whispered next to her ear, warm breath hitting her skin like a steam and making her freeze on the spot, "cute little Twinkle Sprinkle."

She turned to face him, but was rather met with his chest - curse her shortness. She blushed profusely once again, prior to staring up at him, as she scoffed, "you're certainly hitting on me."

He moistened his lower lip, the same warmth radiating from his presence, as one hand slipped down to her waist, "of course, you pretty little thing."

"You are pretty," she immediately snapped back nonchalantly, her face as straight forward and genuine as ever.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The boy bit his lip, the shyness slipping out again. It took him a while to get her flustered but how the hell did she do it within a second?

Was this the Sparkle effect?

That made him feel magical and helpless? That made his heart beat like the thunderous sound of drums?

"You're staring again, Flash," Twi coughed, masking her flustered front, and replacing it with a terrible poker face.

"I again do that for hours actually." He removed his hand from her waist, dragging his lower lip under his teeth, as he shyly looked down on the table.

"Wow," She playfully punched his chest, letting out a laugh which rang through his ears like a serene and paradisiacal euphony, "you're. . . unbelievable, Sentry."

She pursed her lips into a thin line, prior to gazing at his features with a goofy grin, "unbelievably gorgeous, that is."

"Stop," he bit his lip, letting out a sigh in disbelief, "how can you just do that?"

"Do what?"

"Fluster me easily."

"I do that?"

"Yes."

She scrunched up her nose, smiling adorably, "well, then. Guess I found my new hobby!"

"What? No."

"Definitely."

"You're not - "

"You're the cutest."

"I - "

"Softest - "

"A little marshmallow. That's what I think of when I look at you. A sweet and cute little marshmallow." She snickered, "I can poke and kiss your squishy cheeks all day - "

"H-huh?" He had the cutest face on - with utter disbelief was etched on his features, while the pink blush never seemed to go away. If Flash could recall all of his shit talk with the tiny bookworm, he would swore that she never played the flirty card. It was either getting flustered or masking it.

Did he hear that right? From Twilight?

Twilight stepped back, a triumphant smile playing on her lips. She held back a boisterous laugh from breaking out and destroying her system as soon as she spotted her so-called friend's lips quiver, with the biggest flustered look on his face, screaming what just happened?

"Guess I won this time, Habibi."

━━━━━━━━━★

[sawyer-saucee]

If You Had The Chance To Change Your Fate...

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Words: 3,992

Genre: Hurt/comfort

Pairings: Rociet, fatherly logince, fatherly lociet, platonic anxciet, brief brotherly mociet (blink and you miss it)

Warnings: Crying, self-doubt, panic (but no panic attacks), mentions of breakups/divorce, a good hearty dose of Deceit’s potty mouth (swearing), arguing, mentions of Nazis (as in, our boys hate them)

Summary: Devon Lee, a hopeless romantic who would never admit to it, and Roman Adelio, a man who’s long since given up on love, are destined to be together. Will fate do its job correctly, or will the pair defy the ides of fortune?

A/N: This is a story I wrote for @quoth-the-sparrow​!!!! It took longer than I intended because it ended up being a monster of a story (originally it was only going to be around 1,000 words of pure fluff, but we can all see how that turned out), so dad, I hope you like it! (And I hope everyone else likes it too!) <3

10 years, 4 months, 13 days, 11 hours, and 58 minutes. That was how long Devon Lee had been waiting for his soulmate. As a child, he’d always assumed the world was colorless, and that everyone saw it the way that he did. But, as it had been explained to him by his older brother Patton when he was nine years old, eventually, when you found that one person who was destined to be your perfect match, your world would change. It was hard to explain how when Dee couldn’t even begin to visualize what this “color” Patton spoke of looked like, but his brother made it sound so appealing. “Dee,” He’d said, “You know that feeling you feel when your favorite TV show comes on at just the right time? Or… oh! Or that feeling when someone gets you the perfect gift?” And Dee had nodded as Patton grinned and said, “That’s what the world looks like when you find your soulmate.”

So, ever since that moment 10 years, 4 months, 13 days 12 hours, and 2 minutes ago now, Devon had been waiting. And waiting. And waiting. At a certain point he quite honestly had become sick of waiting and had renounced the prospect of soulmates as a whole, but deep inside his chest there had always been a longing that he would never admit to - a secret timer keeping track of the 10 years, 4 months, 13 days 12 hours, and 2 minutes that he’d been waiting. Not that he was counting or anything.

Roman Adelio, on the other hand, didn’t believe in soulmates, not one bit. He hadn’t since the moment his mother had walked out the scuffed front door of the house he’d grown up in, leaving him behind with only a father with the words, “Have you seen a pair of blue ballet slippers anywhere?” tattooed on his chest and the knowledge that even though the first words of his mother were permanently etched onto his father’s skin, that hadn’t stopped them from falling apart. He never wanted to be like them. So, he took the whole theory if Occam’s razor to heart and decided that the simplest explanation was that love was simply a fraud that he would never participate in.

…12 years, 6 months, 24 days 12 hours, and 9 minutes.

That was how long it had been since Roman had given up on love.

His skin was devoid of cheesy first word tattoos, and he was determined to keep it that way.

— — — — —

“Dee, come on, you’re 5 minutes late for your meet-and-greet already!” Virgil, Dee’s ever-so-irritable manager called from ten feet in front of the tardy YouTuber. Devon sighed and propelled himself forward with slightly more urgency, the tires of his wheelchair squeaking over the tiled floor.

