#I repurposed an old WIP that went nowhere for this

[blueisquitetired]

ABANDONED WIP WEDNESDAY

Context for this one: Another Dad!Ingo fic that didn't pan out. Written quite early on, probably right after Touch of Love. Was supposed to focus on an adult researcher Akari from earth who got turned into a child and was given the ability to understand everyone but not speak the language. Ingo meets her and teaches her sign. (You can see that I repurposed this idea for Feral in Hisui)

This is just the prologue so Ingo isn't here yet unfortunately. Bummer.

No one understands Akari (Maybe Ingo can fix that)

Word Count: 832

Rating: G

No archive warnings apply

Volo had made a ****ing mess. Honestly, arceus looks away for one second and next thing it knows someone has cracked a hole in the sky. Go figure. It hoped that the problem would fix itself, that one of its children or the people of the land would shape up and fix the freaking sky hole that loomed over its temple. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. The hole quickly went from an inconvenience to a problem when things started falling through it. Small things Arceus could excuse, (some bathroom slippers, a microwave, half of a billboard that thankfully fell into the ocean) but when a *person* fell through, it knew that this was a problem that needed divine intervention.

And so it was time to find a chosen.

If Arceus was going to do this, it might as well go all the way. Honestly, Volo’s shenanigans had pushed Hisui’s Pokémon/human cohabitation back a few decades. Arceus claimed to be unbiased but hisui was definitely its favorite region, and having it lag behind its peers in development because of one (1) stupid fanatic, well, it really grinded arceus’s gears. So okay, Arceus needed someone to fix the hole in the sky AND make the locals more friendly with the local wildlife. Now how to do that? Consulting with the other legendaries of its realm (as well as a couple of other arceus’s of other realms), the best solution it came up with was a Pokédex. Hard to fear what you understand you know? Thankfully, a Pokédex was already underway, an effort spearheaded by those outsiders that recently invaded. Unfortunately, the outsiders are stupid and even more afraid of Pokémon then Aceus’s own people (and that was saying something) They were getting nowhere fast and certainly didn’t have the skills required to fix the sky. The man from the future probably could, but while Arceus wasn’t paying attention he had already settled with the pearl clan and become a warden to one of it’s blessed nobles. Besides, he was weird and intimidating, and no one would find comfort in his constant scowl and train metaphors. So! Arceus would need to bring in a chosen from outside its realm. Unfortunately, that was easier said then done, and Arceus was finding that a perfect human might be impossible to locate. So Arceus would make its own. First, the body. Children always made for good chosens, they were easily underestimated and had vigor and energy that an adult simply couldn’t keep up with. It needed to not stick out too much, an appearance that could match any child of the era. Of course, it needed to be quite sturdy as well, a hole in the sky is not an easy fix after all! Next was the soul, probably the hardest part. Arceus could try to make one from scratch, but that was a pain and it would have no idea if it made a good one until the soul had run around for a couple of human years. Time was of no consequence to Arceus, but it was very important to its people. So Arceus would have to steal a soul. It wanted a curious one, one with the nack for research and a loving heart. They couldn’t be afraid of Pokémon, but they also couldn’t be used to them. Pokémon needed to be an enigma that the soul would be desperate to solve. So Arceus searched through other worlds, snatching the soul of a dying girl on her last breath. A biology student, one who loved animals and had a tendency to solve problems that no one asked her too. She was a liiiiiitle too old, (nearly 24) but didn’t all humans want to be younger? She probably wouldn’t mind losing a couple years.

Gently placing the soul in the newly formed body, Arceus found that there were still a few snags in its plans. First off, it seemed that the new soul was not happy to lose a few years and was also demanding to be sent back to the lousy world Arceus had stolen her from. That wouldn’t do. Taking a page from the accidental skyfaller, Arceus wiped a good chunk of her memories. It left the important stuff; science, math, basic life skills, but any personal memories were deemed unimportant and were deleted from existence. Speaking of basic life skills, her native language would be useless now. Feeling quite generous, Arceus granted her the ability to understand all languages as if they were her own. It briefly considered granting her the ability to speak said languages but ended up dismissing that thought. It wanted to speed up progress, not skip years of scientific discovery because the biology student wanted electric lights. And so with a couple more skills (good aim, excellent reflexes, etc) and a communication device/map that arceus could send instructions through, Arceus gently deposited its chosen onto the land of hisui.