“We’re not late, we’re simply rebelling against the society-imposed definition of punctuality,” he deadpanned, rolling past Virgil through to the outside of the building. “I, for one, think it’s an inspiring display of anarchy.”

“You know, it’s real funny to see you playing hard to get when you’re already hard enough to like.” Virgil huffed in response, giving the back of Dee’s chair a playful shove to get him going faster. The man laughed and deliberately slowed down, thereby causing Virgil to let out a sort of half distressed croak/half irritated groan. It was terribly amusing, to say the least. After a moment of tense silence broken only by Virgil’s incessant nerve-amplified echolalia, (“An- anarch- anarchy- anarchy- fuck…”), the manager finally snapped.

“That’s it, I’m going ahead. I’ll let the fans know you’re gonna be late, but you’d better hurry your ass up and get over there, okay? You have five minutes before I flip my fucking lid, Dee.”

“That sounds entertaining, maybe I’ll take my time just for that!”

“You have a goddamn death wish, I swear to god!” Virgil yelled as he took off sprinting towards the building they were overdue at. Dee chuckled and kept rolling along, enjoying how warm the sun was that day. His friends often joked that he was cold-blooded for how intolerant he was to the cold and… in truth, he wouldn’t deny it. It fit his aesthetic.

“I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream…” As the wind picked up, Dee noticed the voice that it was carrying with it. He didn’t believe in magical creatures like sirens, and yet his first thought upon hearing that voice was that no human could possibly sing so beautifully. The song was meant for a high voice, like the princess in the movie, but somehow the rich bass tones of the voice he was hearing brought the melody new life. In other words, he would allow this man to step on him, no questions asked. Dee’s vivid gray eyes - well, he had no idea if they were actually gray, because everything else was, too, but regardless - scanned the grassy courtyard he was going past and eventually landed on the shape of a man twirling around in the center of the yard. He was just as attractive as his voice was, further solidifying Devon’s resolve to allow this man to step on him. The wheels on his chair protested as he rolled into the grass, but Dee was so mesmerized by the image of this tall, lanky - was that a dress he was wearing? - unabashedly effeminate man that he hardly noticed the barrage of bumps.

Dee blinked, finding his vision going a bit blurry all of a sudden. Dots began flashing in front of his vision as he drew closer to the man, and he shook his head, absently dismissing it as an effect of jet lag. As he neared the man, getting close enough to make out details like the spattering of freckles all over his body, the light streak in his otherwise dark hair, even the collection of bandaids scattered all over his body, a sure indicator that he was either clumsy (he had so much limb for just one man, after all) or just plain reckless, Dee noticed something that he wasn’t sure how to explain. A change in the man’s face. The grays he’d spent his whole life staring at were morphing into something unrecognizable, and-

“Holy goddamn motherfucking shit…”

— — — — —

Roman clamped his mouth shut and turned to face whoever had just ever-so-rudely thrown off his groove. The courtyard had been blissfully empty for the first time that day and though he loved his fans as much as they loved him, a moment alone to sing had been a welcome intermission. Especially since he’d been around so many people bragging about their soulmates all day.

It was to be expected, of course, since Roman’s YouTube channel was dedicated to music and he sang love songs almost exclusively, but people introducing their soulmates to him still made him uneasy. All of the “We met because we were both fans of you!” And “Our first words were lyrics from your song, look!” Were sweet, of course, but still…unnerving. Every time he saw those tattoos he was that eight-year-old kid again, watching everything he loved slip away.

And now that his moment of solitude had been interrupted, he wasn’t gonna lie - he was more than a little irritated

“Excuse me, I was singing here!” He protested, placing his hands on his hips and sticking out his bottom lip in an indignant pout. Foot tapping fervently on the grass, he waited for the man’s response - a man who, Roman noted, was far more attractive than he had any right to be. His eyes were the most beautiful shade of green, though one had flecks of gold ringing the pupil. Roman hadn’t even known that was possible, he’d only ever seen characters in his favorite books described that way. Aside from that, his hair was an array of sloppily dyed and removed colors, with gray fading into yellow and then into purple and pink and blue and bleached-out blonde… it was like the guy had just grabbed whatever random boxes of dye he could reach and went nuts. It was cute, though. A large wine-stain birthmark made his fairytale-esque golden eye stand out even more and wow was Roman gay. That didn’t change the fact that he was tempted to go full Kuzco on this guy. He felt a pinch on his neck and winced, bringing his hand up to rub at it while he continued, “It’s not very polite to interrupt a man in the middle of a serenade!”

The man’s face remained blank and he blinked a few times, his hands tap-tap-tapping on the rubber wheels of his wheelchair.

“…I’m going to be real here, a moment ago I was annoyed but now I’m a little creeped-”

“You’re my soulmate,” The man whispered, so quietly that Roman wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. He hoped he hadn’t heard him right.

“…What? You-”

“You’re my soulmate!” The man shouted, eyes lighting up. “My brother once told me that seeing color was beautiful, but I never quite understood what he meant until now!” A moment of silence passed between them, and just as Roman was about to open his mouth to say that no, there must be a mistake, he didn’t even have a tattoo- “I’d apologize for the tattoo, but I find it rather funny that you have  “holy goddamn motherfucking shit” permanently etched into your skin.”

Roman let out a fearful squeak as he fumbled to pull out his phone and check his face in the camera. His cheeks and forehead were clear, nothing on his arms…he was almost ready to berate the man for lying when he noticed the dark words written in clunky, nearly illegible cursive on his neck. ‘Holy goddamn motherfucking shit.’

“…What?” This made no sense at all. He didn’t even know what to say. This man seemed nice and all, but Roman had promised himself he would never let this happen to him. There must have been some kind of mistake. “I don’t… I don’t have a soulmate!” He blurted stupidly, rubbing at the writing on his neck.

Dee squinted, confused. “…Right, of course you don’t. It isn’t like the first words I said to you just appeared on your neck and I can see color now, something that only happens once you find your soulmate or anything. But you know. Of course I’m not your soulmate.”

“No, I-” Roman stammered, falling back a step. “I-I- I don’t have a soulmate. And even if I do, I don’t want one!”

“Don’t…” Dee blinked, trying to process what this man, his soulmate, had just said to him. After all this time… he’d waited 10 years, 4 months, 13 days 12 hours, and 24 minutes for this? A guy who wanted nothing to do with him? “Are you serious?”

“Yes! Look, you seem nice and all, but I-”

“No no no, I did not wait ten years for this-“

“Oh, so you expected your soulmate to just fall all over you the moment you met him? To sweep you away and live out a happily ever after with you? Is that it? Well, I’m sorry to destroy your fantasy, but I don’t do love, okay?”

A sigh broke past Devon’s lips as he crossed his arms, leaning forward to catch Roman’s eyes. “Geez, who the hell hurt you?” He asked flippantly, somehow missing the way the man’s face paled. “The universe matched us at birth and you’re not even going to speak to me?”

“The universe is bullshit!” Roman yelled, catching Devon off guard. “It’s all a fucked-up system that I don’t want to be a part of! I’m not letting some metaphysical Tinder ruin my life again!”

Among all of that dramatic ranting, one word stood out to Dee. “���Again?”

Roman blinked, mentally running back through everything he’d said. “I…” Dee noticed how hard his voice was shaking. “Just leave me alone. Please.” He whispered desperately, turning on his heel and sprinting away.

Dee watched the man run, the heeled boots he was wearing clacking against the smooth concrete like a heartbeat.

Ba-dum, ba-dum.

That man was his soulmate.

Ba-dum, ba-dum.

He wanted nothing to do with Dee… and there was a reason why. Something that man hadn’t been able to say. He knew it.

Ba-dum, ba-dum.

But most importantly…

Ba-dum, ba-dum, creaaaak- the door of the nearest building opened and shut, the man’s face appearing once through the glass and then disappearing down a long hallway.

Someone had hurt him, and under no circumstances would Devon stand for that. With new resolve, he started painstakingly wheeling himself across the grass to follow his strange, sad new soulmate.

— — — — —

The moment Roman heard the door he’d run through shut behind him, he pushed into the closest bathroom and collapsed under the sinks. This was not possible by any stretch of the imagination. He’d come here to this goddamn con to have a good time and meet his fans and now he was, about to cry in a bathroom because some excited, well-meaning guy had come up to him and told him something that anyone else would be happy about. He let out a choked sob and covered his eyes, employing his fingers as little dams to keep the waterworks in. Going back out there with swollen eyes and a red nose was not an option.

What were his options, then? Avoid this guy for the rest of his life, not only subjecting himself to the constant fear of running into him again but the guilt of knowing that he’d deprived this guy of his (supposedly) one true partner, or accept it and live in constant fear of it all falling apart? He couldn’t do this right now. Hell, he couldn’t do this ever, what was meant to be the happiest moment of his life was making him feel things he hadn’t felt in years, things he’d never wanted to feel again.

“Anyone in here?” A voice called out, muffled through the flimsy wooden door of the bathroom.

“No!” Roman called back, mentally kicking himself for that stupid move.

“Good to know,” The voice replied, growing clearer as whoever it was pushed the door open. Roman heard the couple grunts and the squeak of rubber on tile, looking up for not even half a second to see his soulmate struggling to get the heavy wooden door open while his wheelchair kept rolling backward from the force of him pushing. “Stupid broken brakes…”

“What are you doing here?” Roman snarled, hastily wiping his eyes and retreating back further into the corner.

His soulmate shrugged as nonchalantly as a person could while fighting with a door, saying, “You seemed upset.”

“Yeah, because of you.” What was this guy’s problem? “I told you to leave me alone!”

“Well, I once told my brother that I wouldn’t come home from school until Aladdin came to pick me up on his magic carpet. We can’t all have what we want- a-ha!” He finally won the battle with the door, letting it shut behind him with a triumphant click! “Now, I believe we skipped some pleasantries. I’m Devon Lee. Or Dee, if you’d prefer. I didn’t catch your name.”

The bathroom went silent save for the shaky breathing of someone trying to stop crying and water echoing through the pipes overhead. Exchanging names would mean this man knew him. This man, with his mismatched eyes and crazy hair and obnoxiously bright yellow-and-green wheelchair (and people thought Roman was extra), would have a name to associate with his face. That would not do.

“I didn’t throw it.”

The excitement that flickered to life in Devon’s eyes was unexpected, and Roman nearly flinched when the man burst out, “Oh my god, that was not a Heathers reference!”

He got that? Most people only understood when he quoted the songs, not the script. “You know Heathers?”