And that was how Akari’s tumultuous life of bottled words began.

[veterveter]

Soulmates au pls!

send me a (horribly cliched) au + a pairing for a drabble/ficlet/fic!

Martín’s heavy sigh dramatically commands Andrés’s attention, and Andrés turns to look at him.

He finds Martín perched on the edge of the sofa, a half-drunk beer by his knee, a solemn look on his face, his tie loose around his neck. Debauchery. He looks like he belongs in the era where gay men died for their illicit love.

Andrés has painted him many times, but he wants to do it again, now. The shadows his body paints provide magnificent contrasts, full of emotion. His posture is effortlessly beautiful, and the lines he’s made out of are the perfect mixture of sharp and soft. Andrés could steal any painting from any gallery and replace it with Martín, and no one would mind. They would simply look at him and marvel.

“This is going to be stupid,” Martín starts in a quiet drawl, the alcohol having done its work in loosening his tongue.

Andrés nods, to show he’s listening, but says nothing. Allows Martín space to say his piece.

Martín waits a few beats before continuing. “I just… Wonder, sometimes. I have a soulmate, right?” He demonstratively gestures at his left wrist. He never covers it, doesn’t seem to believe it’s anything clandestine. Often, he rubs a thumb across the letters. Sorry, they read, written in Andrés’s sloppy and slanted handwriting, not the careful cursive he has come to favour since meeting Martín. The first thing he said to Martín, cautiously chosen to conceal its weight. “That’s why I have this. Right?”

“Of course you have a soulmate,” Andrés reassures him languidly, gesturing with his own beer.

Everyone has one, he doesn’t say.

And I just so happen to be yours, he certainly doesn’t confess.

Martín rarely brings this up, seldom complains. He clearly thinks about it often, but he doesn’t allow that uncertainty and sorrow to define him, and Andrés appreciates that. He appreciates his soulmate.

“I mean, many people have said this to me, first thing. Mostly people I’ve never seen again, but a couple of friends as well. Matías, from my engineering course.” He grimaces. “Oh, and Mirko.”

Something about Martín’s previous roommate irritates Andrés, but he doesn’t allow himself to comment.

“And, well, you.”

The way Martín doesn’t even allow himself to entertain that thought, it makes Andrés want to make mistakes. It makes him want to not only paint Martín, but also dip his fingers in ink and trace Martín’s every muscle, tendon and ligament.

“But nothing’s ever…” Martín sighs, “Maybe I’ll say something so mundane that neither of us will ever even know.”

Well, that’s not a worry Martín should be having.

Andrés’s own soulmark is… different from Martín’s, to say the least.

La concha de tu madre, hijo de puta, honestly what the fucking fuck is this, you fucker, puta madre; words that stubbornly refuse to wrap around his wrist, but rather spread down his forearm, covering more than half of it in a hurried, sharp scrawl. Martín’s. Andrés has stolen so many of his notes over the years, just to look at them and admire that thought. This is his soulmate.

When Andrés first met Martín, who had just crashed his bike and would earn seven stitches down the length of his arm, Andrés felt… caught off guard. Exposed, somehow. He used to always wonder what kind of a woman would curse like this, but he never even stopped to consider the full implications of those thoughts.

Him and Martín have slotted into place, since that day. Martín seems to never have even questioned it; one moment he was yelling at Andrés in the middle of a crowded street, and the next they had struck a fast friendship on their way to the hospital, Martín’s blood all over both of their clothes. Ever since then, Andrés has always been able to trust his companionship, his loyalty.

It’s such an obvious match that it feels laughable, to imagine someone else by his side. No one else is Martín, after all. To be made whole by someone else? Blasphemy.

“He’ll be drawn to you, regardless of what you say.”

“I suppose,” Martín agrees, nodding to himself. Trying to make it so, he turns his wrist over to inspect his soulmark. Every time he does this, something in Andrés soars. That one word, which Martín has always turned to, in times of uncertainty. Andrés has always been such a fundamental part of his life, even before they met. “I hope we’ll get along. I can’t imagine…” he trails off, looks at Andrés.

The implication is as clear as it is flattering, and Andrés smirks at him.

“Shut up,” Martín huffs, like he hadn’t just been making quite a statement, takes a swig of his beer. “I just mean, I can’t imagine what they’re like. My soulmate.”

That’s a sentiment Andrés gets. He has come to understand, in hindsight, that it would have been impossible to imagine everything Martín is, every single way in which they complement each other. It’s impossible to imagine anyone else taking that place, either.