“No, sweetheart, it’s not like I’m a die-hard musical theatre fan or anything.” Dee laughed, a sound that made Roman think of bubbles. “Heathers, Waitress, Hamilton, Rent, Sound of Music, you name it, I know-”

“You like the Sound of Music?” Roman gasped. He pushed himself up off the floor, forgetting for a moment why he was so upset. “Most people I bring it up to tell me it’s a girl’s show.”

Dee grinned. His smile was pearly white, though Roman didn’t miss the shiny gold teeth in place of his incisors. A brilliant smile, shiny gold fangs, a love of musical theatre almost as obsessive as Roman’s… what didn’t this guys have?

“Girl’s show?” He scoffed. “Please, gender is meaningless and Julie Andrews’s voice is a spiritual experience anyone would be blessed to hear.”

“Yes! Finally!” His hands twitched as he resisted the urge to happy-flap them. “I must know, though, who’s your favorite character?”

Dee pursed his lips, tugging thoughtfully at his hair for a moment before answering, “Leisl. I admire her capacity for deception.”

“Oh? You’re a fan of deception?” Roman’s eyebrows rose, and the fear that he’d forgotten about in the wave of that’s-my-hyperfixaiton joy bobbed back up to the surface like a shell being tossed around in the sea. “…why not Rolf, then? He was a classic liar, and a talented one too.”

“Rolf?” Dee folded over cackling, clutching his stomach as he fought to speak through incredulous giggles. “He was a Nazi! Not to mention that he betrayed Leisl, the girl who loved him, by trying to get her family murdered. You must think so little of me to even imagine that I could admire him!”

Though Dee kept laughing, Roman had long since fallen silent. This wasn’t okay. He wasn’t supposed to connect with Devon - or… well, technically he was supposed to, but he didn’t want to, even if the guy liked the Sound of Music and understood his Heather’s reference and had come after him when he was upset, even if Dee was attractive and seemed funny and kind… even if he appeared to be everything Roman had ever wished for, there was too much of a risk. Maybe Devon would expect too much or they’d have a long relationship until one day Roman’s heart was broken.

‘And I call myself brave,’ Roman’s mind scolded him. ‘Roman ‘Never Runs From a Challenge’ Adelio, a coward since the year of his birth, 1999.’

“Look, Devon…” he began. Dee stopped laughing immediately, turning to face Roman with a kind of intensity he’d never seen before. “I… you seem nice, but… I don’t… the rest of my life can’t be dictated by this,” his nails trailed over the tattoo. “I’ve seen the aftermath. It… it’s not good.”

Now, it was Devon’s turn to go quiet. Or it would have been, if he weren’t such a loudmouth. “Alright, I can’t say I don’t understand where you’re coming from,” Carefully, he rolled forward. “And I… while I want a soulmate, it wouldn’t be right for me to force you to have me. All I ask is this.”

Roman cowered at those words. Something bad always came after ‘all I ask.’ What would he want? His number? Sex? Something worse?

“Would you like to go on a date with me sometime?”

“…What?”

Devon smiled, repeating clearly, “Would you like to go on a date sometime?”

“I-” Had Devon not heard anything he’d just said? “I said I don’t… s-soulmates aren’t something I-”

“No, no, no, you misunderstand. Ignore the tattoo, ignore the colors thing, that never happened. I like you, no-name kid. You seem kind and genuine, not to mention that you’re a thespian and seem to be haunted by the ghosts of your past-” Roman laughed despite himself. “-all things I find incredibly attractive. Soulmate or not, I’d like to get to know you better. So, that said,” Devon folded his hands in his lap, sitting back and smiling that million-watt, gold-fanged smile. “Would you like to go on a date with me?”

And in that moment, that 15 seconds where he was faced with a choice he’d always dreaded having to make, Roman felt his racing heartbeat begin to slow. The panic-induced adrenaline drained from his system and he let out a heaving sigh. He still had two choices, but those choices had changed now. It was no longer a matter of fate. No longer a choice between being guilty or trapped. It was now option A) Go on a date with this cool guy who he kind of liked, or B) Turn down a date with this cool guy who he kind of liked. Well, Roman may have been a stubborn ass sometimes, but he was also incredibly gay.

“…You know what? Okay. One date.” Roman huffed, bouncing a red converse-clad foot on the tile floor.

“Excellent! I only need one more thing from you.”

“Oh?” Roman smirked, “Well, ask away.”

“Would you mind tossing your name now?”

Roman opened his mouth to acquiesce before promptly snapping it shut with a sly little smile and pulling a paper towel from the dispenser over the sink. “Sure thing.” A moment later, a slightly-crumpled tissue landed on Dee’s lap as Roman walked past. “I’ll see you around, Devon.”

Dee hastily smoothed out the paper, finding two lines of text written in broad, loopy block letters.

Roman Adelio

+1 618-0339-8875

“I can’t wait, Roman.”

— — — — —

“And that, my son, is how I met your father!” Roman finished with a flourish, wrapping his arms around Dee’s neck from his place on his husband’s lap. Logan, the ever-curious 7-year-old that he was, clung to Devon’s leg and asked,

“But why did you accept Pa’s date if you didn’t want a soulmate?”

Roman smiled, pulling his son up onto his and Dee’s lap (and chuckling as Devon shoved the pair of them off). “Well, your father was against nazis, so how could I say no?”

“…Daddy, that can’t be where the bar is.”

“It isn’t!” Devon was quick to cut in, playfully smacking Roman on the arm. “What are you teaching our small, impressionable child, Roman?”