Andrés wasn’t ready, when he first met Martín. And he’s still not ready now.

But he’s starting to feel like soon he will be.

“You’ll meet him,” Andrés says, reaching out to trace his own handwriting on Martín’s skin with careful fingertips. Martín lets him. Martín has never stopped him from doing this, no matter how private, how intimate. “And he will worship the ground you walk upon. I have no doubts about it.”

Martín draws a deep breath, closes his eyes, opens them again. “I’m not sure I want them,” he confesses suddenly, entrusting Andrés with this enormous weight he has been carrying. The doubts that must have plagued him at night.

Andrés doesn’t know how to answer that; a declaration of love, one of such weight. Martín thinking he’s destined to be with someone else, and choosing to tell Andrés this regardless.

Andrés is not ready yet.

But soon, he will be.

“Of course you will want him,” he reiterates, because he wants Martín to think back to this conversation, once all the cards are finally on the table. “You’ll be a perfect match.”

[katsuwuma]

date w/ the gf feat. squirrels

reblogs > likes this took so long

[giomagnetism]

wips that went nowhere 4/? in which this in its entirety is mostly out of date and almost certainly will be entirely obsolete by Splatoon 3, but i still like it so, perish!

Agent Three lives in a penthouse.

This is a fact known only to Agent Four, who comes over to use the tv for video games, and Cuttlegear’s Agency, who bribed—er, rather lent it to them as a means of moving them closer to Headquarters.

It is also known to an inexplicable number of Octolings.

It isn’t a remarkable building, all things considered: modest and situated a fifteen minutes’ monorail ride from the heart of downtown, considered prime real estate by the rest of its residents who pay half their salary for a living room the size of a cubicle. Perhaps the most interesting thing about it is the number of plants crawling over its exterior, the product of an early and deeply misunderstood attempt at green-tech overhaul, and its age; it sits squat and square among taller, sleeker skyscrapers, as old-fashioned and stubborn as its crowning resident.

Most of this design philosophy is carried through to the penthouse proper. Its space is respectable but horrendously utilized, featuring overly-tall windows; impractically high ceilings, rendering something less like a second floor and more like a series of mezzanines; a maze of a floor plan; and a bright white paint job. But all this is typical of the average penthouse, and what is really conspicuous about it is the one assemblage of windows which have been blanketed entirely and perpetually with heavy layered curtains, obscuring one long stretch of the second floor from view.

It is behind these curtains that Agent Three is currently drowsing over a half-sanitized, totally unconscious Octoling.

Their name is Soda, and they are a five-foot-eight bluff of a person, built and tempered both in the vein of your favorite wrestling heel. Despite the circumstances, they are dressed in a black turtleneck and the loudest pair of floral bell bottoms this side of the 1970s. They are the least weird thing about this room.

If the rest of this building prided itself on being ordinary, its oddities and curiosities only visible when looked at sidelong, this room never got the memo. It spread the length of the curtained wall unbroken and lined with a series of tables and desks, twice the width of a hallway and walled on the opposing side with repurposed wood boards. Rusted metal bracings slanted up to meet the curtain rods at regular intervals, illuminated sparsely by exposed fluorescent tubes and vintage lamps jammed wherever one would fit, all wound back to a hulking terrarium at the end of the room where seven miniature Zapfish sulked.

All this was to say nothing of the décor, if it could be called that: nearest the entrance was also the most normal, barring the thick metal sliding door: an office chair sprawled abandoned before the main base of operations, an old oak table strewn with papers and framed with conventional office amenities. At the far end, a generator was crammed beneath the Zapfishes’ terrarium, but there the expectation ground to a forcible halt.

The bulk of the room was occupied by sets of equipment which would not look out of place in a mad scientist’s lab. Spindly machines and a haphazard arrangement of monitors sprawled alongside a jungle of wires against the wood; below them squatted a deep cabinet covered in—among other devices—an arrangement of needles and vials full of a greenish phosphorescent goop. Another longer, narrower table opposes them, the resting place of a hastily-discarded dark blue CQ-80 and pocket notebook. Here, in a cheap padded chair, is where Soda dozes.

Just beyond was the infirmary bed where the Octoling lay: a little scuffed but competently outfitted, the heart-monitor reporting a stable, if slow, pulse; its head jammed up against the myriad of other devices.