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Roman yielded. His teasing expression softening as he gazed at Devon. “In truth, I still think soulmates are complete bullsh-” One glare from Devon washed his mouth out. “-I mean, completely fake. Logan, my little piece of stardust, listen to me.” He gathered the small boy in his arms, feeling his tiny heartbeat against his chest. “It is you and you alone who decides who you’re meant to be with. If that person is your soulmate, then that’s beautiful. If not, it’s just as beautiful to love someone else. Do you understand?”

Logan looked up into his father’s eyes, letting a small smile spread across his face before nodding. “Yeah. I understand.”

“Good,” With a sigh, Roman stood, planting a tender kiss on Devon’s lips as he did so. “You know, my dear,” He whispered, leaning his forehead against Devon’s. “I may not believe in soulmates, but perhaps, to some extent, I believe in fate.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, my darling, that soulmates or not…I know I was meant to be with you.”

“Daddy! Pa! Gross!” Logan whined, wedging himself in between his fathers in a truly archaic act of rebellion.

Devon laughed, pushing himself off of his chair to make a wiggly little cuddle pile on the floor. The three of them fit together like long-lost puzzle pieces, each from different puzzles but all cut from the same mold. They may not have been what they were “supposed” to be, but they were still able to make something truly beautiful.

And that was enough.

[sergeantbarnesimagines]

By Any Other Name: Part One

Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader

Summary: [Y/n] Stark is an acclaimed journalist (and infamous anonymous hacker) who has dedicated her career to uprooting corruption. She has worked hard to separate herself from her brother’s reputation and his world. Now, however, she finds herself right back in the fray as Sergeant Barnes resurfaces. Bucky is drawn to [y/n], and she finds herself betraying not only her convictions, but her family as she joins him on his path to redemption.

Warnings: like one curse word

a/n: So excited to finally be posting this! I hope you all enjoy. It might help to watch the highway scene from Civil War because this is strictly based on that. 

One year. That was all she wanted. One year without throwing herself into the fire.

After eight years of endless life threatening situations, [y/n] Stark had come to the conclusion that she had developed some bad habits. So, in an effort to survive until her twenty eighth birthday, she made three news years resolutions: no speeding, no boys, and no Avengers.

When the Prime Minister invited her to Bucharest, [y/n] was ecstatic. Her article detailing the corruption brought into the Romanian parliament by Rau Tradat had established her as an international journalist and saved the country from decades of HYDRA tyranny. For her efforts, [y/n] was to be recognized at the country’s capital and officially declared an Honorary Citizen of Romania. Not only was she finally separating herself from her brothers reputation, but also his world. At least, that was what she thought when she accepted the invitation.

Now, as she caught sight of a man with a metal arm sprinting past the vehicles traveling in the opposite direction, [y/n] realized there was no escape. She did a double take, not quite sure if she had seen correctly. However, as she turned back around, she saw the male version of Catwoman clinging to an SUV that had been hijacked by Steve McFucking Rogers, and she realized she had indeed seen correctly. A groan escaped her lips as she looked further down the underpass to see the Romanian police also in pursuit.

Don’t do it, [y/n]. Don’t give in. She grit her teeth, but the itch was there, and she was already turning her motorcycle around.

“Oh to hell with it! OSCAR tune into the local police scanner.”

“Mistress Stark, I feel obligated to remind you that I’ve been instructed not to aid in any events my calculations deem as life threatening-”

“Override previous instructions.” [y/n] commanded the AI before veering onto the shoulder of the highway. A cocktail of car horns, screeching tires, and sirens blare as she sped into oncoming traffic, guaranteeing a wonderful headache soon to follow.

The screen of her visor transitioned to infrared, singling out the three forms ahead on the other side of the underpass.

“Suspects heading east. We have lost visual, sending in ground troops.” OSCAR translated directly. “It would appear they are in pursuit of Sergeant James Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, suspected for the terror attack on Vienna. Captain Steven Rogers, Samuel Wilson and an unknown assailant have interfered with an international manhunt. This is currently being considered an act of aggression and authorities have been instructed to take them into custody along with the suspect.”

“How typical,” [y/n] muttered. “Leave it to Steve to pick a battle he has no chance of winning.”

As she sped toward her friends, OSCAR worked to discern the Sergeant from Steve and the unknown aggressor. He singled out the farthest heat source and a gold line illuminated on her visor, highlighting the most efficient path to reach him. “Might I inquire what it is you plan to do once you’ve reached the target?” His incredulous voice pulled a dry laugh from [y/n].

“Subdue him of course.” “And with what training? You are not an officer of the law and you are certainly not an Avenger. Do you recall what happened during your last encounter with the Winter Soldier?”

[y/n]’s leg throbbed at the mere memory of the incident. It had been two years since she sustained her injury. Although Dr. Strange had done an excellent job removing the shrapnel from her knee and repairing the ligand, permanent damage had been done to the tissue, leaving her with an uneven gait. She shuddered, remembering how her palms burned as she attempted to drag herself out of the street, a trail of blood staining the asphalt in her wake.

“Charge the repulsor.” [y/n] ordered, shaking the memory, sparing a glance at the rod hooked to the side of the bike. A spark ignited at the hilt of the bar, and she smiled. There were perks to being a “cripple.” Tony had finally deemed her helpless enough to supply her with a means of self defense, building a repulsor into her cane.

A blaring horn brought her attention back to the road. She jerked the bike to the left, narrowly avoiding a semi. Suddenly, Barnes jumped the barrier and Steve followed. [y/n] swerved to avoid the barrels and then pulled up beside Rogers. His gaze flicked to her, startled by the sight of a new competitor. She grinned, offering a mock salute before speeding ahead of him.

Barnes was just ahead. When she was nearly ten feet behind him, another motorcycle came into view, and dread chilled her to the bone. Without warning, Barnes grabbed the handlebar and spun the bike around in mid air, throwing the rider off. He got on the bike and rode away, sending cars careening out of the way.

“Holy shit.”

[y/n] had never seen anything like that before. It should have been enough to convince her to give up the chase, but now her adrenaline was pumping and there was no stopping her. A warning appeared on her visor, alerting her that she was breaking the speed limit. She sped up.

Her hand dropped to grab her cane as she pulled up behind Barnes. The hilt buzzed with electricity, and [y/n] momentarily wondered if he would remember the last time she tazed him. Just as she pulled her arm back to swing, a shadow passed overhead.

The man in the catsuit leapt over [y/n], lunging for Barnes. The Sergeant caught him by the neck and flung him over his head. The assailant clawed at the arm holding him mid air, preventing Barnes from detaching himself. The action caused the bike to lean over, and Barnes barely managed to push himself up, his vibranium hand leaving a trail of sparks.

[y/n] had been able to assess that the masked man was not an ally of the Captains, and with his claws out, it became clear he had no intention of detaining the Sergeant. Panicked, she swung.

The electric pulse caused the man's muscles to contract, allowing Barnes to throw him away. He rode on, not turning back to notice [y/n].

Determined, [y/n] pushed her bike to the top setting, shooting ahead of Barnes.

She heard something click behind her and then a large blast shook the ground. When she was far enough ahead, she turned abruptly and skid to a halt. This caught Barnes off guard. Then, the cat man flew through the curtain of falling rubble and tackled Barnes off the bike, causing them both to roll across the asphalt. Steve dove through the collapsing bridge and shoved the assailant away.

~

“Hey, handsome.”

Bucky's head shot up only to be faced with the end of an electrical rod. The sparks that ignited mere inches from his face gave him a start, but reminded him of an incident two years ago. Sure enough, behind the cane was an all too familiar face. His eyes widened at her tousled hair and exhilarated grin.

[y/n] Stark was a rising star in the media, having been dubbed by TIME Magazine the most accomplished journalist of the 21st century. After breaking the story of the corruption within SHIELD, her career had taken off, and she was finally being recognized for her writing and humanitarian work. Any serious news report kept track of her work, praising her name with each new article released. Tabloids, however, seemed to only care for her last name and the reputation attached to it. She was an accomplished woman, but she was still a Stark. To Bucky, that made her the enemy.

It wasn’t until that moment did Bucky realize [y/n] was also the woman who had tazed him in DC. He analyzed the curve of her lips and the freckles that dusted the bridge of her nose. Up close he could see the little details TV stations deemed as imperfections. His eyes glanced at the cane in her hand and then to her leg, which seemed to drag behind her. The TV had covered that up too.

When her wild stare met his, her look softened. First he mistook it for pity, but then recognized the familiar reflection of guilt. What could she have to be guilty for?

Steve came to a halt beside Bucky, prepared to fight off another attacker, but he froze. “Stark?”

“Steve,” she nodded. Her grip on the cane didn’t waiver, and neither did her resolve.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Breaking all of my New Year's resolutions.”

Steve gave her a confused look, but a burst through the air caught everyone’s attention. War Machine leapt down from above, raising his hands at Bucky and Steve. “Stand down, now.”

His command was followed by teams of police vehicles enclosing the five of them. Yet, the whirling lights and sirens were just a haze as they all realized what had transpired.

“Congratulations Cap. You’re a criminal.”

Bucky spared one last look at the girl before him. The elegant and graceful journalist he had witnessed on the news was different from the wild and dangerous woman standing before him, and it piqued his interest.

He held her gaze as he put his hands behind his head. The guilt quickly turned to horror as she watched the police kick the back of his knees, forcing him into the ground. His wrist were bound by cuffs and his neck strangled by an electroshock collar.

In that brief moment, something passed between them. This wasn’t their first meeting and it wouldn’t be their last. Somehow they both knew their next encounter would be sooner rather than later.

[galadrieljones]

Unsigned: Chapter 5

Unsigned

Set two years after the Exalted Council. When Solas learns that he fathered a child with Nume Lavellan during the Inquisition era, he returns, hoping that she will allow him to meet his daughter. But with years of bitterness and separation between them, and a quiet relationship forged with the good man Thom Rainier, Nume is torn.

Read at AO3 | Masterpost

Chapter 5: Wolf

He saw her in his dreams. Like a whip, cracked to the chest. The night after the masquerade at the Winter Palace, she had been so out of sorts and finished with the human world that the two of them snuck away, in secret, and they left the palace grounds with only two guards, and they went into the upper alienage of Halamshiral. They found a bar there, called the Sailboat, and they got a little drunk, and they listened to the bard sing songs of innocence, and then they rented the room upstairs for six hours where they fucked and ate apples dipped in cream and then slept and slept until just before the orange light of morning. The apples had been served to them special by the bartender who recognized them off a flyer that was going around the alienage—The Inquisitor is on Your Side, it had said. With a little drawing of him and Nume, holding hands and standing on top of a hill somewhere. Propaganda, to be certain. It had made the both of them uncomfortable, but at the very least it was the truth. Or it had been at the time.

Somewhere along the line, after heavenly moments like this, Solas had lost his footing and all traction and he came unstuck from the earth. Now he was falling upwards, headed into a sea of boiling stars. He was weary. She was like a drug, and the effects were stronger the closer he got, and so when he was inside her, he became a changed man.

But this is not enough, he knew now. A man cannot live inside of a woman. She’d had only one lover before him. She told him this, one night, unprompted, sometime after the masquerade and the bar in Halamshiral, while they sat in the glowing garden, eating oranges at Skyhold, on downtime. Cullen was nearby, playing chess with the Chargers—beating them one after the other after the other. It was a knock-down drag-out show, and wildly entertaining as it all culminated in a final round of do or die in which he faced the Iron Bull.

Try not to get your panties in a knot when I beat your ass into the mortar, Commander, said Bull, cracking his knuckles over the chess board. Your screaming might scare the Chantry sisters.

Cullen merely smirked at this, high on his own achievement. He beat Iron Bull, and the two men shook hands and went off to the Rest to get drunk and look at the women. Cullen blushed while Bull tried to wrangle him out of his shell. To this day, the only person who had proven he could beat Cullen at chess was Solas. Solas. Always man of the hour in the Inquisition.

When I was twenty-one, I was supposed to be married, said Nume that day, as if it was nothing at all, peeling the skin off the orange with her fingers. She dropped it to the earth where it mixed with the grass. They were sitting across from each other at a little table. Solas was so tall, their knees touched.

So why didn't you? he said, smirking. Dalish marriage rituals were particular, and no secret. They married young. First loves tended to last forever. What had he done differently? But then.

He died, she said, very even, peeling that orange, piece by piece. On a hunt. He was a great hunter.

Somewhere in the garden, a child screamed. It startled Solas. But it was only that she'd found a spider in her dress. He watched as she shook it out in a panic while the Chantry sisters merely laughed.

 Solas? Are you okay?

He died? said Solas. He'd lost his footing in their conversation. He thought he'd misheard. Is that what you said?

In the Vinmarks, she said, nodding slowly. She bit into the orange. It was a bad show. Haven’t I told you that?

No, he said. What happened to him?

She looked up at this, like there was a piece missing, or like she didn't expect him to ask, and she was surprised. But she did not cry or crumble. Bandits, she said. And she just shrugged. She never loved another man, she said after that, and for a long time, she swore she never would. Not until Solas, three years later. He drew numb. He held her hand, and he just held it. He did not know what to say. He just felt—he felt so deeply it harmed his insides. Meanwhile, she just smiled her steadfast smile, and she told him it was all right, not to worry about her, and she removed her hands from his, and he just continued to watch her peel the rest of her orange with care, and then she broke what was left of it apart into little pieces and spread them out evenly on the table to admire their natural simplicity.

She was a careful woman, Nume. She did everything slowly, with care. And now he saw a large part of why. She never charged the line in battle, and she did not like it when he charged the line. She did not like it when anyone charged the line—Bull or Sera or Vivienne or Varric, Dorian or Cassandra or Cole or Thom. Nobody should be charging the line, as far as she was concerned. Of course, somebody had to charge the line. This was a war. So she let them do it. But she would hold his hand so hard in the tent after a fight, staring into the ceiling where he’d conjure magical butterflies that she loved. It was like she was staring into the great mouth of god, wondering when it would eat her whole.

The revelation of Nume’s lost love changed things for Solas. He related to her on such miracle proportions after that. Before, he’d thought her caution was merely a product of her inexperience. That she was a twenty-five-year-old Dalish huntress, not hardened to battle and so unsure of what it meant to risk strategically. This was, of course, true. But it was not all there was, and learning the rest tore him open. It just tore him open. His heart spilled out at her feet, in pieces. Before, she had been a mystery. A fantasy, a dream. A woman who liked the bards in Halamshiral, who ate apples, unclothed, freckled and brown-eyed with her bow and her arrows, her dresses that she liked to wear in the daytime. Her shins, her hands and her temples, these things that he liked to kiss and touch. But then she was something else. They became the same, him and her, and the reality of her sad backstory made her irrevocably real in ways that he was not prepared to understand.

They went too hard, too soon after that, building their hopes and dreams on a foundation of nothing but negative space and interference—or that’s how Solas saw it now. As if the world might yank the rug out from beneath him at any moment, he held onto her. At first, it brought them closer together, but it could only last for so long. Solas’s elegant brain rewired itself until he realized the truth behind his obsession: that one day, she would die, and she would take him with her. And if it only had to be him, that he could deal with, that he could visualize, but losing her—

Perhaps if one of them had been clean from tragedy then that one could have saved the other. He thought about this sometimes, selfishly. He had made plans to unravel the Veil well before the Inquisition, and for a time, he had earnestly changed his mind based on all that he had found there—Nume, his friends, a new purpose. But eventually, it was all bullshit. He could fill the new world with heart and memories and sentiment, and he could fill his world with her, but their mortality made this life impossible to unlock. He knew she did not feel the same. Her perspective was her own, and he knew that she therefore held hope for them, and she had fallen for him earnestly as he had fallen for her, but unlike Solas, all she saw was their future, clear as a window. Meanwhile, as a coward, he saw only their end.

He wondered now, where he stayed in his camp well removed from the outskirts so as to avoid another run-in with Rainier, if in another world, another universe, another woman waited. Perhaps another version of Nume, or just a different woman altogether. One absolved of misery and loss by chance and good luck and a good family, a woman made of only possibilities, as this might have deluded him long enough to make him feel and understand deeply the beauty and company of mortality. No dead loved ones to haunt her, as they haunted him. Perhaps there, in that world, he was happy. He found comfort in this fantasy, for a little while.

But in the distance, that night, at his camp, he could hear the sounds of the living, the fireworks as the town of Redcliffe celebrated one of its many archaic and foreign traditions. He’d seen a parade of gypsy women go by while he was washing his clothes in the river earlier that day, and they were covered in gold jewelry that jangled like bells, headed into the village, and one of them had given him a long look with wide, hazel eyes as she passed, and it made him want, but then she was gone.

How long had it been? Since he'd been touched by a woman, by anyone who he was not fighting or blessing or hurting. Somebody he cared about. That night, he found his release, alone, in the dark of the tent, as he did on occasion. He thought of Nume, the way she felt, as he came. He always thought of Nume and the way she felt as he came. The last time he’d touched her, he’d put a child inside her—an ultimate act of mortality by a seemingly immortal man. The contradiction struck him now as so profound while he lie there, limp, in the wake of some fake ecstasy, that he wept, and he felt guilty and ashamed for all that he had miscalculated. For how he had underestimated her, and himself, and the two of them together, and what they could have overcome if he had just told her the truth. But he was not immortal anymore. He gave that up to travel here, to the high valleys of the Hinterlands, hoping—toiling like a mad man—that she would let him see the thing that he had wrought here. The person. The girl he had made. His daughter. Biological and mechanical proof that he existed, that the two of them, together, existed, that he and all of his emotional turmoil, no matter how broken and filled with regret, were real. Real had used to scare him, but now it was what he had chosen and all that he had left.

He lit a joint. He smoked it. He lit another. He lie on his back outside now, his body pressing directly into the cold dirt, awake in a cloud of white smoke, all night, smoking, and he watched the boiling stars, rushing toward him at a million miles per hour as he hung onto one thing, the only thing that kept him from exploding inside their heat.

Nume is in the house alone on Thursdays, Rainier had said. Or something like that. Thursdays. She uses it for chores, and to gather her energies. Chores. Energies. If one wanted to speak with her, alone, that would be the time to do it.

Thursday. Chores. Energies.

Solas finally fell asleep just as the moon had dipped behind the green and faraway horizon of the Hinterlands. This place was a pastoral dream. It reminded him so deeply of his childhood, of all that he had lost. Even still, he had come to appreciate the modesty of nature once again, its quietude and its strength as he camped in the guts of southern Thedas and waited for Thursday.

He thought constantly about the day that courier spy had come to him. Just a runner he'd hired on an as-needed basis, not even a true believer to the cause or whatever the fuck he called it now. That day, she had come to him of her own volition, argued her way through the fortress he'd built of his sweat and magic in the Hundred Pillars mountains on the border between the Free Marches and Tevinter, and she knocked on his door, and she came inside of his quarters, and she could not have been more than eighteen. Her hair was dark, and her eyes were a crystal blue, and she was out of breath from arguing with guards and slipping past the order-bound soldiers, and she told him what she'd seen—what she'd seen in Redcliffe.

Inquisitor Lavellan has a child, she said. She bent over, leaning on her palms against the desk. She was out of breath, a small elf but robust and he wondered now if he would ever see her again. If she had survived the uprising of his exit. He hoped she had been one of the deserters, but there was no way to be sure, not anymore. She has a child, a daughter, and she is about four years old. Looking up, the elf girl shook her head, incredulous. According to the Inquisition scouts in the city, she's yours.

He sent for confirmation, twenty more scouts, via eluvian, and it all came back the same in the stretch of a week. Nume Lavellan, Thom Rainier, and an elven girl in the Hinterlands. Four years old. Yours.

Once he knew it was true, he lost his guts in the snowy wilderness somewhere outside the fortress. He wandered four days and four nights, no food or water as he cleansed himself by starlight and made his choice. When he returned, ending imminent, news had spread about the child, and the troops were in disarray. They'd been plotting a massive slave rebellion in Tevinter, one set to occur within the year as a means of preparation for what came in the wake of the Veil, but now half of them had fled for their lives, sensing his clamor and unrest swelling in the atmosphere. The stars seem to bleed, they said. The grief of Fen'harel, they said. It could mean only the end. So they left.

But there were many people who did not take kindly to Solas's choice. An entire coup, in fact, that rose in his four-days absence. His was no small cause, and the reformation of a slave nation was no small undertaking. If they were to succeed, they needed his power, and they needed his armies. He had to bring down the mountain to escape the fortress. It was not the first time he'd had to bring down a mountain to put an end to his own despair, but he didn't care. He just didn't fucking care. He would find another way to do good in this world. It would not be as fast, but it was what he had to do.

And now, in Solas's dreams that night in the Hinterlands, on the eve of Thursday, he saw Nume. It was short for Blar'nume, and it meant violet in the language of the People. Sad flower. And she undressed before him, and she was standing, naked in the river, surrounded by little purple fish, and she held out her hand, and she told him she was okay. She was just okay, and this was the singularity that could redeem him of all he had lost inside himself. If not in her heart, which he knew was a true probability, than at least in his own so that he could go on living, or die, either way, he would be free in this world he had created by mistake—but it was a good mistake, it had to be, because that was his choice, and all that mattered was this, and that she had found a way to save herself in his absence. That he had chosen, and that she was okay.

The rest would reveal itself tomorrow, on Thursday.